Lessons From a Chicken

*The following article originally appeared at FaithWriters.com on 8/5/21.

Underneath the expansive canopy of the oak tree, the brambles of fallen leaves and branches crackled and snapped under my feet, each step I took carefully executed as I made my way across the sprawling braids of ivy. Twigs scratched at my ankles, reminding me that my feet were ill-shod for this quest, and that next time I might want to wear garden boots instead of flipflops.

Meandering awkwardly across the uneven terrain, I caught sight of what I was looking for. Arms akimbo, I smiled at the handiwork and leaned down to get a good look at it. There, sheltered in the crook of two narrow tree trunks, sat an ample nest made of leaves and twigs and other deciduous debris, and in it rested a perfectly oval lighter-than-light-brown egg.

Outsmarted again -- by a chicken! I leaned down to retrieve the small egg, slipped it into my apron pocket and headed back inside. Our small flock of hens, five in number, emerged from their shady spots, pecking at the ground as they prattled on with one another.
I opened the screen door and stepped into the mudroom, talking over my shoulder to my favorite hen, a robust and docile Plymouth Rock we named Oreo.

“Listen, you need to find a closer nesting area before I fall headlong into that ivy. Maybe tomorrow, huh?”
David stood at the kitchen counter, topping off his morning coffee. Having overheard the one-sided conversation, my husband shook his head and laughed.

“Your plan is not working.”

I laughed along with him, conceding defeat. For the last few weeks, I had been leaving wooden “dummy” eggs in the various nesting areas to encourage Oreo to lay her eggs there rather than the farthest edge of the backyard, purely out of convenience to me. I was sure it would work. Chickens are creatures of habit, and usually they can be easily trained to change unwanted habits into desirable ones. Usually. That’s not the case with this chicken. She pays no heed to my decoys or the nesting boxes they’ve been placed in. So, every morning at 8:30 like clockwork – or cluckwork -- off she goes into the ivy tundra, turning up her tailfeathers to my human ingenuity.

“She’s on to you,” he teased. “But the funny thing is, I can’t tell them apart from the fresh eggs. I’m confused by them. You’ve got to mark them with an ‘X’ or something. I keep bringing in the wooden ones instead of the real ones.”

I thought about our short exchange for days. The world is full of wooden eggs, crafted to confuse and mislead the seekers and the saved. They’re all around us, cleverly placed, hidden in plain view. A basket full of beliefs. Take your pick. They look good on the outside, but they yield nothing. As followers of Christ, can we spot the imposters? Are we so thoroughly familiar with the pages of Scripture that if presented with false teaching, we can recognize it for what it is? A dangerous decoy. A counterfeit. The forbidden fruit of sin that draws us in with promises of peace and enlightenment, but after a while, it leaves us hungrier and more confused than before.

Oreo still makes the same trek every morning across the ivy-covered ground to the safety and security of her nest, and every time I see her do it, I marvel at just how much she understands.

“For God is not the author of confusion, but of peace…” 1 Cor. 14:33 (KJV)

The Gathering

*The following article appeared at FaithWriters.com on 8/19/21.

Golden bands of sunlight illuminated the dusty-blue sky, warm and gentle in its return to the sea. The melody of a new day played across the surface of the waters, out to the depths and then back again, flowing up and over the shoals in its peaceful refrain.

In the shallows, schools of sardines and biny migrated back into the deeper waters where they would remain until evening, evading the fishermen’s nets by day. Until then, they swam about their aqueous world unfettered by man.

It was quiet for a while, as it usually was at this hour, and then the undercurrent began to stir. A small group of fish swam harmoniously, darting left, right, and sharply downward, unified in their course. Small and slender, their silver scales gleamed like little coins as they sped effortlessly through their freshwater world. More began appearing from all directions, stirring the waters and energizing the school into a frenzied underwater dance as the school of sardines increased in size.

The hull of the boat crossed over the cluster of fish, and the muffled sound of men’s voices reverberated down into the depths, spirited and urgent in their conversation. The boat creaked and the oars lapped against the water. The irascible fisherman did as he was instructed, but not before speaking his piece.

