We woke at the thud, panicked.

My wife and I had been dozing in bed, squeezing the last seconds of sleep out of our pillows before the inevitable onslaught of little people. It’s something of a delicious defeat when you hear the door creak open and steps on the carpet. You know you’re trading something so precious to you (sleep) for someone so precious, who you just wish would be precious elsewhere. But then they’re all warm and soft and tousle-headed and snuggly and saying things like “daddy, can we have special cereal?” and poking their knees into your side and sitting on your face with a full diaper and sticking cold toes into your armpits.

This morning they didn’t get to do all those precious, horrible things to us because we woke up to the sound of something thwacking against our window. After shaking off the confusion (no, it’s not a child on the roof; they can’t reach the window), I recalled why I knew the sound. It was a bird. And from the sound, a pretty sizable one.

I said as much to my wife, as I tried to open my eyes but managed only a half-squint. She half-muttered sympathy, as if she cared deeply inside but couldn’t get past the early morning fog. I added that since it was a big bird, it probably got away a little dazed, no harm done. I tried to find her to give her a reassuring pat, but I was too drowsy and missed completely. I also couldn’t pry my eyelids open still; they ached a little, as if I hadn’t used them for a week instead of approximately six hours.

I’ve read that birds, reptiles, and some mammals have something called a nictitating membrane, a third eyelid that acts as a translucent shield when they are diving or flying. They can draw it horizontally across each eye to moisten and protect it. For instance, many birds use it when they are regurgitating food for their kids so they don’t get their eyes poked out by little beaks.

I think of things like this when I’m abruptly disturbed from sleep. Things like this, and demonic children’s songs that will not be exorcised for hours.

We turned over and buried ourselves in the blankets for three more minutes before the precious, horrible people came and got us.

Nadia was playing hopscotch out on the sidewalk later in the morning when she found the bird. Robins are always the first birds my children encounter and remember. It was easy for her to name the body she stumbled upon, one story below our window, and quite dead. We had a little flurry of don’t-touch-that’s and daddy-is-it-going-to-be-okay’s, and I managed to deposit it into a small terrarium for them to look at. Animals can die of diseases communicable to humans, but this one died upon impact, and it was still warm. So the kids and I examined it carefully.

It was larger than any bird I’d seen this close. The wings were tucked in beside its impossibly light body. Many of its bones were hollow, for ease of flight. The neck was at a weird angle, a wrong angle. The death in front of me was at a wrong angle. It always has been, but it just felt much more wrong suddenly, because it was also in front of my children. Blood speckled its beak, a dark decoration above the warm red tinges on its chest.

I realized that it was a young one, probably a teenager in robin years. Its feathers were perfect, straight and sleek, pinions just slightly larger and smaller on each side, forming beautiful strong wings. And the roses on the sides under the wings were just barely forming up into a speckled breast. It was about the size of an adult but without the experience, which is why it probably hit our window.

One eye was slightly open and looking like black jelly, like it would spill out of the socket as liquid if you tipped the bird over slightly. The other eye was closed. This teenage robin had eyelashes on the under-lid. It had whiskers. Its feet were curled and delicate.

It was too beautiful. It was too sad.

Nadia was watching me. She told me she was sorry that it died because she could see the sadness in my eyes; but I wasn’t really mourning after the bird. We touched its wings, feeling its perfect form beneath our fingers: the surreal softness, the preciousness of a young fleeting life snuffed out. Not a sparrow falls but that He sees it. God saw this.

Woodpeckers will close their nictitating membrane, then tighten it a millisecond before they hit the tree so that their eyeballs don’t fall out on impact. Perhaps we need similar shields.

Only a few days earlier we had discovered a young robin hopping around the pine tree down in the yard. We took pictures. The kids enjoyed watching it hop around. There was a hawk above, circling around, and I like to think we saved that little robin’s life. There was a little one then, alive and bouncing, and then a bigger one, dead and stiff.

God saw this.

