Youngest Daughter gasped.

“What is it?” I asked her.

“Look,” she said, pointing at the dead bird on the sidewalk. It was a small, brownish-colored bird with a yellow breast, and it lay on its side displaying its vibrant hue.

Yellow is a color of spring.

Fluffy chicks, lemon meringue pie, daffodils. 

Then again, so is brown.

Garden soil, manure for fertilizer, chocolate eggs. 

The flash of yellow seemed out of place on the dead bird, still and silent. I felt sorry for it. I’m sure it perished battling its reflection in the window of the storefront, doing its best to establish its territory so it could provide a domicile for a mate and for their young.

That’s the romanticized version.

It probably got hit by a car.

There’s some likely truth.

Later in the day, an electric buzzing on my driver’s side window made me feel like I was about to get zapped, and I jumped out of my seat.  

A putrid stink bug was crawling along the crack where my door and my window met. 

“Mom, it’s not going to hurt you,” Youngest Daughter scoffed.

It was about to be on its way to stink bug heaven, right out the window. I didn’t want it to leave its pungent essence to mark its presence inside my vehicle. 

Then I remembered the lifeless bird, and I had compassion for the stink bug. I watched it crawl along the dash, its fragile legs moving in perfect synchronicity as its armored body swayed slightly from side to side with each advance. It paused. My daughter slowly drew her hand to it, and she thumped it against the windshield. Undeterred, it buzzed its wings, as if shaking itself off, and it continued its journey across the glass.

In the afternoon in my office: a copper-colored dirt dauber. It was not a wasp, but even if it had been, I don’t think I could have dispatched it to the next life.

I was no longer in any kind of mood to play God today.

The dirt dauber moved slowly, as if it had decided that today was the day to wake up and begin the new year. It kept me company, but never flew too close.

In the evening, I made dinner for some neighbors, truly lifelong friends, a man and a woman that I’ve known since we were all kids.

At their wedding, I turned the pages of the music books for my piano player boyfriend at the time, while the woman sang “Endless Love” to the man, her Sweet Husband.

He is home on hospice care.

Their family was gathering to visit this weekend. 

He had built their home. Brown timbers lined the ceiling. The pale yellow rock hearth had a mantel to match the timbers.

He was diagnosed with his cancer shortly before I was diagnosed with mine. 

And his journey appears to be ending much sooner than mine.

I don’t understand why things happen the way they do. 

But God does.

There’s some certain truth. I’ll leave Him to His decisions.

In the meantime, more stink bugs and dirt daubers will live.