Bird Trap Trouble

A story about self-limiting beliefs and what to do about them.

I was a small boy when I first saw it on a TV show, likely Leave It to Beaver or something similar. IT was an archaic, homemade bird trap. It was simple and effective, a box propped up by a stick, just high enough to scatter birdseed underneath. A long string was attached to the stick. Once a bird crawled underneath the box and took the bait, you pulled the string, causing the box to fall and trapping the unsuspecting fowl inside.

It seemed like a clever idea, so I replicated it.

I gathered my supplies. I found a box, garnered some birdseed from our feeder, obtained a stick tall enough to prop it up, and a ball of string. Once everything was set, I unrolled the string and waited just around the corner, where I could watch without being seen.

It didn't take long. A crow landed and hopped under the box, pecking at the seed. At just the right moment, I yanked the string. The box dropped, and all at once, I had trapped my bird. It was a successful endeavor, or so I imagined.

The problem? I hadn't thought through what came next.

As soon as I lifted the box, the bird would obviously fly away. So, I had to figure out how to slide another piece of cardboard underneath without giving it enough room to escape. Inside the box, the crow squawked and flapped, its wings slamming against the walls. It was clearly distressed, but I pressed on.

I had already built what I thought was a magnificent cage. It was crude, though, and wooden framed with an old screen stapled to the sides to let in air. Somehow, I managed to wrangle the bird from under the box and into the cage.

I sat and watched it. It was anything but content. It flapped around, restless, confused, searching for a way out. But I was happy. I had caught something and planned to keep it as a pet.

That was until my father came home.

After he settled in, I enthusiastically told him about my accomplishment. I talked of how I had built a bird trap, captured a bird, and placed it in a cage. My dad listened patiently, then asked me where it was.

I led him onto our screened-in patio, where the bird had momentarily calmed. But as soon as we approached, it panicked again, thrashing against the screen.

My dad looked at me and asked, "Why did you catch the bird?"

"I wanted to keep it as a pet," I answered.

He nodded but then knelt beside me. "This is a wild bird," he explained. "It can't be domesticated. If you keep it locked up, it'll probably die from stress, lack of food, or just not having the space to fly. It wasn't meant to live in a cage."

He looked me in the eyes. "Just like we have a home, the outdoors is its home. It might even have a family."

With each word, my excitement faded, replaced by guilt. I hadn't considered that. I had only thought about what I wanted, not what was right for the bird.

After a few moments of silence, my father asked, "Well, what do you think we should do?"

I hesitated, then swallowed hard. "Maybe we should let it go."

My dad smiled. "That's a good idea."

We carried the cage to the front yard. My hands shook slightly as I unlatched the door. At first, the crow flapped wildly inside, disoriented. Then, after a moment, it found the opening—and soared.

I watched it disappear into the sky, free once again.

That day, I learned an important lesson: caging something designed to soar only leads to frustration, atrophy, and sadness.

It's true for birds.

And it's true for us.

We were designed to soar.

But sometimes, the cages we find ourselves in aren't built by others but rather by our own self-limiting beliefs.

Maybe it's the belief that we aren't good enough.

Maybe it's the belief that we'll fail.

Maybe it's the belief that we don't deserve more.