What is it about seeing that is comforting? Wouldn’t catching the sparrow be more comforting? Wouldn’t solving the problem, ending the great horror – death – wouldn’t this be a more lasting comfort? You see me, God. You see my children. But if you were to let them fall…

Sharks close their third eyelid when they attack. This way they can see their victims without getting blood in their eyes.

Kai got out of the house when he was only one year old. We noticed when it was too quiet. He had slipped out the screen door moments after I arrived home from work, and neither Linnea nor I had seen him. I locked the door. It was five minutes before we noticed he was gone, and in those five minutes he was down the outer stairs of the apartment building and toddling along the street.

The terror in my heart: I was running down the sidewalk in my dress slacks, socks, and undershirt, desperately looking for my son, expecting to see him lying in the street, expecting to be one of those parents we pray for, expecting to live with the knowledge that we didn’t see him, we didn’t see him, and then it was too late to see him…

He liked stairs, so he had kept to the house side of the sidewalk, and a kind and observant couple had pulled over and were with him four houses down when I ran up. The man was on the phone with the police, and I heard him say, “Oh never mind, it’s okay. The father’s here.” I thanked them, breathless, and held my son, and held him walking back, and held him up the stairs, and held him for another hour until he didn’t want to be held anymore, promising him I would see him, always, I would see him.

God saw this. How can I say it differently, to ease the pain? God sees… me?

If we mourn this way, how must God mourn at all He sees, at all the flickering lights snuffed out, the bruised reeds broken, the sheep silent before the shearer? Death is nothing new to Him, and in fact, He knows it as an old friend, an old foe, better than us all.

Today, this day, my children are alive and real, perfect in form and surreally soft. They are the preciousness of young life, fleeting, and my God sees them. Lest you think me morbid, think on why this is precious, why as a parent, as a child, as a human I am determined to cherish this thing we call life, why I must defend it for those I love, why death is such an aberration and a destiny and a defeated foe. The thought of death is morbid, maybe, but so is the thought of life without the thought of death. For now, we need both. And God sees us, in both.

God sees us.

Peregrine falcons see too, because as they dive at over 200 miles per hour, they blink their nictitating membranes repeatedly to clear away the debris and clean each eye.

In the midst of holding onto my family’s break-neck life, I find that I am unable to bring myself to accept such a thing as death, and yet… I know that it’s what I must do, for we will all encounter it, sooner or later. This dark thing I wish to dismiss by forgetting, or fighting, or examining on the operating table of a small terrarium: Death will come for us all.  I know, in my spirit, it is good – a gift given so that our difficult, fallen lives will not last forever, but it will never lose its dread, even when it has lost its sting. And perhaps I will embrace it as a friend when more years have passed beneath my feet, or perhaps I will embrace my Savior, and He will carry me through it into the place where it cannot enter.

And my heart holds its breath for all the times I must try to prepare my children for that moment – the one I feel certain I will never be fully prepared for, the one that God sees. I know I am actually only trying to prepare myself. I know it is not up to me, and I wish I could take more comfort in that. Perhaps someday I will. Every day is another reminder that I am not in control, and death is the great Out-of-My-Control.

But I know this. Each day that I walk in the sight of God, He will train my eyes, and my sight can be strengthened by seeing life and knowing it itself is but a shadow of the life to come.

Nadia, my little avian maven, knows that birds need nests. So she settles herself in a patch of fragrant clover and picks flowers as a pillow for the bird. She is kneeling in her pink flowered dress, a lily ringed with gingham, examining the ground and plucking appropriate stems carefully, precisely, preparing for burial. Perhaps, preparing for flight.

And I blink back a tear.

What if somebody came up to you and said the words, “you can’t do it?” What if somebody came up to you and pushed you down, kicked you, forced you to stop moving forward, and forced you to stop trying? What if this same person knocked you down time and again, reminding you that you are a failure, and that you can never do anything with your life? What if this person told you that you’ll never make it over this next obstacle, or that you can never climb that mountain, or that you can never cross that canyon? Well, look up, because that person is you.

