My mother used to have
a name for people who were dumber than dirt. She called them
birdbrains. On the rare occasions when Mother called me a birdbrain,
I knew that whatever I had done was something that she considered to
be far below the potential of any daughter of hers, and that she was
deeply disappointed in me.
Because the last thing
I wanted was to have Mother disappointed in me, “birdbrain”
was the ultimate insult. It was infinitely worse than when she
referred to me as “Tallulah” or “Sarah Bernhardt,”
two actresses from long before my time who were drama queens before
anyone ever heard the term.
Sarah Bernhardt was a drama queen long before the term was invented.
Today we refer to our
houseplants as “Tallulah” or “Sarah Bernhardt”
when they droop on the floor as though they’re dying just
because we’ve neglected to water them. (You’d think they
were starving, the way they act! What whiners they are!) But I never
call people birdbrains. “Birdbrain” is still an insult
that is stronger than anything I care to use.
I used to think that
Mother called birdbrains, “birdbrains,” because the
brains in birds are very small. It took an incident with birds to
learn exactly how stupid birds really are.
When we first moved to
Virginia, we lived in a house that had a porch light directly next to
the front door. This porch light was decorative — or as
decorative as a porch light can be when the builder had a budget of
thirty-nine cents for outdoor lighting.
This porch light was
designed to look like traditional carriage lighting. It had a tapered
bottom and a point up at the top. The point up at the top is what’s
important here.
This resembles our front light, with the pointy top.
One spring, a pair of
birds took it upon themselves to build a nest right on top of our
porch lamp. Yes, they used the little ball at the top (although in
the case of our lamp it was a point) to use as the base for their
nest. We had plenty of flat surfaces they could have used. No, they
had to build their nest so it was balanced precariously on top of the
pointed carriage light.
No sooner did they
finish building their nest than they did what birds do — the
female bird laid a clutch of eggs in her nest.
Once she was sitting on
the eggs, even she must have realized what a stupid spot she had
chosen for her nest. Every time she switched positions, the nest
threatened to topple. Indeed, it would have toppled almost
immediately if Fluffy and I hadn’t taken duct tape and done our
best to tape the nest to the siding behind the lamp.
The problem was only
exacerbated because our front door lamp was, well, immediately next
to the front door. Every time we left the house, or every time a
visitor came to the door, the bird would panic. She’d flap all
over the place, waiting for the intruder to leave so she could return
to her not-so-private real estate and take care of her future brood.
All went fairly well
until the baby birds hatched. Although the parents were at least
dimly aware that the nest was in a precarious position, the three
baby birds had no idea that their home was perched on a precipice.
They tumbled around the nest the way baby birds do, until the nest
inevitably overcame the duct tape and fell to the ground.
All three baby birds
were killed on impact. I cried for the rest of the day — as
much because the parents were so stupid as for the loss of the baby
birds.
I tend to think of
myself as a pretty smart cookie, yet I can’t help but wonder
how many decisions I make that are just as boneheaded — just as
birdbrained — when seen through the eyes of God as those
birds’ decision to build a nest on a pinnacle was to me. For
that matter, how many decisions do I make that look just as stupid to
the people around me?
It’s so easy to
see the mistakes of others, and so difficult to see our own
shortcomings. I am doubtless spending part of every day building my
own nests on pinnacles, but I’m not smart enough to see it. I’m
sure it isn’t easy to be God, and to see us all making huge
mistakes even as we try to do our best.
I’m so glad for
the principle of repentance. When the nests I build on pinnacles come
toppling down and I finally understand what I've done wrong, I can
repent. I can learn from my mistakes and I can be forgiven.
I may still have to
suffer the natural consequences of my actions, because that is part
of what this world is all about, my spiritual self can be refreshed
and I can become new again.
Being able to learn
from our mistakes is what sets us apart from the birds. That,
and not being able to fly. In the long run, being able to
repent is even better than having wings. We human beings can
soar, but in a different way.
Kathryn H. Kidd has been writing fiction, nonfiction, and "anything for money" longer than
most of her readers have even been alive. She has something to say on every topic, and the
possibility that her opinions may be dead wrong has never stopped her from expressing them at
every opportunity.
A native of New Orleans, Kathy grew up in Mandeville, Louisiana. She attended Brigham
Young University as a generic Protestant, having left the Episcopal Church when she was eight
because that church didn't believe what she did. She joined The Church of Jesus Christ of
Latter-day Saints as a BYU junior, finally overcoming her natural stubbornness because she
wanted a patriarchal blessing and couldn't get one unless she was a member of the Church. She
was baptized on a Saturday and received her patriarchal blessing two days later.
She married Clark L. Kidd, who appears in her columns as "Fluffy," more than thirty-five
years ago. They are the authors of numerous LDS-related books, the most popular of which is A
Convert's Guide to Mormon Life.
A former managing editor for Meridian Magazine, Kathy moderated a weekly column ("Circle of Sisters") for Meridian until she was derailed by illness in December of 2012. However, her biggest claim to fame is that she co-authored
Lovelock with Orson Scott Card. Lovelock has been translated into Spanish and Polish, which
would be a little more gratifying than it actually is if Kathy had been referred to by her real name
and not "Kathryn Kerr" on the cover of the Polish version.
Kathy has her own website, www.planetkathy.com, where she hopes to get back to writing a weekday blog once she recovers from being dysfunctional. Her entries recount her adventures and misadventures with Fluffy, who heroically
allows himself to be used as fodder for her columns at every possible opportunity.
Kathy spent seven years as a teacher of the Young Women in her ward, until she was recently released. She has not yet gotten used to interacting with the adults, and suspects it may take another seven years. A long-time home teacher with her husband, Clark, they have home taught the same family since 1988. The two of them have been temple workers since 1995, serving in the Washington D.C. Temple.