from Ann Voskamp's "A Holy Experience":
"The children press in close for a better look at the open book, at Alexander Koester's "
Ducks," and I read aloud the caption under
the painting.
'
Mother ducks pick feathers from their chests to line their
nests.'
I look around at the house. I pause.
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.
When will I learn: The down we sacrifice from ourselves — this is
what settles and soothes.
Scraps won’t suffice.
Not mere snippets of time, leftover me, a trinket, a
diversion, tossed.
Mother ducks don’t line nests with feathers, dirty and trampled, the molted
and unnecessary.
Why would I? Nests need feathers fresh, warm
with mother’s life.
The pain of the plucking can linger long.
The parts of oneself sacrificed, this can hurt.
A mother can either erupt. Or Pluck.
But was it really sacrifice? Or was my skin just too tender?
It’s done, it was necessary, and it was for something better.
Night descends. Kids crawl into beds. I read stories, stroke hair, say
prayers.
Prayers to Him who plucked hard from His own heart.
A sacrifice, staggering and true, for love of His very own.
We learn love from His laid down."
