Snowbank and Me: Or What I Learned from a Peacock

By Susan Spear

I am thankful for many things. During Stay-At-Home and now Safer-At-Home, I don’t have to spend several hours a day in the car; With the exception of scheduled Zoom meetings, I can organize my daily calendar; I don’t have to set the alarm (though I still enjoy rising at 6:30 am); Bruce is my office-mate; My students are remarkably flexible and diligent; I have more time for writing poems and reading for pleasure; In this beautiful season of spring, I have jogged (slowly) far and wide in Centennial; I have chatted with our daughters often via my new Mother’s Day Gift, the Portal; and, the gratitude list could go on and on.

This season has refreshed my soul. If real people, some whom I know, were not suffering and dying from Covid-19 I would be tempted to call this time a sabbatical. But sometime during the second week of May, I noticed a strange desire for human connection. I tried to joke with the mailman; he did not respond (nor was he wearing a mask or gloves). I wanted to ask the woman on the other side of the street where she had bought her jogging shoes, but she would not return my gaze. I thanked the clerk at King Soopers too sincerely, secretly wishing for a little repartee. No such luck. I had a strong desire to go to Starbucks. The warning on the sign saved me: only cars allowed in drive through.

The same day I read a news story out of Boston. Snowbank, one of four peacocks kept at the Franklin Park Zoo, had escaped. According to CNN, a person reported they "were met by an extremely large, slightly intimidating, and quite beautiful, male peacock.” Imagine yourself walking through the busy Roxbury neighborhood outside Boston and being approached by a peacock. Startling, right? A spokesperson for the zoo reported that "The peacocks at Franklin Park Zoo are free-roaming, and while they typically wander throughout the Zoo, it is currently mating season, and it's possible he ventured out looking for love in search of a peahen” (female peacock). I laughed aloud. I am Snowbank. Looking for a little conversation, a little connection, yes, a little love. What do we do when the church has left the building? When Covid-19 is rearranging our support system. What do I do when my students have left the classroom? When the daily affirmation of my vocational calling is now an occasional email.

The end of the story is noteworthy. One wise police officer thought quickly and “found a peacock mating call on his smart phone and lured the bird to a fenced-in yard before Boston Animal Control arrived to escort Snowbank safely back to the zoo” (CNN 5/12/2020). This astute officer sent my mind to Isaiah 43:1:

But now, this is what the Lord says—
  he who created you, Snowbank,
  he who formed you, Snowbank:
‘Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
  I have summoned you by name; you are mine.’

God called Snowbank, in his native tongue, back to safety. And God was calling me back to his immeasurable love. Reading at home, writing at my desk, jogging through my neighborhood, communicating with colleagues via text or zoom, I am not alone. The cornerstone stays in place. God’s love surrounds me: above, below, on each side, before, and behind. For nothing separates us from the love of Christ. “Not trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword, or Covid-19…” (Romans 8:35). I sense God’s love in this home he has given me, in my health, in the garden flowers Bruce bought yesterday, in the Italian wind chimes on our porch, in the phone call from a friend, in the Zoom fellowship with my colleagues. I know my life will not be as it was before. There are unexpected adventures ahead. New avenues and trails to walk. And a new context in which to understand the ever-present love of Jesus.