During my third lap around the outside of the fence, I paused to consider the absurdity of what I was doing—chasing chickens.
“Wait a minute. Did I sign up for this? Because I really don’t remember signing up for this.”
I was trying to herd three chickens back into the large enclosure from which they’d escaped.
And what a well-timed escape it was, too. Eerily well-timed. The very day after my husband left for Texas on a business trip. It’s like those birds knew the warden was gone and Barney Fife was running the prison.
When we first got our chickens, I distinctly remember telling Joe, “Ok, but you know that henceforth, you can never go out of town or die. Don’t leave me with these birds.”
After all, this whole chicken gig was Joe’s idea, not mine. I thought he was possibly having a way-after-midlife crisis when he decided to spend his Christmas gift money on materials to build a chicken condo.
I have a rather strong aversion to handling critters with feathers, fins or scales, so I wasn’t looking forward to the day when circumstances might force me to pick up one of our chickens.
I envisioned lots of murderous pecking, probably because I watched Alfred Hitchcock’s creepy movie, “The Birds,” at an impressionable young age. Who can forget that poor, terrified woman huddling in a phone booth while possessed seagulls dive-bombed her?
I never really trusted birds after that.
The unfortunate reality, however, is that I have to take care of my husband’s “girls” when he goes out of town, which he does in spite of my grand edict.
So when three of the chickens literally flew the coop, I knew I had to do something. Cleaning up dead chickens would be worse than chasing live ones, I reasoned.
As I chased those silly birds, it occurred to me that this never appeared on my “things-I’ll do-in-my-lifetime” list.
I grew up in a normal neighborhood—the kind with people in it, not chickens—and thought, until recent years, that living in the country would be the worst kind of social torture.
But I married a guy who grew up on a farm and had patiently waited for many years to return to his rural roots.
And so, here we are.
And here I am, chasing chickens and tippy-toeing around their poo to look for eggs that are never where they’re supposed to be.
And, now that I think about it, doing all kinds of other things I never imagined doing.
There was a time, for example, when I would certainly never have thought I’d be writing a “religious” newspaper column, leading a women’s ministry in a church, studying the Bible, or starting all my days by conversing with God.
In fact, I rolled my eyes at people who did what I now do.
“Weirdo Jesus freaks,” I thought.
But when I learned, at the age of 19, that God was actually inviting me into a real relationship with Himself and not into religious busyness, everything changed for me.
That’s what always happens when Jesus walks into our lives, says, “Follow Me,” and we do.
The paths He’s taken me down are so much better than anything I could’ve imagined. I’m learning to trust Him in whatever comes my way, even if it’s not what I would’ve planned.
Maybe even if “whatever” includes chickens.
“And He was saying to them all, “If anyone wishes to come after Me, he must deny himself, and take up his cross daily and follow Me.’” – Luke 9:23
“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.” – Jeremiah 29:11