“Master, we worked hard all night and caught nothing, but I will do as You say and let down the nets.”

The sinker stones of the foot rope broke the water’s surface and sank purposefully down towards its intended place. The skilled and salty fisherman, Simon Peter, watched as the circular net ballooned over the water and then disappeared into the murky deep. His usual boorish nature did not betray him; he held his tongue. Only for Him would he acquiesce to such a baffling request.

Beneath the net, hundreds of fish zigzagged in unison, darting and braking as they found their place in the crush of fins, and still more came, beckoned by the silent command of their Creator.

Standing portside, Simon Peter’s aching calloused hands gripped the net tightly as he scanned the water. Across the surface of the Lake of Gennesaret, the water sparkled with hundreds of tiny crosses of light. Stillness descended for a moment, a prelude to something extraordinary. The first of many fish ascended out of the water, so many that they could not be counted. He could not comprehend what he was seeing nor make any sense of it, for they had spent the entire night on the boat and come back to shore empty handed. But he had no time to contemplate it now.

Hand over hand, the men drew the ropes in toward the boat, hoisting the net up and out of the water. They struggled against the burgeoning catch as multitudes of fish jumped and danced against the woven trap. Light bounced off their harlequinesque scales as their tailfins slapped defiantly against the divide of water and atmosphere. The nets were heavy laden with the miraculous bounty, tearing from the weight of the fish, so great was their number.

“So they signaled to their partners in the other boat to come and help them. And they came and filled both of the boats, to the point that they were sinking. But when Simon Peter saw this, he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, ‘Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!’ For amazement had seized him because of the catch of fish which they had taken.” (Lk. 5:7-9)

Simon Peter was undone, broken like the net, from the weight of his sin. He begged Jesus to depart from Him. That day he was eyewitness to a mere sparkle of Kingdom glory. He could not know then what greater things he would one day see.

The men brought their boats to land, hauling in the biggest catch they’d ever seen. Simon Peter released the shredded net from his hands, tossing it down onto the wet glistening sand. The morning sun was bright and strong as he turned and walked away from all he had known.

“...they forsook all and followed Him.” Lk. 5:11

An Issue of Faith

*The following article appeared at FaithWriters.com on 8/19/21.

The sun was rising in the east, casting warm brushstrokes of yellow and orange across the Mediterranean sky. A rooster crowed in the distance, and then another, as the woman stepped out of the doorway into the cool morning air. It was her custom to rise early, and this she did without fail, going about her daily routine in relative obscurity, for the woman was unclean, and her life was a solitary one.

Against tradition and conscience, she left the privacy of her dwelling and began walking. She breathed in the salty air of Capernaum, grateful to be alive after the many years of her infirmity, but bitter and hopeless from the countless physicians who had attended her with their useless remedies. All her money had been spent in the pursuit of a cure. She was weak from the malady, an incurable chronic hemorrhage, and according to Jewish law, it rendered her ceremonially unclean. She was an untouchable. An outcast. She was no one’s daughter, no one’s friend, and no one’s neighbor, not anymore, not since the impurity.

How she longed to be restored to her family and her community and her God. How many times she had imagined the day that she would finally bring her offering to the Temple and be declared clean again. Then everyone who had shunned her would receive her again. No longer would she have to endure the disdain of others as she passed by, evidenced by their expressions of disgust, or the stares of the women whom she had once gathered water with, and the whispers between them, hurtful words disguised by half-turned faces. This was the shame she could not bear. Stripped of her dignity and humanity, she felt fully invisible and fully conspicuous.

The woman continued on for a while until her thoughts intersected with the sound of voices echoing ahead from the road to Chorazin. The familiar feeling of anxiety ran cold across her chest, and she instinctively pressed her palm against the front of her tunic, then with a trembling hand pulled the frayed linen head covering a little lower over her face. Her heart beat faster. A crowd was forming in the distance. She should not even be out in public. If she was seen, she risked further humiliation. Every fiber in her weary body tingled in fear and urged her to turn back, to return to her place of isolation and concealment, but this time she would not.

