Watching the Struggle

“The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world.”—Herman Hesse

This quote took me back to when I taught embryology at Wyomissing Hills Elementary Center. The local 4H club gave each fourth-grade classroom 20 fertilized eggs, an incubator, and material guiding us in how to “hatch chicks.”

More anxious than my students, I watched the 20 eggs like a mother hen. While I’d taught fourth grade before, it was my first time doing so at this school, making this unit new to me. Admittedly nervous, I wanted our classroom to have a successful “hatch rate.”

The kids and I followed the instructions, never once allowing the incubator to deviate in temperature … nor did we forget to turn the eggs.

One afternoon, after the students had left, I noticed movement in the incubator. Quickly, I moved closer, fixated as a small fissure formed in one of the eggs.

I realized what was happening … a tiny bird was using its eye tooth to peck through the shell. Amazed with this unusual birthing process, my eyes stared at the shaking egg. But then it stilled.

What happened? Why did it stop? Was the chick struggling? Then a horrible thought swept over me. Would the chick die if I didn’t help it break through?

Instead of consulting the other fourth grade teachers who’d taught this unit multiple times, I gently inserted my fingernail into the crack, nudging it slightly apart.

Silence. I anxiously waited. Finally, the egg began to move. But then it stopped. Once again, I intervened, hoping to make this tiny chick’s birth a bit easier.

Between the chick and I, the shell finally fell apart. Inside was a tiny, yellow alien, eyes shut, yet seemingly healthy. I felt like a proud mamma.

Confident I’d done my job, I packed up my tote bag with “my homework” and left. But when I returned the following morning, the chick was dead.

Panicked, I ran to the classroom next door.  When I told my co-worker what happened, she gave me a sympathetic look and said, “You can’t help them hatch. If a chick’s not strong enough to do it by itself, then it isn’t ready for this world.”

I’ll never forget that lesson, though I can’t say I’ve always heeded its message … If something (or someone) can’t do it on its own, we should not intervene. While our hope is to make things better, we often only make things worse.

As a mother, I faced this. There were times when I rushed to my kids’ aid, doing my best to “fix” what I thought was wrong. Yet, I didn’t realize it wasn’t mine to make right. Truthfully, those situations never turned out as I’d hoped. Instead, I only complicated things, sending a message to my sons that I thought they couldn’t do it on their own … they needed me.

Could that be what was underneath? Did I need them to need me?

While our intentions may be pure, intervening in another’s life frequently leads to an undesirable outcome. I wanted those chicks to thrive, just as I wanted our kids to lead conflict-free lives. But, when we interfere with the maturational process … whether it’s a chick hatching or a child venturing out on his or her own, we complicate things, often adding a wrench to the situation. And life’s taught me that when the lesson isn’t learned the first time, the Universe just sends another, one that’s often more difficult with higher stakes.

As painful as it is to watch someone we care about struggle—be it a child, a friend, a parent, a spouse, or even a chick—taking charge is usually not the answer. (Of course, there are times we must, but that’s not what I’m talking about.) Had I been stronger when I was twenty-eight-years-old, I would have stepped aside and allowed that egg to do its best to peck out of its shell, knowing that if it couldn’t, it wasn’t supposed to. But I didn’t. I had my own lesson to learn. I was to trust the process.

Trust … it’s the word that keeps appearing. While seemingly simple, it is one of the most difficult things to do. I guess that’s why they call life Earth School.