Joseph, the chicken

Each year, in early spring, my father would order baby chicks to raise, for butchering in the fall. I mentioned in a previous post that my mother was a “pioneer woman.” For example, when it came time to butcher the chickens, she would find a block of wood and pound two nails spaced just right so a chicken’s neck could be placed between them. Mom would take an axe and, one by one, chop off the chickens’ heads. She would then dip the decapitated chickens in scalding water, pluck their feathers, singe off the pin feathers, clean them inside and out, can the meat in jars, and store the jars in our cellar for use throughout the winter months.

My Dad
I learned a lot from him
about chickens AND people.

One year, when the chicks were half-grown, I entered the chicken coop and saw that a young rooster had blood covering one side of his neck. Further inspection revealed that a large area down the side of his neck was completely raw and feather-free. The poor chicken was barely alive! My dad removed the rooster from the coop, and we kept the fowl in our house while we nursed him back to health. The injury to his neck left a scar in the shape of the letter “J,” so I named him Joseph.

Joseph eventually recovered his physical health, but the “J” remained. He became a family pet and never returned to the chicken coop. He would walk up my arm to sit on my shoulder and, when my dad was cultivating the garden, Joseph would follow him and the rototiller up and down each row. That rooster was amazing!

Unfortunately, what Joseph experienced in the chicken coop is not uncommon in the chicken world. A chicken introduced to a flock may be viciously attacked by poultry with more seniority. Or, one chicken may see light glistening on the feathers of a colleague and, instinctively, peck at it. If the pecks are repeated often enough, they draw blood and other chickens will join in. Before long, the chicken being picked on will be injured, maybe even die.

I have often thought about how chicken-coop dynamics occurs in the human world—between spouses, siblings or friends. One person starts pecking on another, picking at every little flaw, real or imagined. Over time, the pecks increase in frequency and strength until blood is drawn. Often, others join in. The victim is wounded and scars remain that last a lifetime. Sometimes, the wound is so severe the person experiences emotional—even physical—death. We often hear of hen-pecked husbands, but there are also rooster-pecked wives, and parent-pecked, sibling-pecked and classmate-pecked children.

It is hard to understand why we humans adopt the ways of chickens, and I don’t want to be a participant in such hurtful behavior. Lord, help me bring healing, not wounds, and life, not death, to others.

Photo by Simon Howden

Copyright © 2010

Born on the Fourth of July

My mother was born in Spirit Lake, Idaho on July 4, 1911. Her strong, no-nonsense personality intimidated some but those close to her knew she had a great sense of humor and a heart of gold. Although her time in history was not during America’s colonial period or its expansion westward, my mom was a pioneer woman. Her ability to make do and endure hardship was amazing!

Starting days by firing up a small stove in her kitchen with wood she often split herself, she worked from early morning to night, washing clothes in an old wringer washing machine; planting, maintaining and harvesting a huge garden; canning and freezing produce; sewing and mending clothes for her seven children; and making quilts. Amidst her busy schedule, she frequently found time and energy to host guests for Sunday dinner. Almost every weekend, when their children were in college, my parents welcomed numerous students into our home. Typically, the crew would arrive on Friday night and my mom would clean, cook and entertain the group until they left Sunday evening. I am still trying to figure out how my parents were able to finance hosting so many people on their meager income.

Over the course of her life, my mom influenced many to become followers of Jesus Christ and, through her letter writing and prayers, encouraged others along the journey. Her children were dependent on her prayers. When I found myself in difficulty, I often prayed that God would impress my mom to pray for me. I knew she had a connection with God, and He answered her prayers.

Although she may have done so, I do not remember my mother actually saying the words, “I love you.” But that has never mattered to me, because everything she did and said shouted that fact. There was no doubt! My mother loved me. I am a strong proponent of parents telling their children that they love them but, in analyzing my relationship with my mother, I am reminded that love is more than a noun—it is a verb.

I love you, Mom. You were a real firecracker!

Copyright © 2010