Here you are. The mountain is large, and looms over you with such height and width that you start to second guess yourself. You stand at the base of it and simply stare. The snow hits you in the face, and you can feel the trembling cold that seeps in through your coat and gloves. Maybe you should turn back? Maybe you weren’t ready for this. You look at the top, and realize with a start that you can’t even see it. Clouds surround it so thickly, to the point that you aren’t sure if the top even exists. The doubts start flying in, and you have no choice but to listen to them. And, the more you listen, the more you start to believe them. Giving up, at this moment, seems like the best option in the world. The mountain seems too big anyway. Who even knows whether you’d be able to make it all the way to the top or not?

The problem with facing a disaster is not the obstacle, but our mindset. It’s easy to say, “I’ll cross the valley,” but harder to back up words with actions. It’s easy to say to a mountain, “get up, and move” without having the belief that it will. Soon, as we move through life, we understand that the obstacles and disasters are nothing compared to the problems that you pose to ourselves. It is us; it always was us. We continue to be our biggest obstacle. We are the disaster in our own lives. If we can face ourselves, our doubts and fears, then we can surely face any other thing with ease.

“I can’t get through it.” If you keep telling yourself that, you’ll soon believe it. Our perspective is severely flawed. When we look up and see an obstacle or hardship, that’s all we can see. We are unable, incapable, of looking beyond the negativity. It surrounds us, haunts us, and pushes us down, to the point where we believe we cannot ever stand again. We don’t see the reality of our situation: we are the ones holding ourselves back. What we see before us, that disaster we are so afraid to face, is only a single dot in the ever expanding timeline of our lives. Sure, that disaster may look big now, but soon, we will forget we have ever faced it. The important thing to remember is this; that not everything lasts forever. Our eyes have been deceived; they make the obstacles of our lives look bigger than they really are. So, let’s put the blinders on and go out there, face our fears, face ourselves, face the obstacle, and win.

So okay: you’ve managed to convince yourself to attempt and climb this huge, snowy mountain. You’ve begun to trudge up its side, your feet following the ridges so that your boots have something to grip. It’s harder than you imagined it would be: your fingers are already numb, you can barely see the hand in front of your face, and the cold has managed to find a way underneath all of your protective layers. You’ve already lost one bag of supplies, after an accident when you took to a ridge too steep and put the bag down for a moment to catch your breath. Now, it’s just you, a smaller sack, and your ever-weary determination. You hadn’t thought it’d be this difficult, and you start to make promises to yourself that you aren’t sure you can keep. “Oh, I think I should turn around and try another time,” or “I’ll get more supplies and training and come back in a few years.” You pause your climb and start to wonder if turning back is perhaps that is the best course of action at the moment. Besides, it’s too cold, you’ve already lost one bag, and a huge tiredness is suddenly overcoming you. Maybe next time.

Don’t make excuses. Another problem we face is the fact that we often try and get out of facing a certain obstacle. “It’s too hard,” or “I’ll never win,” or “I’ll face it some other time.” Something we must understand is that, when we procrastinate like this, we have already lost. We have given control over to the disaster and are content to sit there and let it attack us on every side. We’ve given up, became soft and lazy. Since when did we become content with doing nothing? Since when are we comfortable with throwing up our white flag every time we meet something we don’t want to face? Get up! This is not a walk in the park! These are our lives, and this is our time. We’ve been given an opportunity to face a disaster other people have been fighting for years. We need to take it into our own hands and believe in ourselves. Enough with the “do it later”’s and “not for me”’s. It’s time to climb harder than we ever have before. Strive to make it. Believe we can make it. Will ourselves to make it.

