A Swan All Along
You were born with wings.
Why prefer to crawl through life?
—Rumi
“How about The Ugly Duckling?” my six-year-old nephew said, pointing to a title in the Hans Christian Anderson fairytale book he’d chosen for his bedtime story.
“That’s a good one!” I replied, flipping to page 107.
“I’ve heard of this story before, but never read it,” he said drowsily, lying back on his pillow.
I get to visit with my nephew a couple of times a year, and reading a bedtime story to him is my favorite part of every reunion. Several weeks ago, as I read the story of what essentially amounts to an emotionally abused, socially rejected ‘duckling’ who hatches from a weird egg and comes out gangly, grey, and huge compared to his adorably yellow, fuzzy brethren, I wondered how my tender-hearted nephew was receiving the message being conveyed. Because the ‘duckling’ was different, he lived his first year of life forsaken by his family and utterly lonely—a social outcast. But I knew that good times were ahead for this ungainly bird, because when he begins to grow into his not-a-duck-after-all identity, everything changes.
What I did not anticipate was the impact of my turning the page at the story’s end to reveal a lovely male swan where an ugly duckling had once been:
“A SWAN!” my nephew gasped. He bolted upright in bed before repeating exultantly, “He’s not a duckling! HE’S A SWAN!” with the thrill of discovering a new planet or winning the lottery, with all the quivering wonder and excitement his little body could contain.
“That’s right! He’s a swan!” I said, trying to match his level of enthusiasm but falling woefully short.
When you know that the ugly duckling’s story turns out in the end because he was never a duckling to begin with, it is much easier to bear the insults and rejection he receives during his woebegone year as an ugly ‘duckling’. But imagine you are a six-year-old child who does not know that the ugly duckling was simply in the wrong pond all along. Imagine the joy and relief you might feel when learning that the ugly duckling just needed a chance to grow into his real identity—to come into his own by shedding a layer of grey, downy fuzz, revealing a coat of shimmering white beneath.
My nephew’s reaction to the story of the ugly duckling made me wonder: What are the once-extraordinary stories or realities in my life to which I have grown numb, simply because they are familiar?
I think of the Resurrection of Jesus, a story that has inhabited my spiritual consciousness for as long as I can remember. Do I hold that true story with the awe and wonder it deserves, letting it inform my life beyond Easter weekend? Do I let it resurrect my dead hopes, my latent cynicism, my despair over the world and my own twisted heart?
To take it a step further, what are the old modes of identity in which I am still operating as a duckling, when the resurrection of Jesus invites me to step into a transformed, swan identity in Christ? What are the old feathers of identity to which I cling, when Christ died and rose and reigns to make me new?
Maybe, just maybe, as we tiptoe, waddle, or splash more truly in the direction of our calling, God points to each us with gleeful exultance and shouts, “A SWAN! She’s a SWAN! Honey, you were never meant for that duckling pond.” These days, I wonder: Am I swimming in the right pond, or am I still trying to hang with the other ducklings, blending in by seeking approval rather than living out of my truest identity in God?
I recently came across this poem by Rainer Maria Rilke, as shared in a post by one of my favorite poets, David Whyte.
The Swan
This clumsy living that moves lumbering
as if in ropes through what is not done,
reminds us of the awkward way the swan walks.
And to die, which is the letting go
of the ground we stand on and cling to every day,
is like the swan, when he nervously lets himself down
into the water, which receives him gaily
and which flows joyfully under
and after him, wave after wave,
while the swan, unmoving and marvelously calm,
is pleased to be carried, each moment more fully grown,
more like a king, further and further on.
It strikes me that the One we follow into the waters of death unto resurrection was also despised, rejected, and misunderstood by those who surrounded him—just like the fabled ugly duckling. Because Jesus’ life paves the way for us, maybe the business of taking up our cross to follow him is simpler than we thought: a letting go of the ground we cling to and claim as our identity, and entering the waters of our eternal destiny, surrendering to the current of Kingdom living, “each moment more fully grown” than the next, moving “further and further on” where the river takes us—becoming more and more like who we are: Kings and Queens in the household of God.
Perhaps today’s invitation, then, is simply to enter the water. Maybe it is time, beloved, to walk upon the face of the deep with your Savior, Creator, and Friend—because it surely is true that in spite of every ugly and painful thing you’ve endured—in spite of everyone who has named you falsely—you’ve been a swan all along.