Sarah Nigbor

I believe birds are messengers from God. They always appear in my life when something big is brewing and I’m convinced they are trying to tell me something. After all, birds in their effortless flight and proximity to the heavens, have often been seen as messengers of God. The dove not only brought Noah the olive branch, signaling the end of the flood, but was a symbol of the Holy Spirit during Jesus’ baptism.

My brother Nick died nine years ago on April 23. He was 15 years my senior and lived with cerebral palsy, plus other health issues. He was the son of my dad and his first wife. My dad died when I was 2 and I didn’t learn I had a brother until I was 18. That’s another story for a different day. I never met him because when I first learned of his existence, I had no idea where to begin finding him. That was before easy internet searches and at that point, I’d met no one in my dad’s family yet. That came when I was 20. I later learned that because of his disabilities, Nick lived in a group home somewhere in northern Minnesota, but I had no idea where. I didn’t know if he would be able to understand who I was. I was scared if I reached out, if I even could find him, that I would be an unwelcome disruption in his life. I finally found him when I read his obituary in the Duluth newspaper. He had died before I ever got to meet him. He was 51 years old.

The first time I met him was saying goodbye to him in his coffin. He looked like the mirror image of photos I’ve seen of my dad. Red hair and all.

On that quiet spring day in the Iron Range of Minnesota, the rugged land from which my dad’s family hails, I tried to fathom how cruel life could be. I finally found my brother, but he was gone. It was too late. I would never know him and he would never know me. I remember walking out of the church after the service, I felt a weight across my shoulders like a lead blanket. I felt like a failure. Why hadn’t I tried harder to find him? Why was his existence kept from me all those years? Why didn’t anyone tell me about him? Why did I feel so alone?

The funeral was held in a quiet country church on a pristine northern lake. As I stared across the water, a bright red Cardinal chirped at me from a nearby pine. He was quite insistent that I admire him and I felt a small smile creep onto my face. The little bird strutted back and forth and kept looking at me. As I walked closer, he didn’t fly away. I don’t know how long I sat there staring at him, but he felt like the friend I needed at that moment.

For years after Nick’s death, each spring, an insistent, chatty Cardinal and his mate would build a nest in a shrub right outside my sunroom window, where my desk sits. The little bird would often look in the window and trill at me, visiting several times a day while I worked. I always felt a huge sense of peace come over me when he was outside my window. Was it Nick sending me a message? Or maybe it was my Grandpa, who loved the little red birds. He was my best friend. He provided such comfort with his smooth crimson feathers and cheery call.

Recently, a beautiful, brilliant Bluebird with a rosy pink chest has been fluttering outside that same sunroom window. He goes from window to window, singing and preening, for hours at a time. It’s almost like he’s trying to get in the house. He’s been here, with his mate, for over a week now and he’s like an old friend. Snuggles the cat doesn’t appreciate him, but I do.

My friend Em Loerzel, who is Anishinaabe (Ojibwe) and founder of The Humble Horse, was visiting my grandparents’ and mother’s home with me last week. As we were saying goodbye, a bluebird was in the old maple out front, trilling and flying in figure eights. It was a beautiful sight, a symbol of hope and new beginnings, which are on the horizon. Stay tuned.