He couldn't get out.  I saw him sitting in the window sill as I walked to my car in the parking garage.  He sat waiting, exhausted. From the bird's viewpoint, I'm sure it seemed to him that if he only tried a little harder he could take flight into the silvery sunlit day. But the clear pane of glass wouldn't permit him.  I could tell when I saw him that he'd been trying for a while to flee.  I drew close to him and could see the fine lines of black and white etched on his feathers, almost as if someone had painted them on with ink. His head feathers were ruffled, I think, from all his exertion.  He sensed my nearness, the anxiety to get away from me causing him to make more attempts at flying through the towering window.  When he raised his wings, I could see the loveliest shade of yellow on the sides of his body, the color of lemons.

Sometimes I am like this bird when it comes to writing, wanting to be seen and heard.  I bang myself against the plexiglass of jealousy and pride, desiring to have a wider platform and more readers, an agent, a publisher.  This week on my trek to the library, I breathed in that wonderful scent of books and paper and wound my way through the labyrinth of shelves to the "new books" section.  I was instantly drawn to one book in particular.  I liked the cover--the font, the title, the quotes inside.  I read the first few pages and gulped down the poetic, descriptive prose that I thought echoed my own writing voice.  "Oh, how I'd love to have a book like this out in the world."  I could feel the tentacles of envy and jealousy beginning to curl around my thoughts. I loathe these ruminations when they surface, when they rise up and begin to make accusatory statements, seduce me to compare myself with other more successful authors.  "You'll never be as good as this writer.  You may as well give up.  Throw in the towel." I sat there in the library alcove, the comforting sound of a woman sitting next to me turning magazine pages.  I felt a lot like that exhausted bird, tiring lies wrinkling my brain.

In the stairwell, I stood beside the vulnerable creature.  I had on gloves as it was cold, nearing bitter.  I reached out to shoo him away from the window sill.  Even through my gloves I could feel the bird's warmth, his fragile skeleton. He gave a shrill screech, wildly flapping, a blur of feathers, the yellow peeking from his wings.  I gave one last push with my palm and he flew down the stairs.  I watched him fly away until the dark scrap of him vanished.

I think that God sees me waiting like the bird, smashing myself against the glass, colliding with negative thoughts, jealousies and temptations of glory.  Pride.  And he looks upon me tenderly as I did the frightened bird.  Even though I may not understand the direction his palm moves me toward, I can trust that it is a passageway to freedom, the wide sky my backdrop, the great King pleased to rescue me, admiring the brushstroke of yellow there just under my wings.