While several of us ladies studied the darting blur at the apex of the cathedral ceiling in our school's cafeteria, we mulled over rescue options. Logic told us to darken the room and hope the hummingbird would see the light at the open door and escape.

Being the bird person that I am, coupled with my concern for the plight of this little creature, I knew with its high metabolic rate and without a dish of petunias blooming nearby, the hummer would quickly be in trouble.

Thinking a hummingbird feeder might be its one-way ticket to freedom, I bee-lined for the nearest store and purchased one shaped like a bright red apple--an appropriate school motif.

With the plastic apple dangling from the door's closure mechanism, the tiny bird had about an hour to discover the 'high octane' liquid lunch and depart before the doors would be locked for the night.

Each time I checked on the welfare of the hummingbird, it was in the same frenzied and suicidal flight pattern. For a nanosecond the tiring hummingbird gripped a ceiling tile and hung bat-like. The custodian on duty agreed to leave the doors open awhile longer if I'd close them before going home.

Returning to my room and setting the timer to remind myself of my true mission, I half-heartedly continued preparing for the first day with students. When Paul, a custodian and fellow bird fancier, asked, "Did the hummingbird fly out? I just checked but didnąt see it."

Hoping for the best, we headed back at the cafeteria. However, my fears were confirmed when I discovered the fallen bird on a tabletop. Except for the odd angle of its head, the hummer looked dead. At one last attempt at flight, its wings fluttered feebly...like those of a dying moth. The helplessness of the tiny bird was a heart-wrenching sight.

Tenderly picking up the exhausted bird, Paul carried it outside the doorway, while I fumbled unsuccessfully to untie the feeder. Placing the iridescent fluff in my hands, Paul snipped the twine holding the feeder. Lightly stroking the feathers of the fragile bird, a juvenile youngster, with my index finger, I wished a kiss could make everything all better.

Carefully, Paul inserted its delicate, needle beak into the flower-shaped opening, but the bird convulsed, jerking its beak from the nectar. Once again, Paul placed the bird's beak in the nectar, while I encouraged it to drink. Did it swallow? We couldn't be certain, because again it convulsed.

Laying the stricken bird on the sidewalk, we watched it topple onto its side. It was useless; the bird was dying. I didn't want to be there when it happened. But in this life-and-death situation, if the bird was going to make it at all, it was up to us, and God. Calming myself down, I tipped the feeder slightly, to ooze out a trickle of nectar, and gently held its beak against it. Again it looked as if it might have swallowed.

Making a barely audible squeak, its eyes flickered open. We held our breath as we watched its breathing became more regular. When at last a thread of a tongue licked out, searching for another nectar drop, we rejoiced.

Confidently entrusting the bird in my care, Paul left for his church meeting. Before retrieving my cell phone from my room, to ask my husband to bring the camera, I covered Hummer with a milk crate cage to protect it from neighborhood cats.

Once again on my hands and knees, amid an army of opportunist ants feasting on nectar dribbled on the sidewalk, I offered Hummer another sip. Turning its beak away, it seemed to be saying, "Lady, you're drowning me in this ruby-tinted sucrose!" A whirring of wings startled me. Seconds later, Hummer triumphantly soared--straight up--into the dusky sky. I offered a silent prayer for its safety as it disappeared from view.

Ecstatically, I punched the redial button. When my husband answered, I proclaimed, "Never mind. We just had lift-off!"

"His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me" hummed through my heart. I thought, "How comforting to know God truly cares about our every trouble--great or small. His healing power and everlasting love are there for us... in the palm of His hand."

© Kay Seefeldt