The gap between them became shorter as the crowd increased in number along the narrow road dotted with igneous-rock dwellings. She dared not move along in unison with the throng, so she stayed back, giving ample separation between herself and the curious gathering. A group of young men ran past her and she overheard them say, “The Teacher is here!” Despite her isolated existence, she knew about Him, this Jesus of Nazareth. She had heard that He could heal people – that He did heal people. And now He was here in Capernaum. She dared to think it: Would He heal me?

Fueled by faith in a man she had never laid eyes on before, determined to try just one more time -– for this, she was certain, was her last hope -- she navigated her way through the mob, desperate to see the renowned rabbi. Her head was spinning with the sudden rush of adrenaline as she pressed on. There He was, “the Master,” as He was called, flanked by His disciples, His most trusted inner circle.

One singular irrational thought occupied her mind: “If I just touch His garments, I will get well. If I just touch His garments…”

Availing herself of her only opportunity, she darted forward into the open space, her gaze firmly set on the edge of the Master’s robe as it trailed gently behind Him. In that moment of reckless reverence, she held the flaxen hem in her hand and watched as the fringes passed through her trembling fingers.

Her healing was instantaneous. Before she could fully comprehend it, Jesus turned and said, “Who touched Me? For I perceive that power has gone out from Me.”

She had hoped to hide herself, receding back into the crowd, but His power held her there, spellbound and speechless, unable and unwilling to disguise her presence from Him any longer.

*******************

Scripture account from the synoptic Gospels of Mark 5:28; Luke 8:43-48; and Matthew 9:20-22

Towering Faith

*The following article was published on FaithWriters on 1/23/20

I awoke to fear. Again. The mysterious and beautiful respite of sleep was over and my eyes blinked open with a sudden and acute awareness of unease. My old, familiar foe bid entrance at the door of my heart, and I was tired and easy prey; I shuddered.

Laying in wait for me to awake is my lifelong enemy, accuser, opponent, and antagonist. I know this foe by one moniker: “Fear.” Yet again, it had returned to battle over my spirit in an attempt to hold me captive. It was relentless in its pursuit of me.
I shut my eyes tightly, a fuzzy prayer forming in the cobwebs of my mind’s awakening. It’s a simple petition and I offer it up to the One who is faithful.

“Lord, please, help me!“

Fear. It is a formidable foe. Despite my pleadings over the years to be delivered from its grip, the Lord has allowed it to buffet me. So many mornings I awake to it, an opponent with no visage, uninvited, challenging me to a match that I don’t want to fight. This foe is like a tower – figurative in reality, yes, but dark and imposing, strong, frightening, and fierce.

Here I am once again, squaring off with this familiar challenger. I do what I always do. I will myself to get out of bed, take in a deep, life-giving breath of God-given oxygen, put on my bathrobe and step into my slippers. I made my way to the kitchen, keenly aware of the effects of time on my over-the-hill frame. The coffeemaker was set to automatic; the hot, brain cell-reviving brew is ready to pour. I tipped the carafe into the waiting mug, watching the creamer swirl and morph into the black liquid. This morning ritual comforts me, oddly, and shoos away the unease in my spirit. The rich aroma fills the air, signaling the start of another day.

The sun was beginning its ascent in the eastern sky as I gazed out my kitchen window, grateful to be a witness to it. It was the Golden Hour of the day when the sun painted its masterpiece in the sky, showcasing soft hues of blue, orange, and gray, backlighting a cluster of cirrus clouds. But something else arrested my attention.
In the distance, my eyes focused in on a giant tree, its leafless limbs illuminated against the morning skyline. Majestic it stood and how great was its presence! It towered above the neighboring trees, branching outward and upward toward the heavens. In this moment, it was all I could look at, this colossus on the horizon, beautiful and imposing, a tower of protection to the birds that inhabit it. Its branches reached out like a dancer’s arms, graceful in their strength, the sun casting her glow behind its winter skeleton, a deciduous wonder.

