Early this morning as the sun rose lazily, I went to my old beloved chapel and scattered old bread crumbs. It seems these days that I am being optimistic, as I am presiding at the Lord’s supper, in how many I believe might come to church, so I keep consecrating too much bread. The ritual of the Church is that after bread is consecrated, it cannot be thrown away; it must be scattered over the earth or out to sea. It’s nothing new to me to throw a bit of bread over the ground or cast my bread upon the waters. It's always been a sweet time as I imagine the animals feeding on it as they unwittingly take part in a holy communion. But today felt different in the bleak midwinter morning mist. The old field birds around the chapel were waiting for me with bated breath. They did not care about the liturgy or proclaiming; they wanted me to serve them. In this season of slim pickings, they were hungry to taste the body of Christ broken yesterday for the whole world. As I flung bits of a stale loaf out into the dry grass, I felt their hunger and was grateful to be their pastor. This Eucharist  was for the birds. I could feel why Saint Francis preached to them and why Noah sent them out to find hope.  I could feel their spirit picking up mine, and I was for a moment in communion with them.  And when I considered the old field birds of the air and the wild lilies of the field, I had no worries. I am so grateful for all the holy communions I have shared with all the communities I have found to share a bite with me.  I am grateful for the bounty of bread, slow mornings, and the willingness of birds to stop for a minute and bless my day. We are a simply part of creation hungry for love. Thank God for a bit of left over bread and a flock of birds.