Dear Ones

Dear Ones, The three hens pecking away in the front ditch scattered back into the yard as we hurried by on our early morning way to the dentist. The momentary scene transported me back to the time I came to live in the country as a bride, some fifty-three years ago. A homely scene, chickens pecking in the front ditch, yet like so many simple and sensible things, it is a thing of the past, an endangered species of scene, designed to bring on a wave of nostalgia. We have given up buying chicks; of watching them peep their way into poults—and then having to face our own need of execution. We may keep some as hens for their eggs, but mostly this whole exercise was to provide food for the family. These lovely little balls of soft yellow-ness were meant to be killed to become food for our families. But it taught our children about the process of life. On the farm back then, new life was cherished (new-born calves, lambs): it was wealth. But as the animals aged, they became expendable. In the most basic and pragmatic sense, their lives were sacrificed so that we could live. Their very lifeblood was transposed into the lifeblood of the family, and the act of butchering became a sort of ritual. Subtly, this teaching said, we are much the same. Children also were wealth in those days. It meant that before long there would be more hands to do what needed to be done. As long as we kept our vitality as we matured and aged, we contributed to the care of the family, and that was the whole basis of everyday human life. But at some point, we, too, became expendable. Old people moved incessantly into the margins of family life and died. This was the march of human life. And the real issue with human life was/is our sinful tendency to act as if we are at the top, not God….