Last spring, as I walked down a neighborhood street, a whirling puff of down landed in the middle of the street. A tiny dove, not yet fledged, had toppled out of its nest. I scooped it up and placed it on a nearby curb, hoping that the mother would appear, but was horrified when, instead, an adult blue jay landed next to the dove and violently pecked at it. After rushing over and shooing the jay away, I was dismayed at the dove’s apparent prospects for recovery and was met with a neighbor’s solemn advice to “let nature take its course.”
I knew that she was suggesting acceptance of the imminent death of the bird, and it was a wake-up call for me to insist that this little one’s God-given, spiritual nature would be manifested in healing. Having no training in avian care, I decided that the bird should be taken to a wildlife center. I learned that the center had closed for the day, so I would have charge of the bird overnight.
Though treating ailments with prayer has been my go-to during my adult life, I’d had no experience with anything that looked as dire as this. The injuries seemed so severe that I had to acknowledge that it wasn’t within my power to heal and restore anything. I mentally reached out to God, divine Love, relying entirely on the truth that the bird was cared for as a spiritual idea held in divine Mind. Doing so released me from the self-imposed burden of falsely believing that I had to pray this little one back to health. Instead, I acknowledged the bird’s divine nature as Love’s perfect little one nestled securely in the kingdom of heaven.
In retrospect, I can see that my complete release from feeling personally responsible for the outcome allowed me to put the bird utterly in God’s hands. My job was to cherish its divine nature and mentally insist that nothing could separate this perfect idea from its creator, God.
Gently placing my little friend in a shoebox, I audibly affirmed that his Father-Mother God was right there, and I knew wholeheartedly that God’s ever-present love controlled everything concerning the bird. I silenced all deliberations about possible outcomes of how and when healing would come, and firmly acknowledged the presence and care of the Divine. Prompted by a hymn that came to mind, I realized that I had a choice to make. I told myself, “You are either going to know that God can care for this bird, or not. You can fretfully tiptoe into the kitchen and check on him during the night, or you can leave him to God’s care.”
I was bolstered by a sentence from the Christian Science textbook, “Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures” by Mary Baker Eddy: “A spiritual idea has not a single element of error, and this truth removes properly whatever is offensive” (p. 463).
This inspired me to negate everything about the attack that I had witnessed. But how could I do that? Another statement from Science and Health was key: “God is everywhere, and nothing apart from Him is present or has power” (p. 473). The same power of ever-present God, good, that had parted the Red Sea and underpinned all of Jesus’ healing works was right where my little friend was.
I imagined how much love our all-powerful divine Mother must have for him! And if that love is the only thing that is present or has power, then how could the bird be anything other than a perfect, unassailable idea of God? Because God is Spirit, the bird’s true nature had to be totally spiritual, and spiritual things can’t be attacked or injured.
Upon looking into the shoebox the next morning, I was delighted to be greeted with a “cheep.” I drove the bird directly to the wildlife center. The attendant, who was well experienced in caring for all types of critters, lifted the bird and turned him over on his back, revealing a perfectly healed neck and chest area.
“Must have been an old wound,” she said as she gently flicked a scab away, although she seemed shocked that such a young bird could have experienced an injury and healing of that nature. She assured me that the bird was out of danger and that they would feed him until he was old enough to be fledged.
As I left my little friend in the capable care of the attendant, I jubilantly praised God for the healing. I also rejoiced in the increased confidence I had gained that in every situation, to paraphrase an assurance from the Bible’s book of Second Chronicles, “the battle is not yours, but God’s” (20:15).
Adapted from an article published in the April 27, 2026, issue of the Christian Science Sentinel.
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