A Threat

My meanest rooster has sacrificed his life for the flock. Coyotes have killed off six birds now and I have felt despair over the losses. It has been impossible to create a chicken run that would protect the flock during the day. In addition, two neighborhood dogs are hunting my birds too.

The worst: our wonderful family dog ran away yesterday during a thunderstorm. We are grieving.
The parents of the barn swallow chicks in the barn have disappeared too. Family issues are happening. The bank account has been on empty for a week.

Sigh.

Psalm 46:1

God is our refuge and strength. An ever present help in times of trouble.


The good things:

I might be able to get a job as a cook at my church.

It is green outside.

My husband had fun teaching my sons how to be a better shot yesterday

There is still plenty of food in the pantry.

There are pretty goldfinches at my bird feeder.

It is pleasant and cool outside today.

There are ox eye daises in the yard.

The forest sounds alive and happy.

There is always hope.

Broken

    If it were in the human psyche to be resilient, we would not need Jesus to give us hope when we feel none. It is only in the arms of this spectacular man that I feel truly safe. There is disappointment in every other facet of life unless he goes before me. I never thought that this would be a truth that I would even come close to understanding. I have had an intense jealousy for people who have written books and hymns saying that Jesus is their all in all. How could he be? You cannot feel him, see him, or touch him; at least not in a physical sense. It is easy to feel completely dead-bust broken and torn down by the crap that happens in our every day lives. But it is from this broken place that I feel the love of Christ the most. I realize that Jesus is the only one capable of repairing the holes in my heart.

    A couple of weeks ago I went out and photographed deserted and broken down homesteads. I like the feeling of loss and emptiness that blows through the cracks in the wood. I listened closely to the whistle of the lonely wind. It was moving to hear it's ghostly sigh whispering down a lone chimney in a burned down house. While there, I got caught trespassing. The kind owner (who let me off the hook) told me that the once grand house had been built by his father for his second wife. I have a vague memory of it when it still stood about a decade ago. It was once proud but not now. It still overlooks a beautiful valley with cows and a river that runs through it. I asked him what had happened to the house and he alluded to a sordid past that may have involved some revenge from his father's first wife. Hmm... Why do people break things? If it is something good it is that much more susceptible to destruction. Houses are merely a representation for the folks that live inside. Why did this house break? Hatred probably.

 

    There was an old windmill that was hooked up to nothing. Most of the time they are a real source of wind power used to draw up water for cattle in the pasture. Not this one. It seemed to be only a sculpture representing the past. Now, not even whole, it crumbles as rust and strong winds beat it to the ground piece by piece. Oh God, life can be so hard when windmills fall and lives are blown to the four corners of the earth!

    Another empty old farm revealed this ghostly window. You can tell that the people who lived there were poor because they had layered plastic in the window to keep out the bitter winter cold. A stopgap measure at best, the only real solution was new windows that would have been tight and secure. But the borders of this house were left unsecured and the gales of countless storms blew a hole in the souls of the family who used to live there.

    Once upon a time this old truck used to haul hay, vegetables and happy people to and from the farmers market. It was no doubt a source of prosperity for the man who owned it, but like most things here on earth it shuddered to a stop one day never to be driven again. No more 50's rock n' roll music on the radio. No more races down back country lanes.  Just no more. It gathers rust in it's decrepit glory and whispers of  happier bygone days.

 

    We all have things that we would have rather had not happen to us in our lives. And like these old farmsteads abandoned out here in the sticks, our hearts can become desolate places where the wind whistles through. Never to be warmed again by the glowing fires of laughter, love and forgiveness. Can we allow these precious things to become so full of holes that there is no hope of repair? How sad that would be when "The Healer" stands so close to us. If we let him sit and hold us when we are broken, we will come to know how much he loved us all along, even in our most hopeless hours. Hearts untended are no more resilient than a house left to rot.

We cannot do the maintenance by ourselves. We need a carpenter

The Smallest Angel

    Oh my, what a crazy morning it was. Big Red, the Rhode Island Red rooster that I had bought last autumn had finally angered me to the point of his demise. He was originally purchased to be company for a lone little hatching named Bandit, the only egg to hatch out of nine others. Bandit would not shut up. Peep, peep, peep! all day and night until I brought in the company of Big Red, who at that point, was an adorable ball of copper fluff. Chicks are much happier together than alone, kind of like people.

    It takes, what seems forever, to raise chicks to an acceptable size to integrate into the flock. By the time they are two months old they are about the size of grapefruits, are prickly with pin feathers, loud, and stink up their brooder. Mine of which was located smack dab in the middle of family life in the dining room. Bandit and Big Red got to be very impolite guests after two months inside. No, chickens are not welcome indoors.

      Well, unless your a complete fool for them the way I am.

       I got Big Red around the middle of October. That would make him about 20 weeks old the day of his demise. Rhode Island Reds are a dual purpose breed. Meaning they have enough bulk to be a meat bird and are excellent layers as well. I am just a hobby farmer and never had given much thought to those traits. It was not on my agenda to raise chickens for meat. However, after one of the hens went broody in the fall, and three turned out to be roosters, I began to give the matter some consideration. I had Bandit (still loud) and Big Red who was reaching a decent harvest size. Whew! Too many boys for the ladies to handle for sure. Three weeks ago I began to notice that Big Red had a nasty habit of throwing my smallest hen, Angel, down and raping her hard. She is a tiny little girl and cannot weigh more than a pound and a half. I felt extremely protective of her and was upset that Big Red had become a threat to her and the rest of the flock. I knew that I had to do something but was reluctant about this rite of passage which is part of becoming a real farmer. Real farmers, in my opinion, not only raise chickens for eggs, they raise them for meat too. I have not considered myself to be a real farmer because I do not raise crops or cows or make my living as a farmer. I am just a housewife who has a few chickens. I am not comfortable taking anything's life. It is difficult to do and I was not raised that way. We only had pets when I grew up, not livestock.