Nearly dead center was a bird’s nest resting in the crux of two limbs. I stared at it as it drew me in, oddly at first, until I understood its import. This was a picture of stillness, faith, and hope. A swift answer to my simple prayer: His promises tower above my fears. I thought about the birds that inhabit that nest. Jesus said they do not worry. Oh, Lord, to be a bird! To fly to my high tower in the treetops and nest in peace with not a care, knowing without knowing that my Creator will provide all that I need and never fear. And then came the prayer in response:

“Lord God, You, alone, are my only refuge like the birds of the air who trust in You without pause. They nest in the heights and they fear not. They awake without food, without fear, because they cannot fear – oh, that you would have made Man so, but You did not. You seek those who would seek Thee and find safety in Your high tower – this tower is faith. I am one who seeks to trust You in fear and in faith because You, Lord, are a tower of refuge to Your people. You are high and lifted up, a stronghold for all who fear."

**********
“The name of the LORD is a strong tower; the righteous shall run into it and be raised up.” Prov. 18:10 (JUB)

Believe it or Not

The following article originally appeared at FaithWriters.com by the author, First Place Masters' category winner, and can be viewed at:  https://www.faithwriters.com/wc-article-level4-previous.php?id=58328

The water sloshed gently over the edges of the leather bucket, spilling down and returning to the well beneath. Susanna grasped the coarse rope and hoisted the heavy goatskin hand over hand, up and over the stone edge. Lowering it to the ground, she wiped the sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her tunic. The sun was just beginning to set over Judea, taking with it the scorching heat of the day.

This daily ritual has been her task since she was a young girl, first with her mother and sisters, now a solitary one, her daughters grown with families of their own. Decades of daily trips to the ancient well was gradually chipping away at Susanna’s ambition. Forty-one years of women’s work has made her robust, but her spirit grows weary. Life feels tedious and monotonous and her burden as heavy as the water pots she carries upon her shoulders.

Susanna heard the two women talking. She had been half-listening to them while she drew water, too involved in her thoughts to give heed to what they were saying. They had finished filling their jars and were now deep in discussion about something. Susanna bent down to transfer water into the vintage earthenware jar, glancing over her shoulder in their direction. A twinge of guilt checked her spirit. She shouldn’t be listening to gossip. The Book of Proverbs warns against being a talebearer.

Finishing her task, she rose and returned to the well with the goatskin bucket to retrieve more water. Her mind begged for quiet. If those women would just leave. The well was a place of solitude for Susanna. Though she was weary from the work, the water was soothing to her mind. This was the one time of the day that she could be alone, just her and the sound of the water. She lowered the bucket into the well, feeling its descent as the rope passed between her fingers, breaking the surface of the water. Closing her eyes, she could better judge when the skin was full. It had become her time of meditation.

For a brief moment, she was in her quiet place. The dialogue behind her interrupted her thoughts once more, but this wasn't idle gossip after all. Susanna turned in their general direction. Engrossed in their discussion, the women took no notice of her. She knew these women from the village. Rizpah, a woman close in age to Susanna, spoke intently to her companion, Joanna.

“That’s what people are saying. You haven’t heard this?”

Joanna shook her head in disbelief.

“Yes, I heard about it. But it’s impossible. Why do you believe such things?”

Rizpah continued in her retelling of what she had heard, unfazed by Joanna’s unbelief.

“Resurrected, indeed!” Joanna scoffed.

“The sun is affecting your mind, Rizpah. Jesus of Nazareth was crucified. He died and he was buried. We know this. Everyone knows this! Dead people don’t come back to life.”

Susanna’s thoughts swirled. Could this be true? All of Israel was buzzing about the death of Jesus. It was common knowledge. She also heard rumors that Jesus had raised Lazarus from the dead just weeks before in the town of Bethany. News from the north trickled down slowly to Beersheba, but fantastic accounts such as this one circulated quickly. Now this about Jesus being alive? Joanna was right. Dead people don’t come back to life. Susanna wanted to believe the story about Lazarus. She desperately wanted to believe that death was not the end. It was just so incredible. Unable to make sense of it, she put off deciding what to make of it.

