How seven eggs in a fallen tree became four wild ducks, part of our family, and a lesson I didn’t know I needed about loving, worrying and eventually letting go.
Back in May, I was taking a walk through our neighborhood with my oldest daughter, Olivia, when we came across a large tree that had fallen into the road about two blocks from our house.
I stopped and talked with the homeowner for a few minutes. They told me they had noticed honeybees living inside the tree, and since the tree was going to have to be cut up and removed, I immediately thought of a friend of mine who works with bees.
I called my buddy who rescues honeybees, Nick Ecklor, and I also called my friend Brad Jennings with Jennings Tree Service to let him know about the tree.
Turns out, Brad was already scheduled to cut it up a couple days later.
He didn’t know about the bees.
So I connected the two of them, and since all of this was happening only a couple blocks from our house, I figured the family might as well walk down and watch.
I mean, how often do your kids get to watch someone remove a colony of honeybees from inside a fallen tree?
We thought the bees were going to be the interesting part of the story.
We were wrong.
As Brad was cutting into the tree, he noticed a hole.
He looked inside.
Then he pulled out an egg.
“Dude, there are seven eggs in here.”
Seven eggs.
Inside a tree.
I had absolutely no idea what kind of eggs they were.
So, naturally, I said:
“I’ll take them.”
Because apparently that’s what you do when someone hands you seven unidentified eggs from the middle of a tree.
Seven Mystery Eggs
We borrowed an incubator from a friend, carefully put all seven eggs inside and started researching.
And yes, I asked ChatGPT.
Based on the eggs, where we lived and the pictures I had taken, we had a pretty good suspicion they were Black-bellied Whistling-Duck eggs.
Then that evening, our family went on another walk.
As we approached the fallen tree, there were two ducks sitting high above us on the power lines.
I managed to snap a quick picture as they flew away.
Black-bellied Whistling-Ducks.
Mom and Dad.
Suddenly those seven little eggs sitting in an incubator at our house had a story.
And now, I suppose, so did we.
We researched everything we could. Temperature. Humidity. Incubation time. Turning the eggs.
None of us had ever raised ducks.
Wild ducks?
Definitely not.
So we waited.
And waited.
And on June 26, the first egg finally began to hatch.
We named that little duck Mighty.
Because, of course, if you’re accidentally raising a bunch of ducks, they might as well be the Mighty Ducks.
Five of the seven eggs eventually hatched.
Sadly, one of those five didn’t make it.
We still don’t know exactly what happened. We came in and found that it had died.
Hazel was devastated.
She had named that little duck herself: Daisey “Lucky” Weedn.
Or not so lucky?
Hazel made a homemade coffin for Daisey. We had a small funeral, thanked God for Daisey, and buried this little duck.
It was hard to see Hazel weep for this cute little duck.
It might seem silly to someone reading this.
It wasn’t silly to her.
And honestly, it wasn’t silly to us either.
We were attached.
Which presented another problem.
Apparently We’re Taking Ducks to Tennessee
We had a family wedding coming up.
Not down the road.
In Tennessee.
Our trip was going to take us in the motorhome through West Virginia and then down to Tennessee.
And now we had four baby ducks.
What exactly are you supposed to do with four newly hatched wild ducks when you’re about to drive across the country?
Apparently, if you’re our family, you take the ducks.
So that’s what we did.
Four Black-bellied Whistling-Ducks loaded into a motorhome with our family and went on their first cross-country road trip.
We fed them in the motorhome.
Cleaned up after them in the motorhome.
Held them.
Played with them.
And probably looked completely ridiculous doing all of it.
But somewhere along the way, they stopped being seven mysterious eggs we found in a tree.
They became part of our family.
Four Ducks and a Bible Study
When we got home, the ducks kept growing.
Eventually they moved outside.
Then they started exploring the backyard.
Then came the fluttering.
A few feet here.
A few feet there.
Then real flying.
And that was always the goal.
These weren’t domesticated ducks.
They were wild Black-bellied Whistling-Ducks.
We didn’t want to take that away from them.
We wanted them to be free.
But freedom apparently doesn’t mean you can’t occasionally land on someone’s head.
These ducks landed on our shoulders.
Our laps.
Our backs.
Our heads.
The kids played with them.
And in the mornings, Haylee would sit outside doing her Bible study while these crazy ducks climbed all over her.
Sometimes all four of them would be right there with her.
There is something pretty special about watching your wife read her Bible with four wild ducks sitting in her lap.
