When our family moved from Chicago-proper to the countrified suburb of Wilmette in the late 1940s, we had an acre yard. A fruit orchard, vegetable garden, outdoor bar-b-q patio and grape arbor came with the property, and to our delight, it also had a miniature barn.
One Easter morning when I was 9, Mary, Tom and I came downstairs to the music of peeping baby chicks. Mom had bought a dozen of them from the local five-and-dime, each dyed a pastel color for the holiday. We bonded immediately.
Our chickens quickly outgrew their box and took up residence in the barn, and we hoped for eggs. We never got any, probably due to the abuse these poor birds suffered between pecking out of their own eggs and arriving at our barn, but they were a neighborhood sensation, and we loved each one.
One day a new chicken joined the group, a russet brown bird given to Dad by a friend. When the other chickens pecked us, the brown one wanted to be petted and held. Dad became especially attached, and when it came time to turn the chickens into Sunday dinners, he struggled to include his brown buddy. In the end, all 13 got their heads lopped off with a neighbor’s ax, and chicken was frequently on the menu that winter.
When Nelson was 10, his school science class hatched several chickens from eggs. Afterwards, Nelson and his cousin Julia volunteered to each take one home, and a new generation was in the chicken business. Nelson kept Snowball in his room, and one of his regular chores was to clean up the endless white poo-poo.
We did our best to keep the cats away, but the risk of pet-violence became real, so Snowball eventually joined Julia’s chicken, Charlie, in a pen behind their house. Charlie was more docile than Snowball, who literally ruled the roost, pecking at poor Charlie until Snowball also met with an ax.
Now Julia and her sister Jo are encouraging chicken-generation #3 as their 5 children are back in business. Each bird gets a name, an outfit and an abundance of love. Julia’s best egg-layers were named Mary and Marni, quite an honor for us 60-something mamas.
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Scripture includes a very serious reference to a chicken, spoken by an anguished Jesus as he overlooked his beloved Jerusalem. He used the example of a mother hen protecting her brood as a picture of what he’d hoped to do for the Jews: “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem!… How often I have wanted to gather your children together as a hen protects her chicks beneath her wings, but you wouldn’t let me.” (Luke 13:34) His heart ached for the Jews who’d made their choice not to gather round him as their Messiah but to crucify him instead.
Amazingly, he’s never withdrawn his mother-hen-offer. He’s still willing and eager to gather as many as will come, Jew and Gentile alike, to himself.
“He will cover you with his feathers. He will shelter you with his wings. His faithful promises are your armor and protection.” (Psalm 91:4)
Growing up on the mission field we were often reminded that farm animals were God’s provision for us and we ate them. It never got easy, especially when they were “friends”. Clarence was my goat, and although he would charge at me when a kid, we grew to be friends. One day, Clarence went missing. I asked Dad where he had gone to and got that very disturbing answer. That was the end of “friendships” until the dogs. Dad chose to teach us that God’s provision comes in many forms, one is meat. Now I know God’s provision comes in many many forms. How good God is.