The bird hits the sliding glass door with a crash. I am standing in the kitchen when BAM.

My kids come running, and there he is, on the mat outside the door. I grab some plastic kitchen gloves (thanks COVID 19!) and rush out. He is lying on his side, tiny feet clawing the air, eyes darting and scared. I pick him up carefully.

“There, there, little guy. You’re OK,” I whisper. He is light and soft and warm in my hands. I feel his heart racing. His tiny dark eyes are wide.

The White-Throated Sparrow (Zonotrichia albicollis)

The boys gather close. Can we touch it, they ask. Sure, if you're gentle, I reply. With a single finger, they stroke his striped head, his tiny brown wing. I swear he seems to relax in my hands.

I place the bird in a planter on the porch. The animal struggles to stand for a moment and settles down on a bed of moss. My older son, an avid birdwatcher already at only 8 years old, runs inside to get his bird book. He identifies the creature right away: A white-throated sparrow, a common bird in the Midwest, we learn, who prefers bird feeders and brushy edge habitats.

Back inside, I Googled what to do when a bird hits your window. Make it comfortable, the Audubon site says, leave it alone if it doesn’t seem injured. If it does seem injured, contact animal control. There is no information about what to do if a bird hits your window during a global pandemic.

There's no information on how to do anything during a global pandemic.

In response to this, I've been practicing some serious Magical Thinking: After everyone goes to bed, I disinfect all the screens (phones, computers, tablets). All the doorknobs. The doorframes. I clean the main bathroom, top to bottom. Then I stay up far too late revising my future grocery orders, living in fear of running out of anything that will make things ‘less than normal.’ Do we need juice? I’ll buy some. More milk? Better get two gallons. Butter? Cream cheese? Mozarella? As if keeping dairy products in-stock will be enough to keep the boogie man virus away.

This is what I do, in the dead of night, when I should be sleeping, to try to calm my racing mind, my aching heart. School is canceled, everything fun is canceled. The kids are disappointed, and here's nothing I can do to make it better. We are all safe so far, and I try to tell myself that that's enough. I’m doing the best I can, but sometimes it feels like it isn't enough. Nothing I can do is enough.

Now there’s this bird.

For the next few hours, we check on him from time to time. He wanders over to the corner of the planter, and I allow myself a glimmer of positive thinking. Maybe he’s just stunned. Let’s give him some time, he’s fine. He’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.

My bird-loving son brings some birdseed (black oiled sunflower seeds, which, I’m informed, are a favorite of this species) and sprinkles the seeds near the animal. I watch as he gently strokes the bird's head, speaking softly. "It's OK little guy. Here's some food for you."

He sees me watching; he turns and reports, "I think he's doing better."

I linger outside for a minute after my son returns to his Lego project of the morning. The bird is very quiet and peaceful, and still. He is not better. My heart breaks.

I text my best Mom friend; I text their father, seeking reassurance.

A friend of mine recently reminded me of the Bernard Meltzer quote, “Before you speak, ask yourself if what you are going to say is true, is kind, is necessary, is helpful. If the answer is no, maybe what you are about to say should be left unsaid.”

During this time, there is little good news, even fewer things that I can control or fix. Not many happy endings. I know what I have to do.

I'm cleaning up the breakfast dishes an hour or so later when the kids rush out to the porch.

“MOM!” they call from outside. “GUESS WHAT?”

I know, but I let them tell me anyway.

“The bird flew away! He got better!”

They are still in their pajamas, dancing around the now-empty planter. Their feet are bare, and their overgrown, bed head hair is flapping in the morning sun. They jump up and down with little boy zeal, giggling and high-fiving, thrilled with the miraculous results of our bird-rescue efforts. I join in the celebration. We are filled with hope and possibility. Later that day, my older son wanders by and gives me a random hug. He looks up into my eyes.

"I can’t believe that I got to pet that bird before he went back with his friends. I’m so lucky! I think maybe he will come back to our feeder and say hello to us because he knows we are nice."

I hug him back, kissing the top of his head: He’s getting so tall, I hardly have to bend down at all.

“We are lucky, honey. So lucky.”

I can’t protect them from everything, no matter how hard I try.

They believe that the bird lived, and so he lived. He brought us hope, and for that, we are so grateful.

And for a change, there’s a happy ending. It’s the best I can do.