What I Learned From a Chicken

What I Learned From a Chicken

In the mid 70’s in Southern California, it was the current craze for people to leave the bustling city and move out into the country.  Communities were carefully planned with ½ acre lots, with zoning for animals and farming for these ex-pats of city life.

We were one of them.  I was lucky enough to find a rental house in one of these communities and set to task to create a mini-farm. My vision was to become totally independent from buying food at the grocery store, to live as the pioneers had lived, to become totally self-sustaining.

Our first step in this new adventure was to get animals. I mean, what would a farm be without the animals?  So, I decided to start small. Chickens…and visions of farm fresh eggs and chicken stew motivated me over the next few weeks.

We built chicken houses and fenced in an area for the chickens to roam around. But these weren’t just ordinary chicken houses. We built them to look like condo’s . Six mini condo’s lined up with ramps going into each section. Then I painted a sign across the structure saying; “Ye old Hen House.”  It was painted white with blue trim. When it was finished, I stood back admiring the aesthetic look and the cleverness of the slanted roofs that opened up for easy access. I was quite proud of myself.   Now we were ready to buy the chickens.

With a quick trip to the local roadside feed store, we purchased six plump hens and two roosters. We also bought straw for the hen houses, chicken feed and oyster shell mix, two automatic feeders and two water feeders.

My two kids, Tracy and Andy, had their first experience handling chickens as we carried them into the chicken pen and watched them getting acquainted with their new home. The kids also got acquainted with the word “chores” as I told them that their job was to make sure the chickens were fed and watered.

Spring was the perfect time to buy chickens, as it was breeding time. It wasn’t long before all six hens were sitting on a full nest of eggs. We were all waiting anxiously for the eggs to hatch.  In a few weeks, we had baby chicks running around.  I counted them one morning and began to realize that we had too many chicks. If all of them survived, our little chicken coop would have to be expanded.

 Five of the hens were new mommies, but the sixth one somehow didn’t produce any babies. Her eggs lay lifeless and began to smell.  I felt sorry for the poor thing, wondering if somehow the other hens were mocking her, or that she felt shame for her failure.  We took the rotten eggs out of her nest when she wasn’t looking.  I told the kids to start collecting all the eggs each morning and night. It was time for us to start enjoying fresh eggs at our breakfast table.  

It became quite evident the following morning, that one motherless hen wasn’t about to give up on having children. Each time Andy or Tracy would go into her house, she became loud and violent, attacking anyone coming near her nest. After a few attempts of my own, I had to wear leather gloves to retrieve her eggs.

I admired her tenacity and her determination. Over the next few days she tried to hide her eggs in other parts of the hen house. It became a sort of game for the kids to find her hiding places.

 I knew it was crazy to apply human emotion to the situation, but I watched her as she now stood alone in the yard while the other hens and their chicks happily played about. She had also stopped eating. It was obvious that depression had set in heavily in her heart…..then she disappeared.

 One morning we got up and discovered her missing.  It haunted me. I thought of that little hen often and wondered, should we have just let her keep her eggs?

But new additions to our little farm were coming and we had to prepare a solid fence for their arrival. We purchased a litter of six pigs.

 The pig pen was built between the chicken coop and the metal shed which we used to store the feed. Old pallets donated from a warehouse created a strong fence for the baby pigs. We worked on this project for over a week before finally getting the pigs and bringing them to their new pen.

We were all so excited about these cute little guys, the kids climbed into the pen  and played with them, giving them each a name.  I warned them not to get too attached, because one day they would become bacon and ham.

Several weeks had gone by and we were now into a daily routine of feeding and watering the animals. We learned quickly that there was no sleeping in, or the animals would begin to loudly complain, snorting or clucking their discontent.

It was early in the morning when my daughter ran into the house excited. “Mom!” she said breathlessly “That chicken is back and she’s got babies!”  We both ran out to the yard, Tracy pulling me along.  I couldn’t believe my eyes. The proud mommy was strutting around in front of the metal shed with five baby chicks around her!   I had never seen a chicken so protective of her little babies and I swear she was going to each one and clucking at us, as if to say “This one is Joey and this one is is Sara. And if a chicken could smile, that one was beaming. She was triumphant!

“Momma. Where has she been all this time?” Tracy asked. “Good question honey.” I said. “And I am sure if you watch her closely, she will take her chicks back to the nest and we will find out.”   It wasn’t long before we discovered that the hen had hidden underneath the metal shed. It was amazing to me.  All the time we were building the pig pen, pounding nails and spending hours right next to that shed, she stubbornly remained on her nest hidden just a few feet away from us, the thieves that stole her eggs…us humans.  

“She never gave up, did she?” Tracy said, with a smile. “I think she is a very smart chicken!”

“Yes, she is, and a very happy one now!” 

We were all happy as we shared the good news with friends that evening. They all agreed that it was an extraordinary chicken.

