Jackie McGregor: Hello from heaven: A cheeky little visitor brings a lesson in love
As I stared at my computer screen, I suddenly got the feeling I was being watched. Looking up, my eyes met with beady little black ones, boring through the glass at me. His head cocked to one side, then the other, as if he were sizing me up.
“Hello,” I said to the little robin perched on my front window sill. He watched me intently.
“Aren’t you adorable! Wait there, I’ll get you a treat,” he gave me a look as if he understood every word. He didn’t flinch as I rose and left the room. I’d read robins like powdered peanuts, so I pulverised some and rushed back to feed him.
He was still there; I opened the top window carefully and dropped them down. He wasn’t fazed by me at all; looked at my offering, inspecting it like a feathered food critic, and gazed back at me in disgust, refusing it.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting a Michelin star, but I took time to prepare that especially for you.” He hopped round and promptly showed me his backside. I sighed. Everyone’s a critic.
In truth, I loved that he had materialised. My mother had been a firm believer in the saying, “When robins appear, loved ones are near.” She said it was a hello from heaven.
Folklore has long regarded robins as messengers, bridging the gap between this world and the next. According to legend, a little brown bird tried to ease Jesus’s pain by pulling a thorn from his crown during the crucifixion. A drop of Christ’s blood fell onto the bird’s tiny chest, staining it forever. Ever since, the robin has been regarded as a symbol of devotion and solace.
Having suffered two painful bereavements recently, the little robin’s arrival brought me genuine comfort. One of my losses was my aunt. She had been an unapologetic critic of my cooking, routinely describing my Christmas dinners as “disastrous.” I loved the idea that this might be her in bird form, still turning her beak up at my culinary skills.
I smiled. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
The next day, the robin reappeared and continued to study me through the window. I was pleased to see him, though I didn’t try to tempt him with a snack, knowing his discerning palate.
Later, I went into the kitchen. A second robin was sitting in the birdbath in the back garden. I shed a tear, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion and adored the thought that I was being visited by a duo of heavenly messengers. It felt like a sign.
When you lose someone dear, you search endlessly for signs that they are still close – a rainbow, a shaft of light, and you hope it’s them. The robin felt like a message from above: I’m here, and you are not alone.
Love does not end with a final goodbye. The devotion remains, even when we have nowhere to direct it. Like a robin singing through winter after other songbirds have fallen silent, that love continues to trill in our hearts - a soft, background lament.
In quiet moments, we may sense those we have lost nearby, a reminder that love, whatever form it takes, never truly leaves us.
Like the little robin on the window sill, love always finds its way home.