Gold Feathers

The lesser goldfinches in our yard often perch upside down on the sunflowers, busily plucking seeds from the mature heads. Holding on with their tiny feet, they ride the flowers like miniature ships as they sway in the breeze.
The males with their gold breasts, black caps, and black-and-white striped wings are the most striking, but the females with their yellowish-brown plumage are also beautiful to me. The sight takes me back many years to when my grandmother was in a Kansas nursing home.
Gran had always hated nursing homes, and, in fact, refused to visit her beloved older sister the entire time she’d been confined to one.
But when my mom and I visited my great aunt, I understood why. Her room was dark, and even the strong smell of disinfectants couldn’t disguise the odor of death.
So I was heartbroken when my aunt called to tell us Gran had been admitted to the Good Samaritan.
My grandmother, a full-blooded Czech, was small, perhaps five two, but she’d always been vibrant and strong.
To say she was adored by our family is an understatement. She radiated light and joy, but she was also plucky, even feisty, and famous for chopping off the heads of the bull snakes which foolishly invaded her cellar.
Things had changed. My granddad’s long illness and death had taken a toll on her.
Her hands, which had milked cows, kneaded bread, hoed weeds, drove tractors, and done the myriad other chores required of a farmwife, were now skeletal and useless.
“She’s got a private room,” my aunt said. “We were lucky.”
“It’s not so bad,” Gran told us as my aunt held the phone for her. “God led me here very gently.”
One of the things that made her sad, though, were her birds.
On the farm she’d been an avid birdwatcher, and since the Solomon River ran through their property, she had plenty to watch—chickadees, nuthatches, cardinals, finches, jays, martins, meadowlarks, phoebes, thrushes, quails, and pheasants.
“This is a nice room,” my aunt told us. “Even though she can’t do much for herself, her mind is still very sharp.
“She already knows all the aides’ names and their problems. She has so much company she complains she can’t get anything else done.”
I didn’t laugh. I wondered what work Gran still yearned to accomplish since she had lost the use of her hands, arms, and legs.
Aunt Donna said, “We’re praying for the birds to come.”
That summer, when I had a break from teaching, we headed to Kansas. Our first stop was at the Good Samaritan.
Gran wore a rose-tinted blouse with fluted collar and cuffs and a flowered skirt. Her hair had thinned so much it looked like dandelion down, set to blow away in the slightest breeze.
Her complexion, always fine and smooth, reflected the pink of her blouse, but I knew an aide had applied the blush, buttoned the blouse, and pulled up the skirt.
Wheelchair-bound, she depended on the aides to feed her, take her to the bathroom, and turn her over in the night, but her room surprised me. It was painted yellow and full of light.
During our visit then and our many afterwards, the aides and nurses would come in at odd times to drop kisses on the top of her head or sit down to visit.
After each one left, she told us their stories. Jason lived with his grandmother, grieving over the divorce of his parents.
Myrna’s little boy was allergic to candy and almost died, so they had rushed him to Kansas City to be treated.
Raymond, tall and dark with permed hair, couldn’t wait to get off work, so he could go dancing, a desire Gran understood.
She wanted to dance the polka and schottische again, so when the physical therapists put her in a lift to strengthen her leg muscles, she worked until she was exhausted.
Despite the fact she was loved by everyone, living in the nursing home was not without its challenges.
While we were there the first time, two men, both in wheelchairs, jabbed at each other. “I hate you,” shouted one.
“Not as much as I hate you,” the other yelled back.
A woman in a blue-flowered dress clinged to the handrail while walking up and down the hall and saying, “Whatamisupposedtodowhatamisupposedtodo.”
And sometimes the aides didn’t make it in time when my grandmother’s water pills struck, a humiliation she could hardly bear.
But the birds had come. “I told Donna she’d better stop praying, or we wouldn’t be able to feed them all.” My grandmother’s laugh was near tears.
None of us had ever seen anything like the hundreds of goldfinches landing on the feeders.
My aunt had two feeders to stick on Gran’s window and two others to hang in nearby trees.
She filled them with sunflower seeds every time she visited, but that couldn’t explain the hundreds of birds just outside my grandmother’s room.
As we watched in awe, the goldfinches settled, rose, and landed, over and over again, filling the air with a kaleidoscope of gold.
Now, these many years later, I watch the five or six goldfinches outside our windows and remember how God answers prayers with glorious gold feathers glittering in the light.