I returned to the church to find a dead bird lying at the base of the glass door, his or her neck broken by the sudden impact. It was a sleek brown bird, one that I couldn’t identify. This failure made me feel sadder.
I walked to the tool shed behind the church, where we keep the lawnmower. Resting in the corner where I’d last left it was the burying shovel. This shovel was already here when I arrived in 2018. At six feet tall, I would honestly prefer a longer one, but the burying shovel has a dependable metal blade with a sharp point that can cut into dry ground and red clay.
I’ve used this digging tool exactly six times. I believe it is important to remember. Out of the holes I’ve dug, four were for the ashes of parishioners who wished to be buried in the church’s remembrance garden. This was my second bird. In May 2020, during the pandemic shutdown, I buried a ruby-throated hummingbird that had died against the same glass door to the office.
Instead of walking toward the remembrance garden, I took the shovel behind the shed where I had buried the hummingbird. I’d marked that grave with a rock. Digging another shallow grave nearby, I unearthed more sadness in my spirit not only for this little bird but also for the friends I’d lost over the years: for the tiny dynamo of a woman who loved tennis and Shakespeare; for another woman who was a gifted artist and used to invite me to her house when the figs were ripe on the tree in her yard. I also thought of two widowers, each of whom had remarked, “That’s a good shovel,” after their turn digging the hole for their wives.
After finishing the grave, I carried the burying shovel back for the bird’s body, scooping him or her onto the blade, then proceeding solemnly to the fresh hole where I landed the body gently with a soft word, “Here you go, little one.” After patting the dirt over the grave with the back of the burying shovel, I placed a tombstone for the second bird. I paused and listened to the songbirds in the trees, which seemed a fitting eulogy.
Finally, I returned the burying shovel to its corner in the woodshed, where I will find it again when the need arises. I would like to be as faithful as this shovel.
Andrew Taylor-Troutman is the author of the book with Wipf and Stock Publishers titled This Is the Day: A Year of Observing Unofficial Holidays about Ampersands, Bobbleheads, Buttons, Cousins, Hairball Awareness, Humbugs, Serendipity, Star Wars, Teenagers, Tenderness, Walking to School, Yo-Yos, and More. He lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina where he is a student of joy.
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