I'm not a bird watcher, but today I'm watching the birds which are hopscotching on the service tray, squabbling over scraps of pastry.
I don't know from birds, but these are objectively pretty, bright and varicolored.
As I watch them eat, I can't help but think of the popular passage in Matthew in which Jesus, as part of his most quoted sermon, addresses the fact that even the birds are fed by God.
It's a statement of freedom.
Freedom from want and worry in the assurance that God loves all those He created.
As I watch the birds, bickering like siblings over who gets what, I can't help but reflect on another truth: These birds eat the scraps left behind by people like me who are enjoying some "time away" in a resort paradise.
They feed on what's left of the stopping point of my heretofore endless breakfast, one that I can only (barely) afford, if we stare squarely at the proverbial brass tacks, because of where I was born, and to whom.
A placement that God oversaw.
The birds and I sit with full stomachs in a green oasis surrounded by an otherwise impoverished and barren land.
I don't know what it means.
But it can't mean nothing.
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