Ducks

Slightly eccentric confession:
I just so happen to love ducks.
Seriously. Love them.

I think my adoration originates with some of my earliest memories-- venturing out with my parents to the local park to feed the ducks swimming in the pond. The delight in having them come and nearly eat out of my own tiny hand. The good natured murmur of their quacks rippling across the water. The image of their little families-- father, mother, and sweet little fluffy babies floating along in a row. It was joy incarnate to my young heart.

Even now, they just make me smile.
Ask Bryson, he knows. 

But earlier this month my cousin Robin shared a post with me that gave me an even deeper perspective on these remarkable little creatures-- and it has affected me profoundly. Originally posted in August of 2008 by Ann Voskamp at A Holy Experience, it was reposted in the week leading up to Mother's Day this year. You can read it in it's entirety here.

In it, she relates an experience she had with her children as they studied an Alexander Koester painting in a book. They gazed at the image of a flock of ducks along the banks of a river, and then Ann read the caption underneath the image aloud:

Mother ducks pick feathers from their chests to line their nests. 

Moulting Ducks by Alexander Koester

That singular sentence caused her to stop and allow that image sink deeply into her soul.

She writes:

"I look around at the house. I pause.
And the children gaze thoughtfully at a clutch of plump white, blizzard of feathers fallen down.

But it’s those words that mesmerize me: 
'Mother ducks pick feathers from their chests, to line their nests.'

I lay my hand on the page, on a duck breast puffed, mother plunging beak in deep, and I say it out loud: 'How else did you think nests were lined?'

With leftovers.

That’s what I thought.
With feathers discarded, the molted, the not-so-necessary feathers.
I thought mother ducks picked feathers up from what was laying about, scraps, lining nests with what simply could be mustered after the fact.

But no. 
No, a mother duck plucks each feather out from the heart of her bosom.
She lines the nest with bits of herself — the best of herself.  

A mother cups her brood not with leftovers — but with her own sacrifice."

Like Ann, that image has left me forever changed.

The comfort, safety, and security of our own little nests depends so much on the selflessness of mothers who know who they are and the value and nobility of their calling.

Mothers who give their children the best they have to give, despite all the many distractions and worldly directions in which we are constantly pulled.

Mothers who understand that the care and nurturing of these precious little spirits is of paramount importance; a divine work.

In this world of entitlement, celebrity, and instant gratification, the work of the everyday stay-at-home mom is often marginalized and even looked down upon. There is no fame in this work. No sick days. No worldly wealth. And instant gratification? Ha.

But He who made the Ultimate Sacrifice looks down upon all these feathers we pluck daily with a smile. And although my meager efforts in creating a comfortable nest may not seem like much most days, I know that I am engaged in a holy work.

Just the other day I hung a framed print of that beautiful Koester painting on the wall next to my bedside. I wanted to have a daily visual reminder of the importance of my work as a mother and to urge me to set my priorities where they ought to be. It stands as a tangible emblem of my desire to be the best mother I possibly can.

As I looked on my handiwork with satisfaction, Bryson walked into the room and noticed the new artwork.

Examining the subject of the piece he smiled and remarked, "Ah... ducks. That seems appropriate."

Yes.
Very appropriate indeed.