We have an improbable seven chickens in our household. They’re fascinating to watch, all the time, but I found them particularly interesting in the first few months after we let them out of the brooder and into the wild expanse of the backyard. Fluffy butts bobbed in the air as they searched for treats in the dirt, pecked at my garden, and stopped to smell the dandelions.
I also love their range of vocalization. They’ve got a peep, cluck, or bokawk for nearly every circumstance. They’re constantly in communication with each other, whether they’re exploring the farthest reaches of their domain or happily munching on dried mealworms in their coop.
My favorite sound that they make, though, is a melodic trill. I hear it when I step outside, at night, when they’re safe in a warm, dry roost.
I’ve never seen them make this noise. If I opened the roost door as they settled down to sleep they’d find my action intrusive, and rightly so. But I do love standing outside and listening to them check in with each other: I’m safe and happy, are you safe and happy? Good, then. Good. This is good.
When our ladies were still pullets – the technical way of saying that they were too young to bother laying any eggs for us – they felt affronted by my attempts to make them sleep in their coop. They thought they were big, full grown and able to make their own decisions about where to hunt and scratch and sleep.
They became indignant, in fact, squawking and flapping when I pulled them off a makeshift roost and put them to bed. From their perspective, I was imposing limitations, and I suppose they’re correct but my aim was to keep them safe.
They were angry when I confined them. They’d tell me in their best chicken language that they did not appreciate my efforts, but their trills in the night give them away. Being in the roost, safe and dry and all together, made them happy.
Now that they’re older, they know to go up on their own. Until they learned for themselves, though, it wass my job to ensure that they were secure.
Jesus once compared the citizens of Jerusalem (and by extension, I think, us as well) to just these sort of chicks. He said, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing. Look, your house is left to you desolate. I tell you, you will not see me again until you say, ‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’
Sometimes doors close on me. Opportunities beckon, then recede across the horizon. Way seems open, then is most definitely not.
A choice presents itself to me: can I see these closed pathways as evidence that God is gathering me in?
I rail against these limitations. I am one who kicks against the goads, as the Apostle Paul describes himself. I insist that I be allowed to do as I please.
And then, often through no useful work of my own, I find myself safe and sound, warm and dry, and a contented trill rises in my heart.
I am not a mother hen, but, for our chickens, I make a passable substitute. I provide plentiful food, clean water, snacks and shelter and room to explore, and safety when it’s called for. I have held a chick snug against my heart and felt it calm down and snuggle into the warmth and security of my embrace.
This gives me, I think, some small imperfect glimpse into the longing of God to smooth our feathers down and protect us under outspread wings. I am aware of how fragile our seven pullets are, perhaps more aware than they are themselves. When one is missing, I crave with every fiber of my being to see her safe inside.
To be under the hen’s wings is not to be imprisoned. Feathers are light, and a bird’s bones are hollow, and if pure self-determination is what you want then you can push yourself free of the embrace.
Before you do so, though, listen to the heartbeat of the one who has gathered you close to her chest. Ask yourself if—perhaps—you are not better off resting in the nest for a Sabbath or so.
These seven pullets ran through our yard, gleaming in the sun, investigating each root and leaf and beetle. They loved their freedom, but they weren’t mature enough to bear full responsibility for themselves. So, when day is dying in the west, I scooped them up and carried them to their refuge, to protect them from all who would find them tasty in the night.
And likewise, over our protests, sometimes we are pulled under the protective cover of God’s wing. When God longs to keep us safe and near, may we not long for freedom and danger. When way closes, instead of banging at shut doors, may we nestle deeply under the wing of the Spirit who loves us more than we can imagine.
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