We had just sat down for dinner on a beach in Destin, Florida. Lori and I were guests of our son, a financial advisor with Edward Jones Investments, and his wife, Kayla. It was a gala event, a gorgeous setting: the evening sun’s soft glow was about to disappear below the water; the tables had been arranged with white table cloths, conveniently placed near the buffet table, laden with my favorite delectable delights: prime rib and multiple chocolate desserts.
I had just cut into my prime rib when a lady at an adjacent table abruptly bolted from her chair and rushed toward us. “Oh my gosh,” she exclaimed as she began rubbing something from the back of a lady seated at our table. “You’ll have to take this dress to the dry cleaners,” she said as the other guests at our table blurted, “Oh, no,” in unison.
We were responding to a bird’s bombing her, a gift from the feathered creature, randomly targeting the lady, smearing the back of her turquoise, strapless dress with bird yuck. That bird had do-dooed all over her.
As if the bird hadn’t done enough damage, when we glanced at our grandbaby, Stella, we noticed that the bird had not spared her, stealthily leaving a drop of poop on our precious baby. It’s one thing to stain a pretty dress, but leaving a sample of its poo on an innocent seventh-month-old child was simply inexcusable.
So there you have it: a relaxed yet elegant table setting, exquisite food, likable company, a venue having been meticulously chosen and arranged by Edward Jones.
But no one had planned for that dive-bombing, party-pooping, uninvited guest to show us its (how can I say it?) birdy butt.
The late Joseph Campbell, long-time professor of literature and comparative religion, has a quote to the effect that it is inevitable, as you proceed through life, following your own path, that bird poop will land on you. “Don’t bother to brush it off,” he advises. “Getting a comedic view of your situation gives you spiritual distance. Having a sense of humor saves you.”
It reminds me of an anecdote: two birds are perched on a telephone wire. One says to the other: “Did you see that brand new, shiny red corvette down there?”
“Yeah,” says the other bird, “I spotted it.”
It will happen because that is life: it’s messy; it’s dirty; it’s disgusting.
But it’s also thrilling, exhilarating, rewarding, and humorous.
And I think what Campbell was saying is that we can spend our lives being angry toward God, our family, city hall, and birds, but our regrets, worries, and resentments won’t keep bad things from happening. Humor can provide the spiritual space we need to regroup and move forward. There is no need pretending it didn’t happen. The bird markings on us can be the stark and painful reminders we need, helping shape us into who we are: scarred, flawed, real people.
James put it like this in the New Testament document by his name: “When troubles of any kind come your way, consider it an opportunity for great joy” (James 1:2).
It’s not easy, but it is possible.
Kind people were more than willing to help the lady on whom the bird had left its excremental signature. She even smiled about it. And Stella was wiggling her chubby little legs, seeming to enjoy the extra attention she was getting from people snuggling her in an antiseptic fervor.
And later, I laughed aloud, lifting my fork with a third dessert sampling, fully awake to the truth that a bird can spot me, just as it has before, at any given moment.