Something woke me in the dark hours of the following morning. It was a sound that I had never heard before. It was a haunting, sad cry, like a wailing, coming from the farm yard.  I slipped on my robe and grabbed a flashlight then made my way out into the yard in the direction of that terrible sound. 

 

What I saw was in the light of my flashlight took my breath away. It was the momma hen.  She stood on the edge of our water trough, crying out in that loud mournful sound.  There inside the trough was three of her chicks, drowned, floating in the cold water.  Tears formed in my eyes as I stood above the scene.  “I’m so sorry, momma.” I said softly, reaching down, petting her head. “You are such a good mother.”   Somehow that seemed to comfort her and she stopped crying.  There was no way that I was going to leave and break this moment of bonding, or to leave her alone in the dark, so I sat down on the ground and quietly petted her until the morning sun began to rise. For that moment in time, we mourned together, that chicken and I.   Then suddenly she got up, shook herself,  gathered her two remaining chicks together and shuffled back under the shed. 

 I am sure I looked rather silly sitting there in the dirt, in my robe, all alone, but I was lost in the moment.  I watched the sun come up in the soft glow that announces a new beginning and I felt…renewed…hopeful…and a little sad.  I reached into the water and gathered the three dead chicks in my hands. No sense in leaving them there for my children to see when they woke up.  I dug a hole in the corner of the yard and buried them. As I walked back toward our house, the rooster crowed, I heard the sounds of my children waking up as the new day began.  

 That chicken taught me the most important lessons in my life. First, she showed me that animals DO have human emotions and that they were “thinking” creatures. I have never forgotten that.  Secondly, she showed me that when faced with problems bigger than we are, keep trying. Never give up!  You many suffer some losses, but in the end, you are better off than you were.

Over the years there were many times when I wanted to give up, to just curl up and die. But then I thought of that chicken and I would say to myself, if a chicken can do it, why can’t I?

2  November 24, 2012

Thanksgiving.

As I sit in my office, here in Kathmandu and gaze out at the snow capped foothills of the Himalayas, my mind drifts back to another time in my life…another Thanksgiving long ago…

Location: Visalia, California. 1970  I was 20 years old, married, mother of two. My little daughter was one month old. My son was just over two.  My husband had disappeared..again, no doubt spending our only paycheck on beer and women.  No money, no food in the house except one half a box of powdered potatoes.  For two days I had prayed for a miracle, for food to feed my babies, but nothing came. 

That morning I woke up with an idea born out of desperation and a determination that no matter what, by the end of that day, we would have a good Thanksgiving dinner.

  I made the powdered potatoes into patties and fried them. I found a small chunk of processed cheese with green mold on it.  I packed these, our last bits of food, along with some water, and bundled the children up.  I grabbed my old fishing pole and wedged it, sticking up from the baby stroller.  We set out for the destination of a man made pond about 3 miles away.

As I walked, I prayed again. “Lord, help me to catch enough fish to feed my family! Make my children quiet and my son obedient, while I fish.” 

  Three miles is a very long way when you are recovering from giving birth and a extremely long way for a two year old to walk.  Often I would have to pick up my son and carry him, struggling with the stroller one handed. Thankfully the sun rose up in the sky giving off the warmth we needed. 

The pond was more of a cattle watering hole, but I had heard that some fish were being pulled out of it recently.  I knew that it was probably filled with boney perch or carp, but it didn’t matter to me. What mattered was that I catch fish. My own stomach burned with hunger, but the cries of my children set a determination burning inside me, greater than any hunger that I could endure.  I was thankful that I could at least breast feed my daughter.

The pond was carved out of the land with a deep embankment.  It took several trips down to get the children and the stroller to a flat spot near the water. I spread out a thin blanket, placed some toys for my son

I took the small chunk of moldy cheese and pinched off a tiny bit, forming it on the hook.  With another prayer, I cast the line in the water.   “Lord, if there is a big fish in this pond.” I said out loud, “Let it have my name on it!”  Almost instantly there was a tug on the line.  I reeled in a small perch. That’s ok, I could fry it up. No problem. Thank you Lord!. 

Two hours crept by slowly. I caught three small perch. It was hardly a meal.  My son was getting restless and his bundle of energy sent him running around like a race horse up and down the banks of the pond. He had already managed to tangle in the fishing line and fall into the water.  I set him down on the blanket and gave him a potato patty.    My daughter began to cry. She was a good quiet baby who seemed to be content looking around and cooing. Her cries and my own body were telling me that it was time for a feeding.

 I can still picture this moment in my mind so vividly. There I was, nursing my daughter, trying to get my son to lie down and watching that fishing pole like a hawk.  The late morning sun had long ago lost its comforting heat and began piercing our skin into a pink hew.  My son was tugging at my arm. “Mommy, more!” he cried after finishing the last potato patty. Tears began to form in my eyes as discouragement flooded through me.