Rizpah believed the rumors concerning Jesus, and her friend’s skepticism did nothing to dissuade her.

“I believe it, Joanna. I believe He is the Messiah that our people have been waiting for.”

Susanna turned away from the women, returning to her work. Her strong hands transferred the remainder of the water. She looped the handles of the goatskin into her sash and deftly raised the earthenware pot to her right shoulder for the journey home. The sun was dipping lower in the west, giving way to dusk and bathing the clouds in swaths of orange. As she walked, she thought, the gentle tinkling of her anklet accenting her steps. Despite the heavy load she carried, Susanna felt a burden lift inside her. Rizpah’s testimony echoed through her mind.

“I believe He is the Messiah...”

Road to Nowhere

The following article originally appeared at FaithWriters.com by the author, and can be viewed at:  https://www.faithwriters.com/wc-article-level4.php?id=58116

With all his black fur, it was hard to see what the problem was. Squinting, I leaned in closer. My son, Daniel, began to panic.

“What’s wrong with Batty?” 

I couldn’t tell exactly, and I was concerned. Our otherwise gregarious, happy-go-lucky, black cat sat awkwardly on the bed, his demeanor guarded, his right eye bulging slightly from its socket and deviating sideways. Had something bitten him? Did he swallow something poisonous? I could feel the fear digging into me as my brain scrambled to make sense of it. Just then, as if on cue, the tiny cuckoo bird emerged from his wooden house and serenaded us at the ten o’clock hour. 

I announced my intent to my husband, David.

“We need to take him to the emergency vet.”

He did not agree. 

“We’ll take him first thing in the morning. I’m too tired to drive tonight. No. First thing tomorrow.”

I, too, was tired — and irascible. I countered his argument with all the reasons I could think of as to why we should drive 30 minutes to the nearest all-night animal clinic. When that failed to persuade him, I accused him of being unsympathetic — both to the cat and our son. I was bound and determined to get my way. 

Stonewalled, he loaded Batty into the pet carrier and headed out to the car. Satisfied that I had won, I quickly slid my feet into the nearest pair of flip-flops, tossed my phone into my purse and followed him out to the car, our 10-year-old in tow. David loaded the heavy carrier into the backseat, shut the car door and started walking back to the house.

“You’re not coming with us?!”

I sounded incredulous, but I wasn’t. We were both dying on different hills now. My husband stood on the front porch, arms akimbo.

I put the car into reverse, sealing my decision. Batty let out a garbled protest faintly resembling his usual boisterous self. Concern flooded back into my heart at the sound of it, renewing my resolve. Batty isn’t just one of our cats, he’s our son’s favorite cat. I just couldn’t let anything happen to him. I was on a mission. I knew exactly where we needed to go. It was the same emergency vet we’d used before.

“Hold on, buddy. We’re gonna get you some help.” 

The truth is, I was as concerned about Daniel as I was for Batty. My gentle autistic son sat in the passenger seat, head in his hands, his chest heaving with tears of worry that his cat would die. As we got closer to the offramp, I assured him we were almost there. We took our exit and relief began to rise within me. Making the final turn towards our destination, I slowed down, scanning the buildings on the right. There it was just ahead. 

Relief had barely settled in when a feeling of dread spread through my body like black ink. The lights were out. They were closed! How could this be? They’re not supposed to be closed! Clearly, they are no longer a 24-hour pet hospital. Daniel looked at me, confused. 

“It’s fine. Everything is fine, honey. Where’s my phone? We’ll find the closest vet and go there.”

I quickly searched “emergency vet” and got a nearby result. One tap on the navigation link and we were headed in the right direction, our first left straight ahead. I made the turn and looked back at my phone. 

“You have got to be kidding me! My phone is…dead?!”