And as they grew, not much changed except the amount of room they took up.
I had also developed a particular whistle for them.
I had been making the same sound around them since they were still inside the eggs.
And they knew it.
I could walk outside and whistle, and if they were nearby, here they’d come.
Flying right back to us.
Then They Flew Away
One evening, while we were getting them settled for the night, all four ducks flew away.
Gone.
That hurt.
But then something funny happened.
Two came back.
One of our neighbors even rang the doorbell holding one of them.
Basically:
“Is this your duck?”
Yep.
That’s our duck.
The other two never returned, but those two stayed.
Days turned into weeks.
They’d fly around.
They’d disappear.
Then they’d come home.
They’d land on Haylee.
Land on me.
Hang out with the kids.
I could whistle, and they’d come flying.
Maybe, we thought, these two had decided this was home.
Then came Friday night.
They flew away again.
Saturday came.
No ducks.
Sunday came.
Still no ducks.
Today is Monday.
And they’re still gone.
I Miss the Ducks
I knew Haylee would miss them.
She loved those ducks.
The kids loved those ducks.
But somewhere over the last few days, I’ve realized something I didn’t really expect.
I miss the ducks too.
I find myself wondering where they are.
Are they together?
Did they find other Black-bellied Whistling-Ducks?
Did they find a pond?
Are they eating?
Are they safe?
Did something happen to them?
And perhaps most selfishly:
Will they come back?
Then something hit me.
Maybe God has been using a few ducks to prepare my heart for something much bigger.
Someday, we’re going to have to let our kids fly too.
I don’t particularly like typing that.
As parents, we spend years protecting our children.
We feed them.
Teach them.
Correct them.
Pick them up when they fall.
Try to keep them out of danger.
Try to prepare them for a world they don’t fully understand yet.
And then one day…
they fly.
They’ll make decisions we agree with.
They’ll make decisions we don’t.
They’ll experience joy.
They’ll get hurt.
They’ll fall in love.
They’ll make mistakes.
They’ll face storms we desperately wish we could protect them from.
And eventually, Mom and Dad can’t always put them safely back in the coop.
Funny enough, our ducks loved storms.
They would stand outside in the backyard during a thunderstorm getting absolutely drenched.
We’d look outside wondering what in the world they were doing.
They didn’t seem worried.
They were ducks.
They were doing what ducks do.
Maybe there’s a lesson there too.
Jesus said:
“Look at the birds of the sky: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth far more than they are?”
I’ve read that verse plenty of times.
It feels a little different today.
Because right now, there are two little birds somewhere out there that I love and can’t protect.
I have to trust that God can.
And maybe that’s part of faith.
Maybe that’s part of parenting too.
Maybe some of the things we spend so much time worrying about were never completely within our control in the first place.
Our children.
Our families.
Our future.
Even a couple of ducks.
I Still Whistle for Them
I haven’t stopped.
I still go outside and whistle.
Part of me expects to hear those wings and see two ducks come flying toward me.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe next week.
Maybe never.
But here’s where you can help.
If you’re around Enid, Oklahoma, and happen to see a couple of Black-bellied Whistling-Ducks, I’m including the whistle they know with this post.
This is the whistle they know:
Play it.
If two ducks suddenly get excited, fly toward you, land near you, or, heaven forbid, land on your head…
please contact me.
😂
We’re not looking to capture them.
We’re not trying to take away their freedom or bring them home.
They’re wild.
They’re doing exactly what God created them to do.
Fly.
We’d just love to know they’re okay.
And maybe that’s the lesson God is working on in me.
Sometimes loving something means protecting it.
Sometimes loving something means holding it close.
And sometimes loving something means trusting God enough to let it fly.
So I’ll keep whistling.
And maybe one morning, I’ll hear an answer from somewhere overhead.
But if I don’t, I’m grateful.
Grateful for seven eggs in a fallen tree.
Grateful for four little ducks that traveled across the country with our family.
Grateful for ducks sitting in Haylee’s lap while she studied her Bible.
Grateful for the laughter.
Even grateful for the mess.
And grateful that, for a little while, God entrusted them to us.
What are you holding onto today that God may be asking you to trust Him with?
Maybe it’s your children.
Maybe it’s someone you love.
Maybe it’s your future.
Maybe it’s something that seems insignificant to everyone else but means the world to you.
Whatever it is, perhaps we can learn something from the birds of the air.
Love them.
Care for them.
Be grateful for them.
And when the time comes…
let them fly.