Natural Good and Evil
My Road Goes Ever On
Natural Good and Evil reflect a supernatural order beyond my understanding. Paying attention means I glimpse an unseen world that profoundly affects my own.
Long ago, in the dark ages of my personal timeline, I arrived on the rural shore of country living and immediately fell in love. My heart had always yearned for nature the way a woman stranded on a desert island longs for home.
Unfortunately, I had no idea what nature, rural homesteading, or country living meant beyond dreamy images patched together from glossy magazines, television shows, and movies. I honestly believed that all God’s creatures were innocent. Like babies of the world, they meant no harm. As that may be true on a philosophical level, I learned, painfully, that harm is done, naturally, all the time. Reconciling myself to a living world not made in the image of human fantasy has been a profound journey. One I have come to love far more than a glossy picture.
I start my day with quiet time in contemplation, following chosen prayers, offering gratitude, asking intercession for those in need, and allowing my mind to muddle about any troubling worries, laying them where they belong, into God’s hands. Yesterday was no exception, though things took a weird turn almost immediately.
No sooner had I set my worries aside than I heard a squawk and a thump. My heart knew the sound of trouble, so I rushed onto the porch and found my beautiful, long-furred, white cat with a dying sparrow in its mouth. Lest you think that Everin, my handsome feline, just needed a little snack to fill in the empty spaces, consider the neat, well-filled dishes placed all over two porches just for my multitudinous kitties’ delight. Not cheap either, considering the price of pet food these days.
No, there was no way out of it. Everin was a villain, killing an innocent sparrow with no desperate motive to justify his actions. It is his nature, you say? Yes. And isn’t that rather interesting? An innocent villain gave me a reason to pause.
But life duties called. I didn’t let Everin eat the poor dead bird, no rewards for murder no matter how instinctually done. After I tucked the limp corpse into a deep niche in tall bushes where it was hidden and safe for a bit, I went on to my next task. I started to fill the bird feeders. Something flew into my hair and buzzed, interrupting my plans. Once I brushed it out, I—rather brazenly—headed back to the feed sack. And got stung. Not once, but twice.
It took a moment for my brain to process the fact that I was under attack. A glance around and I spotted my assailants. A nest of wasps had invaded a birdhouse directly overhead. They were gunning for me, and I had to run for cover or face getting stung again.
I skedaddled right into the house and into the kitchen, where I grabbed a can of wasp spray. No St. Francis moment for me. The stings throbbed, and I wasn’t going to let a horde of nasties chase me out of my own backyard. After all, I paid the taxes on the property! Heck, I had bought the birdhouse they had hijacked.
Grumbling justifications to myself, I marched out and exterminated the lot of them. I have no problem with wasps; in fact, their associates have built nests all over the eaves of my house, and we have lived in harmony for years. But this was a dedicated attack. They came after me when I merely walked by, several feet away. So, I ended their line.
Old Testament demands of generational vengeance battled pacific dedication to New Testament commands “Forgive your enemies.” Well, I forgave them right after I killed them off. It was certainly easier that way. Theoretically, I could have stopped and forgiven them before I sprayed their nest, but the fact was, pain motivated me to do the dreadful deed, or I would never have done it.
Years ago, when my husband was alive and well, he managed several beehives and collected honey in late summer. It was a wonderful enterprise, one the whole family appreciated. He was a sensitive and caring beekeeper who always kept the welfare of his bees in mind. Until one year when he was asked to collect a wild hive, which he did. He brought it home and set it up in a new home. Immediately after, that insane hive began attacking everyone. Even the chickens got stung. The dogs and cats couldn’t figure out what was happening. It was terrible. I couldn’t let the kids outside; those bees were vicious.
I remember going outside a few mornings later, and John had a big fire blazing. Confused, I asked him what he was doing with a fire so early in the morning. He just looked at me, sad-eyed, and said something to the effect, “It was us or them. They weren’t going to change.” Then I saw the empty beehive set off to the side.
A damning judgment if ever there was one. That image ran through my head when I sprayed the wasps. They weren’t going to change. They couldn’t. I would not have them stinging my family and me. I could not judge their existence, but I had to deal with their actions.
Everin does hunt sparrows. Though he doesn’t need to and I cannot justify his behavior, he reclines on my back porch as beautifully feline as ever. If the sparrows could, perhaps they would do away with him. But I won’t.
Nature reflects ingrained instinct, remaining innocent of evil intent. But harm still happens. The human journey surpasses natural instinct into the realm of chosen acts. Intent matters as much as effect. Our judicial system is dedicated to teasing out such issues for critical judgment. I cannot claim insight or wisdom in judging hearts, minds, or souls. I leave that in more capable hands. But if I can save a sparrow, I will. And wasps better keep their stingers to themselves.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother of eight.
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