     Hmm...what enabled me to take Big Red's life was anger.

     The funny thing is that Big Red was not the meanest guy in the flock. He was just a brash upstart with the advantage of size. The top rooster is Fatso, an extremely protective gentleman to my ladies. He always mates without throwing the hens down. He politely  climbs on top and they submit without a squawk and the deed is done in less than five seconds. I think the ladies are secretly enamored of his strikingly good looks. There are no feathers lost and the hens are not abused by him. But he hates me. Every time I go to tend my flock there is murder in his fierce amber eyes. I have to kick him off me to stop the spurring and I have been scratched and pecked by him mercilessly. Because he is good to my sweet hens he is allowed to stay.

     Big Red never did any bodily damage to me but was horrible to the girls. He would grab their necks and jump on the hens and flatten them to the ground as he pounded their bodies. Angel, the little banty hen, was so small that his ministrations not only ripped the feathers out of her back, they ripped a giant hole in her skin. In addition to the damage Big Red had done to Angel, the flock had  begun picking on her due to her injuries as well. It was unfair and dreadful.

   I had it with this rooster, he was not good to have around. I cornered him in the chicken house and caught him with my bare hands. Remembering how a friend of mine, who had grown up on a farm, used to kill chickens, I tried to wring the life out of him. Unfortunately, one of my sweet ducks witnessed me doing this. I hope ducks have short memories.

     I carried Big Red back to the house to pluck him and clean him for dinner. I was very upset. This was the first time I had ever taken one of my chickens lives. It got worse. He was not completely dead and began to struggle. I was running around looking for a way to take his poor life quickly. I felt so guilty about the pain I was causing him. I was able to end his misery, but it was not pretty. I really blew it badly and when telling the story to my teenaged kid, who is a certified and trained hunter, I got royally chewed out. "Mom, you are supposed to make the death of an animal as quick as possible. You made him suffer. You were wrong!" Yeah, kid I know.

    As I was going about the horrible deed I thought about all the pioneer women who lived by subsistence when our nation moved West. I knew that at each point in their difficult lives, they had to kill their first rooster for their families food. I know that they probably messed it up the way that I did. I think that it only takes once to learn a lesson that hard. Next time I have to do this I will be very prepared, no matter how angry at the rooster I am. I will also look for signs of a bad personality in my roosters earlier in the process of raising them to make sure they will not damage my hens.

     Learning how to handle farm life is difficult and emotional. It is different than what most farm magazines portray. Chickens are smart, social, messy, loving, combative, and are all around metaphors for the human existence. I see many parallels  between our species. The struggle for power between humans is so like roosters vying for top position. As with people, hens are either protected or not. With chickens, the flock represents either solidarity and social friendliness, or  viciousness brought out by an injured bird being attacked by everyone. People do the same thing with those they consider weaker than themselves.The whole process of keeping chickens makes me analyze my life in ways that I would rather not think about too closely. I cannot answer why there is a pecking order with chickens anymore than I can figure out why humans treat each other similarly. I just hope for the best in both cases while mourning what is evil.

    A few years ago I drew a picture of a chicken with an extra set of wings; angel wings. I wrote out cartoon words wondering if there were chickens in Heaven. I think there are. I know many people will argue that animals do not have souls, thus there would be no chickens in Heaven. I believe that God delights in the things that he made, and surely he would give me chickens to enjoy when I have moved on from the struggles of living on earth. I don't think I would ever have to kill a chicken  though, there would be no need to kill because there is no death in Heaven. All the evil and struggle that I mourn here will be no more; every tear will be dried.

     I really hate the facts of our lives down here on earth. Having to kill Big Red to  protect the flock was rough. Life on earth is rough too. It is filled with people in power who take advantage of those who are less than they are. Social problems cause the majority to hunt down the weak just like my poor little banty hen was picked on for her injuries. Is life any different for people? Heaven would be sweet relief for both chicken and human alike.

    Angel is resting in a dog carrier on top of my deep freeze in my pantry. I am spoiling her with fresh cheese, lettuce, corn and clear water. She is getting daily doses of Bactracin ointment on her injuries. When she recovers, she will become part of my small flock that is close to my house. All of my chickens have it good as they free range all day long and have a secure coop in the dark. However, the four special chickens next to the house have it royal. They get regular scraps when they come up to my door and ask for treats and are cuddled and loved frequently. Angel will have a very luxurious life when she is fully recovered. I have to say that I wish for a rescuer to come and make my existence as easy as the one Angel will now have.

     Paul promised that in this life we will have many sorrows and that we are to consider it all joy when we do. It is the working out of our faith which refines and prepares us for the greater promise of Heaven. Jesus enables us to endure many circumstances not of our choosing. He is friend to the poor, downtrodden and the least of us, just as I am friend to my little Angel. I am not Jesus, but I like to think that this little chicken drama can teach me that I am loved by Jesus even more than I love Angel. God's promises of miracles and love are what sustains me when I am picked on and feeling like the smallest chicken in the flock.

    I know that he loves me and will keep me safe no matter what.