Dead as a doornail and no charger in the car. What was so logical less than an hour ago was now clear as mud. I felt alone, out of the protective care of my husband, no way to communicate, and, basically, lost. I knew I had made a mistake. Dogged, I drove around in search of the nameless vet of which I had no address, my exhausted child nodding off next to me, our pirate-eyed sick cat in the back, all to no avail. It was done. I was done. We returned home from our wild goose chase, having accomplished nothing -- but God had taught me much.

In my stubbornness I thought I could see clearly, but, really, I couldn’t see at all. David was right. I was wrong. And the cat? He is just fine.

“Wives, submit to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord.” Col. 3:18 (ESV)

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The author welcomes Constructive Red Ink Critiques.

The Final Salute

The following article originally appeared at FaithWriters.com, First Place Advanced category winner, and Quarterly Challenge winner, and can be viewed at:  https://www.faithwriters.com/wc-article-level2-previous.php?id=57831


It was the coldest day in California in over a hundred years, numbing cold and wind-driven rain, buckets of it, coming down in a steady torrent over the Golden State. I can’t recall a single word that was spoken among us during the two-hour long drive to the cemetery that gray December morning. All I remember is the rain.

It was raining so hard, in fact, that the National Cemetery called the mortuary to confirm that we were coming. It was understandable. My father was to have a military funeral with full honors. I had never heard of postponing a funeral, but how I wish I could have postponed his passing. The heavy, unyielding rain was my voice, speaking to the world, not in words but in metaphor, declaring my grief. I would have resented the sun had it decided to shine that day.

We entered the iron gates of the cemetery, following behind the white hearse making its slow, ceremonious advance to the committal shelter where my father’s service would be performed. The expansive grounds of this sacred place spread out before us, around us, and then behind us as we traveled further and further away from the gate, a single path now branching out into a network of arteries revealing a sea of flush grave markers. 

Our caravan continued on, up and over the gentle sloping hills of the memorial park. I did not expect to see him there, the lone soldier standing off in the distance ahead of our caravan. Stationed on a hill, he stood facing in the direction of the hearse carrying my father’s casket. The scene took my breath away. Stoic, he stood, his right hand held at his forehead in a firm salute. He was soaking wet from head to toe, unprotected by the relentless rain. His gaze locked resolutely on his subject, he pivoted on his heel quarter turn by quarter turn, following the path of the decorated World War II veteran deserving of his respect. I looked back at him as our car passed over the hill from where he stood, his presence electric, saying so much more than words ever could, bound by honor. 

The Honor Guard stood at the ready as we gathered, only four in number, under the committal shelter. 
The gentleman, who I supposed to be the senior person in the Honor Guard, an army veteran, expressed his condolences. The signal was given for the 3-gun salute. The first volley of rifle fire rang out into the frigid, misty air. Duty. Then the second. Honor. And the last. Country. I sat on the hard, cement bench, looking down at my hands, the gloves I had on of little warmth. The cold in my bones could not equal what was in my heart. Joining in with the even pounding of rainfall, the lonely yet comforting sound of “Taps” filled the air, punctuating the somber occasion. 

The two-man Honor Guard removed the American flag that was draped over my father’s powder blue casket, folding it meticulously into a triangle, the three spent shell casings reverently tucked into the thirteenth and final fold. The man turned to face me, his charcoal-grey overcoat covered in beadlets of rain, his cap protected by a clear plastic bonnet. He, too, appeared unfazed by Mother Nature, motivated solely by a right sense of duty. With white-gloved hands, he presented me with my father’s flag on behalf of a grateful Nation. 

The service over, I walked out into the misty cold. I picked up a red carnation that laid on the ground and held it as I watched them return my father’s casket to the hearse. This was the final goodbye that I was not prepared for. The caretaker, a tall, strong-looking man, turned around to face me as he closed the rear doors of the hearse. He didn’t say a word. He nodded once, a silent assurance. I turned and walked away. 

And with that, the promises of Scripture assuaged my broken heart, a balm of Gilead: “Awake, you who sleep, arise from the dead, and Christ will give you light.” Eph. 5:14 (NKJV)