The Pentecostal Mennonite

Downing the Tree

They did not know I was listening, measuring the cadence of each phrase, learning to speak their language.

“Too weak to leave the nest. That’s my guess.”

“Look at those feathers, though. I could get some real money for those, right?”

“Take it home, take care of it. Give it a year or two before you sell it, if you want to get the best price. For once, you’ll make your kids happy.”

“Happy for a year or two, but then what?”

They did not know I was watching, fixing my eye on the boy hiding in the tall grasses. I nodded at him and he bobbed his head in return.

Visitors in the Shadows

Pandemonium. A bursting flight of fire and feathers, rushing away like sparks in the swiftly tilting world. I fall alone, toppled from the height of the ceiba branches, the tree of life cut down. I am calling out, crying for help, then awake to the sound of squawking, my voice hoarse, my calls echoing in the wooden cavern of a barn.

He was there, the boy was there in the shadows. I watched him put his claw to his strange, beakless face and let out a sound. "Shhh."

On either side of his silhouette, tufts of straw-colored plumage moved into view, twin tow-headed faces, each fixing a set of eyes on me. As long as I live, I shall never become accustomed to the human face -- two round eyes flattened side-by-side, a tiny beak set above a large wind-whole. In goes the food, fruit and nuts, then out comes their wild voices. Strangest of all, and most beautiful, those eyes -- deep roundy wells set in white. The boy’s eyes fixed on me, brown as dried cocoa beans. The little ones darting in the shafts of light had eyes like pieces of sky.

Boy reached toward me, his fleshy pale claw reaching straight for my head. I clamped down with my beak, which caused him to pull away, hawking and cawing. The straw-headed, blue-eyed fledglings scattered, bubbling with laughs.

Boy’s eyes looked hurt, with droplets of water, overflowing and rolling down his face. He reached out cautiously to touch me again. This time, I allowed him to softly brush beneath my throat before I reached my own claw out to take hold. His toes were strange, but I didn't want to let go. I felt warmth for the first time in days, rising up within me. Just when I thought life could not be better, he reached out with his other claw and offered me fresh papaya.

A Good Name

Over the weeks, Boy taught me words. Some I understood, like "hand" and "hat," while others remained a mystery. There was more papaya every day, but also nuts and seeds. I was growing stronger and I began to dream more of flying and less of the felled tree.

Boy brought names to me too, some too simple ("Birdie"?) and others too cute ("Flappy"). Boy still wanted to give me a name. He told me this in whispers as he carried me under cover of darkness from the barn to a nearby building lighted with lanterns.

As we approached the dancing light, an idea flickered across Boy's face.

"Feuer? Flamme?" He looked at me, both eyes at once, so strangely beautiful. "Nay….Fahrenheit. Ya, Fahrenheit."

He held me close, tucking his arm inside his jacket as he entered the house and silently made his way past the kitchen. (I could smell dried papaya and coffee.) I tried nibbling on his hand to direct him to turn back, but he continued on. I could hear his sisters laughing somewhere in the house. It made me wonder about my own nest-mates, where they went when the tree fell. Were they with my parents, one happy family with a life of their own? I wished I could show the world how sad I was with eye-drops of water, like Boy did in the barn.

Boy stepped up to a door and knocked loudly on the wood, then gently pushed it open. There were two human faces peeking out from the shadows cast by an oil lamp. One was pale and round without any plumage at all, eyes of milky blue. The other looked sunny and warm, with wrinkles radiating from brown eyes that lit up at the sight of me. Sunny gestured with her hands, barely making any sound. Moon Man cocked his head, showing tufts of gray around and within large flaps of skin called ears.

“My bird,” said Boy, holding me up with his hand, so I was closer to those faces.

Sunny moved her hands in time to expressions of interest on her face. At the same time, Moon Man boomed in a voice that shook my feathers, “What did you name it?”

“Fahrenheit,” said the boy, talking louder than usual. Sunny looked at the Moon Man, perplexed.

The old one’s voice boomed again, while at the same time he made motions in her face, “Fair-enn-height.”

Sunny beamed, nodding, then her face clouded over. A shadow filled the doorway. It was the man from the forest, the one who took me from my nest. The one the boy called Vater.

“What did I tell you about bringing that thing into the house? Take it back to the barn. Now. Tomorrow we start training it to fly.”

Lofty Goals

Down to the barn floor, then up again for more seeds. At first, just a short trip from the ladder to the straw-covered floor, then Boy would carry me higher up into the loft. Day after day, weeks in a row, I worked until I began to catch on to the balance and feel of air beneath my wings.

Boy was patient with me, but Vater seemed anxious for my progress: “She should have been flying for months now.”

Boy would rush in with his dinner at the end of each day, tearing off pieces of tortilla to share with me. I wanted to show him how much I appreciated all the seeds and the dried papaya, so I took a mouthful of warm tortilla, mushed it up, then spit it out on his hand. He was visibly moved by my gesture of affection.

I managed to gain strength enough to fly up from the floor to the loft. At first, Boy would toss me into the arc of flight, then I began to find my own way from floor to loft and then from beam to beam.

Moon-man and Sunny came to join us late one afternoon, leaning on dull metal perches they carried in front of them. Moon-man’s voice filled the air, “How will you keep that beauty from flying away?”

Boy and I exchanged glances. Why would I leave this place? How would I find my own food? I had found my mate, my Boy. Where else would I go?

Sunny tapped her perch and made a phrasing of hand-gestures that seemed to tell a story. This time, Boy translated into words, “Entreat me not to leave thee. Whither thou goest, I will go.”

She pointed to the gold ring on Moon-man’s hand. That caught my eye. I flew over to rest on his perch, which caused a small commotion. Then I relayed the message from Sunny to his ear, “I will go.”

The barn went silent. Moon-man cocked his head in my direction, “What did you say, Yacob?” I think that was the moment they decided to take me to church.

The Pentecostal Mennonite

In the meeting house, rows of men in white shirts and black jackets and overalls looked on in stunned curiosity at me. Too colorful. Too loud. Not to mention, too young and female. Clearly, this was not a common place for birds, especially birds that could speak.

"My name is Fahrenheit," I began, sounding much like the boy Yacob. "Your family flocked to my country seventy years ago. You were searching for freedom, just as your parents and their parents had been flying from place to place for 500 years."

Every eye was fixed on me. Yacob spoke and I echoed:

"One thousand years ago, men caught the first wild macaw, the first of many to lose their freedom. We were captured and caged. We were exchanged for turquois. We were killed for our feathers. Like you, my parent's parents flew here looking for a safe place. A place to raise a family. A place to call home."

I noticed Vater turning red, feeling heat. "Today, I am here because one man rescued me from a fallen tree and took me home. I have been cared for, fed and taught how to fly. But that is not the whole story. No. This same man and his friends cut down the tree that was my home." People turned to look at the farmer or stared down at the floor.

"Please remember the history of my family. Please consider what it cost me to come here and speak with you. I have lost my parents, my siblings, my home. Do not take away my future."

What was Yacob saying to them? What was he speaking through me to this congregation? Did he want to keep me for his own or not? I stopped repeating his speech and looked at him until he found his own voice:

"This bird was not meant to be kept in a barn or even a house. She was never meant to be traded or sold. She was created to fly. Please help me find a new home for Fahrenheit, where she can grow up to be free."

And that is how I came to be in this sanctuary, how I came to be here, with my colorful friends in the green paradise of this place, sharing my story with you today. Yacob's voice, my truth, made all the difference.