Birds

A flock of birds had gathered restlessly on the peaked roof of the entrance to the military-style barracks converted into a prison dormitory. The inmates trudged out of the dorm, listless and hungry and obedient to the narrow, yellow lines painted on the sidewalk out front. Many turned slightly to notice the birds and an old man vying for their attention.

"Watch this!", the grizzled, old inmate called out to them, and raised his fist high, one obscene finger sticking out.

Anything can happen in prison. The unexpected becomes the expected and is anticipated as a welcome diversion to the monotonous routine. Still, wary eyes darted first to the guards to make sure everything was kosher. The guards weren't paying attention. They listened intently to the radio for the command to move the dorm to the chowhall, oblivious to the old man's stunt.

Out of an assemblage of supposedly wild birds, one small finch flitted out from the others. He was rounded and fat for his size and seemed to struggle in the air, but that was just the style of his species, putting on a show as he circled the line of inmates, just over their heads, for several passes. It was so quiet in the gathering dusk, the only sounds the fluttering of little wings and occasional radio static.

Finally, the tiny bird lighted upon the old man's raised finger as the inmate pulled some bread crumbs from his pocket to feed it. An unspoken, "Aha!" lit up the new arrivals' faces. This was some kind of trained bird act! Who knew how many years this had been going on--the old man, his raised finger, the bread crumbs? How in the world did it begin? There were many unanswered questions. No one bothered to ask them though, in the settling silence. All they needed to know was that, for a few moments, they weren't in prison.

The only thing that seemed important, the significant part, was when the finch, after getting his fill, casually flew back to join his friends. Then suddenly, with a start, the whole flock, like a black cloud on a gust of wind, flew away quickly to the countryside beyond the tall fences, to the green fields and trees that lay just out of reach. The little fella was being fed by the State! The difference was that he could take it or leave it, come and go as he pleased. He was free.

The decrepit, old inmate laughed with bright, shining eyes and pointed over the razor wire after them. "Jailbirds!", he exclaimed, but we knew the sobering truth.

At that moment, I put it all into the Lord's hands: my failed life, thoughts of vengeance and retaliation, retribution for all the injustices, persecutions, mistreatments and misery I had suffered, the fears for my family, worries for my children and my mother's declining years, the uncertain immediate future--the whole mess. He promised to bring the wicked to justice and make everything right again. I won't have to do anything but trust that He will do what He said, and one day soon, fly away to join my loved ones in those pleasant green fields forever, free again forever. Amen.

J. Wallace