I have this friend. Big, burly guy. Ex-navy. Ex-drinker. He’s got his gruff down pat; calls himself a curmudgeon, only half-joking. He rails against the ills of the world, greedy politicians, slackers, people who won’t do the right thing. A staunch atheist, he snorts at the idea of a God.
So this big galoot tells me about a baby bluebird. He was riding his bike near a golf course when he saw it in the middle of the road, and his heart sank when a car passed over it. He went over to it and saw that the car’s tires hadn’t flattened it, so he picked it up, and the little thing started squawking to high heaven in the palm of his hand, while the pissed-off parents are dive-bombing my friend. But the baby bird didn’t fly away.
Then he walked to a nearby tree with it and deposited it gently in the tree’s crotch. As soon as he did, the little thing flew off like a bat out of hell. And the curmudgeon went on his way.