I.

Teaching Kids

a. When raising children, as parents we strive to teach our kids the things they need to know to get
on well in life. We teach them to count, to say the alphabet, to add and subtract and to read.
And we teach them what may prove to be more valuable lessons, like how to tie a shoe and to
never take candy from strangers, and the facts of life. Sometimes, the more esoteric of these
lessons come from the unlikeliest of sources.

b. It was while teaching my son, Alex, to tie a shoe that such a lesson presented itself. It was the
early days of autumn in the Black Forest of Germany, in 2005, when a bird flew into a kitchen
window, breaking its neck.

II. The Bird

a. Birds preparing for the winter

i. It was early September and birds had been flying back and forth between nests and
bushes, collecting berries, fattening up for the winter ahead. On this particular day, it
had been rainy and chilly and a good portion of the dreary afternoon had been spent at
the kitchen table with my son, learning the days of the week and the months of the year,
and tying shoes.

ii. Alex was in living room burning off the energy that had backed up while learning to form
a loop with a shoe string, and not quite getting it. We were both frustrated with each
other and had gone to our separate corners for a break.

iii. As I rose in exasperation from the kitchen table, I heard a little “thud” on the patio door
of the kitchen. Looking out the window, I saw a small grey bird, very similar to our
American sparrows, lying on the doorstep.

b. An opportunity for a life lesson

i. I called to my son, and he shuffled into the room, grumbling. He was still irritated by our
little tiff a few minutes before, but looked with interest as I pointed to the bird on the
pavement. I explained to him what had happened. Apparently, as it gathered berries, it
thought it could take a shortcut through the house... and smacked into the window.
Birds had flown through the house before, entering through one window and exiting out
the other. Only this one tried to fly through the double-paned glass of the kitchen patio
door.

ii. We went outside, and squatting beside it, I could see it was injured. I reached and gently
took it in my hand. Its head lolled alarmingly to one side. “Its neck it broken, sweetie,” I
said to my son. “He’s going to die.”

iii. “Oh, no,” my son said and began to cry. I suggested we make a bed for him in the tray of
a small planter, and my son immediately set about collecting grass and wildflowers to
place in the tray. I gently laid the bird down, and we listened to its noisy laboured
breathing.
 c. Teaching Alex about death

i. As we watched the bird struggle for life, I wondered if I possessed the mettle to twist its
neck to end its suffering. It was only a minute or two later when the bird finally
shuddered its last breath and lay still. I told my boy the bird had finally died.

ii. My wonderful, gentle little boy thre himself in my arms and heaved great sobs of
sorrow. I told him its okay to be sad, but I also told him the bird is in a happy place now,
with other birds, safe from the stray cats that plagued our neighbourhood. Alex seemed
content with that.

iii. Sniffling and snuffling, Alex helped prepare a little grave for the bird in the backyard,
lining it with evergreen tips. Together, we filled the hole with earth and placed a rock to
memorialize it. Together, we walked back to the house with a mixture of sorrow and
closure, talking about life and death, and what might come after.

III. Conclusion

a. We never owned pets of any kind, and aside from helping me kill spiders the size of half-dollars,
it was Alex’s first experience with death.

b. It came unexpectedly and a little sooner than I would have liked, but then again, I believe things
happen for a reason and only when we are ready to learn the lesson. I couldn’t have asked for a
better introduction to this particular life lesson. It may have taken away a measure of my son’s
innocence, but it also gave him a measure of wisdom in return. And it brought us closer
together.