“Catching anything?” The voice startled me out of my self pity. Shading my eyes, I looked up on the high bank.  It was a man in farmer’s coveralls. “Just a few small perch,” I replied. “Watcha using for bait?” he hollered down.  “Ummm, cheese.” I shouted, trying to cover up the fact that I was nursing a baby. 

“Mind if we join you?” he asked.  “Wife kicked us all out of the house til turkey time.” He shouted as he shuffled his way down the embankment.   I watched as he and three boys, carrying fishing rods, and ice cooler manipulated their way towards us.

The man stood above us smiling. “We got a bunch of worms.” He said. “Me an’ the boys dug em up this morning. You are welcome to use those.”   “Uh, thanks.” I said awkwardly.  One of the boys plopped an ice chest down on the ground just a few feet away. Before I could stop him, my son ran over to it and said. “I’m hungry.”  I felt my face turn crimson.  But before I could say anything, the oldest boy opened up the chest and pulled out a bag of potato chips, sat my son down and poured some in his lap.  Relief flooded through me. “Thank you Lord.” I silently prayed. 

My daughter had fallen asleep and I softly laid her in the stroller, shading her little body from the sun with a thin baby blanket. 

“We’ve got some sandwiches in the ice box and some soda’s too.”  The man said. “More than enough for everyone!”

I have never forgotten that Thanksgiving day.   We had a wonderful time filled with stories, laughter and the biggest ham sandwiches I had ever seen.  Not only did we fill our stomachs, but we filled our souls.

The fish began biting on those worms like crazy!   Some perch, some catfish, and a few bass obliged us.  And…I did catch the biggest cat fish I had ever seen!  At the end of the day, the man and his boys loaded us up in their pick-up and drove us home. As we were saying our goodbyes, the man handed me his stringer of all the fish they had caught. “It ain’t Turkey, but it’ll feed you and the babies for a few days” he grinned. “God bless you!” he hollered as they drove away, the boys waving and smiling from the back of the pick up.

Our God answered all of my prayers…and more!  I wonder if Jesus was sitting there with us that day?

Most Unlikely Missionary    Blog - Day One.

God was an unwelcome guest in our house, growing up.

Even today, at 85 years old, my dad begins to turn red in the face at the mere mention of anything pertaining to religion. So on that fateful day when I excitedly, but gently, announced that I was going to be a missionary, dads reaction was on par with me announcing that I decided to become a prostitute. “How can you do this to me after the way I raised you?!!” With the familiar crimson color rising on his neck and face, I boldly continued. “I have been called by God to go to India…so I will be preparing to leave in a few months.”  I will never forget the reaction at the dinner table. It was a collective “She’s lost her mind!” and “Oh my God!”

In retrospective, I guess I don’t blame them. I mean, I was in that wheelchair and had been in that wheelchair for nearly 4 years.  It really wasn’t a logical thing for me to consider, let alone to do, in this real world of ours.  This real world of doctors and tests and the diagnosis “She will never walk again. She will only get worse.” 

 But I had long before entered into another world, a world where nothing was impossible, where my faith had grown to such a degree that I believed in the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.  God had shown me, in visions and dreams that my place was in India.  I believed that if God showed me in India, then God would pave the way for it to happen.  God could use me in my wheelchair!

While my family was considering having me locked up in a mental hospital, God was opening and closing doors so fast that I watched in amazement.

  But physically I was getting worse.  The pain grew in intensity and my body was twitching and shaking so much that the smallest of tasks became impossible. Yet I believed.  When everyone, with their worldly logic told me that I should be in a nursing home, I declared that I was going to India! The visions came to me larger and full of color and light, smells and sounds.  I could SEE myself there. I held tightly to these visions and dreams. They had become my reality.

I never asked to be healed. I suppose because I felt unworthy of such a miracle. It would be an insult to those who didn’t smoke or drink and had lived their entire lives in a Christian environment. I had only dusted off my bible less than a year ago. I hadn’t yet begun to learn the language and catch phrases that Christian people speak.  I studied the bible furiously, trying to catch up with those others who quoted scripture and lines with ease. But I also read the bible with a hunger for more of God. The words jumped out at me and danced alive as the stories, the truth unfolded my very spirit.  I didn’t understand what was happening to me, but I loved it!  If I had to remain in the wheelchair for the rest of my life to feel this way, I was willing.

But God…had different plans. Without consulting or warning me, He just healed me. I can tell you that no one was more surprised than I was!   Yes, it did happen in church, but it didn’t happen because of a powerful sermon, or because ten pastors laid hands on me, or because I attended a huge healing conference.  It just gloriously and wonderfully happened.  I stood up and walked.  THAT was a great miracle…but what happened afterwards…well that is a miraculous story too.