The flamingos are fed at 3:00 p.m. Clustering at the edge of their enclosure, they plunge their beaks frantically into cups full of pellets, held by children. The birds squawk and jostle, twisting sinewy necks. A plaque nearby tells us flamingos turn pink from the pigments in their food, the stain of algae and shrimp and mollusks.
Sometimes the birds bite. We watched that happen once. The child cried out, grinned, then stuck the cup back down again.
Across the path, the tortoise, Edward, sits in solemnity. Usually he watches from a dirt mound, nibbling at a wilting pile of lettuce. But last week, we saw him go into his pool, big horned feet tumbling down the bank. This was the fastest we’d ever seen Edward move, and the most noise he’d ever made, splashing into the tepid water.
My son and I visit our town’s junior museum and zoo at least three days a week—sometimes five. Occasionally six. (The zoo is closed on Mondays.) You can walk the perimeter of the zoo in less than five minutes. But we linger. We observe the two bunnies and the two meerkats. We peer wistfully into the small enclosure where the hawk supposedly lives. We have never seen him. We hear the zookeepers gossip. The peacock charged a toddler again! We avoid the peacock.
Consider Edward, with his lettuce, and the flamingos, with their pellets. There is a lot of time for considering as we make our loop around the zoo, stopping for water and sunscreen. And there is a lot of time for not considering—for letting the mind go blank, visiting the tank of tropical cichlids to see if the turtle will swim by this week. If not, no problem.
Inside the small air-conditioned museum, we play with the same abacus and the same rainstick. We look at the same book, the same twinkly star lights. We observe a tank of poisonous dart frogs, shards of blue on green leaves. The rat exhibit is under construction. Where have the rats been rehomed? Not the hawk exhibit, we hope. My son tries to crawl, tries to stand, tries to speak, tries and tries and tries again. I watch, and wait. The chameleon flicks his tail.
We come here to “get out of the house.” That’s it. My son won’t remember—not the older kids screaming their way through a rope course in the trees, nor the screeching of macaws. I’ve seen this all before.
Consider the ravens, how precarious they are, how woefully dependent, never assured of what’s coming next, never scheming, never striving. Consider the risks of living that way, unoptimized and unfulfilled, spending every afternoon at the zoo without a quantifiable objective. Step out of the flow of forward motion—threshing, gathering, laying in provisions—and you might find yourself starving. Or unfulfilled. Or terribly bored.
But how much more valuable are we than the birds? Scripture poses the question, and we know the answer. The peacock, the flamingos, the macaws, and the African hornbills are pink-stained, noisy, ridiculous, miraculous, and not even close to the person I push back and forth in the stroller, kicking socks, crying, getting hungry, his presence something I could not guarantee, so much of him outside my control. All of him, provision.
Consider that “getting out of the house” and “something to do” and “just because” and “we don’t know why” and “there are no outcomes to measure” and “there are no objectives to fulfill” and “they’re just animals, we’re just watching them” runs counter to the ways of man, and along the ways of God.
But ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish in the sea inform you. Which of all these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this? In his hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind. (Job 12:7–10)
Consider all that. Or simply consider the raccoons, fighting under the waterfall or asleep in the sun. The bunnies twitching their noses. The meerkats making unnerving eye contact. The turtle (there he is!) swimming across the span of the tank, pushing cichlids aside with his flippers.
This particular Tuesday, we’ve missed the 3:00 p.m. flamingo feeding. But we’re just in time for the sloth. We did not plan it; this is grace. The children gasp; the adults point. Big, furry Luna performs her weekly appearance with gusto, dangling along a long tree branch, limbs slipping through the air. She scratches herself with a clawed foot; she smiles a nice sloth smile.
The zookeeper tells us a little fact: her eyes flip what they see to account for her being upside down. Really? Was this true?
We could get out a device to check for ourselves. Nobody does. There is no problem to solve, no ambition to fulfill. We stand in the path and watch Luna make her way, back and forth, back and forth, watch and wait, watch and wait.