Without warning, you’ve run into another problem. You settle down on a flat part of ground to make camp for the night. Then you hear a menacing and intimidating growl from behind you. You quickly turn and come face to face with narrowed feline eyes. A giant snow leopard has followed you and, judging by its demeanor, it doesn’t look friendly. You can feel yourself starting to tremble, and your mind goes blank. You hadn’t expected this kind of threat at all, and with your unpreparedness, you are sure to die if you don’t act quickly. How do you act when faced with such an unexpected disaster as this?

In school, we are taught a number of things. We are taught to work with equations, to memorize dates, to know the steps of a number of different processes. We are expected to test on the curriculum, and to learn, memorize, and be familiar with the assigned material. But, I can promise you this: nothing taught in school can ever prepare you for the obstacles ahead. In math class, we are taught to solve for x, yet never taught how to solve our own problems, just somebody else’s. The truth is that you can never be truly prepared for a disaster. There is no textbook to read, no line to memorize, no equation to plug in. There is no single way to solve the problem. And that scares us. We face our obstacles, trying to solve them in the ways that we have been taught all our lives, but we can’t. We have to learn that sometimes, there is no answer. We can’t always solve the problem. What we can do, however, is to get through it. Face it, and then move on. We won’t ever be prepared for the disasters that are coming our way, but we don’t need to be. Everything we ever needed will not be taught to us in a classroom, or from a book, or even from this essay. Everything we will need is inside us, so use it.

I’ve got good news: You’ve fended off the snow leopard. Out of desperation, you took your last remaining bag, containing the rest of your food supplies, and threw it far away from you. Without hesitation, you ran in the opposite direction, abandoning your temporary campsite and every other thing you brought on this adventure. You are now alone, cold, on a mountain, with no supplies or rations of any kind. While escaping, the snow leopard managed to cut you. The blood has soaked through your bandage, and it drips to the ground below you. It stings like crazy. You finally have processed the predicament that you find yourself in, and conclude that there is no way to turn this into a positive. You tried, you failed, and now you will pay the penalty for it. You can’t help it: you press your cold face into your even colder gloves, and cry. Defeat has overtaken you, and you can think of nothing else except to sit and wait, hoping for a rescue of some kind, or, if not that, some kind of relief. Regardless, you’ve lost. It’s all over now, and the snow has turned red.

 Failure. It is the one thing that every person in the world can say they’ve experienced. But we mislabel what our failure really is. We view our loses as a bad thing. We mess up, we make mistakes, we don’t always make it. Anything that goes awry is a failure. We fear it. We always talk about how much we fail, how we just couldn’t do it. We fail to recognize our true error. Our failure is not messing up. Our failure is giving up. When we fail to try, when we get the notion in our head that we can’t do something, or that we can never get out of the situation we are in, these are the true failures. The belief that something cannot be done is the only mistake we could ever make. The disasters in our lives make it seem as though the impossible cannot be done. But this is not the time to give up. Don’t you dare quit. This is where you are your strongest. It’s not over until you allow it to be over. Stand up. Remember why you set out to conquer this disaster or obstacle in the first place. Find your motivation. You want to get over this mountain? Great, now tell me why. What is your why? Why bother setting out in the first place? You have gotten so far, that the only failure you could possibly have is giving up now. But you are not a failure. You can succeed. The final piece of advice I can give you is this: find your why. Once you can answer this question, you have already faced half the battle. Your motivation is your sword, so use it. Fear isn’t your biggest obstacle; it’s your lack of why, which becomes a lack of motivation. So find it and continue forward.

The snow is white now. The bleeding has stopped, as has your crying. You’ve managed to continue forward. Step after step brings you deeper and deeper into the unknown. You’ve fallen into a rhythm now. Step, step, step, pause. Step, step, step, pause. Step, step … an irregularity. You find you cannot go any further. You quickly lift your head up and your eyes are met with the sight you only believed you could achieve. The most wonderful scene is before you, and as you look around, you realize you know exactly where you are. The clouds have cleared, the snow is white, and you have made it. The top does exist after all. Your faith has become sight. Enjoy the view, for you have earned it. It is yours. You have conquered, you have overcome, you have won.