On bitterly cold mornings like we had today, I ask myself, Why, again, are you raising chickens?
Don’t get me wrong. I love my chickens. I love fresh eggs. But on some days, I don’t love heading out in the cold to feed and water them, gather their eggs, and tidy their coop. This morning, my nose hairs froze as soon as I headed out the door, wearing my knee high muck boots to stay above the snow drifts, my YakTrax to keep from sliding down the ice-packed hill, and my warmest coat, hat and gloves. The cold air certainly wakes me up in the morning… but that’s not why I raise chickens.
I noticed the beauty of the sun just peeking up over ridge to the southeast. It made the crust of ice from Tuesday’s freezing rain glisten on top of the snow. And some evenings, as I’m walking down to close up the chicken coop, I pause and look up at the billions of stars that seem to cut through the night sky. It’s so dark around my house, you can’t help but be a little awed at the beauty… but that’s not why I raise chickens either.
The chickens hear the back door to the house close behind me, and start squawking. They can also hear me walking down the hill to their coop, and their squawking gets louder. Our little silky rooster crows twice to make sure all the hens are ready. They know that when I open that door, I’ll be bringing food. Those chickens are totally dependent on my daily attention for their survival. And, as my kids have gotten older, I’ve noticed they are less and less dependent on me. Sure, they need a ride to practice, to youth group, and to school, and they need me to buy them groceries. But they don’t depend on me for their basic daily care anymore. It’s nice to know you’re needed, even by chickens… but, again, that’s not why I raise chickens.
I fed the chickens—three scoops of layer crumbles and two of cracked corn—and then tidied up their nesting boxes, closed the door to their coop and turned to head back up the hill, and that’s when I remembered why I raise chickens. I saw it in the single path, beaten into two months of snow: discipline.
When I was in college, I noticed there were two particular sorts of people—among my classmates—that I admired more than anyone else. The first, was music majors. I have no rhythm. And in spite of my brief career in the sixth grade show choir, I can’t sing. But music majors had more than vocal or musical talent. They had discipline. When the rest of us were finding ways to kill time after classes, they were locked in a practice room, playing the same scales, and the same songs over and over again. And, while practice may not really make perfect, it sure goes a long way.
The other type, was farmers… or the kids of farmers. They grew up knowing that if they didn’t feed and water the animals, if they didn’t milk the cows, if they didn’t plant the crops, or bring them in… no one would. They got up early, worked hard, and went to bed early. You could see the discipline in their hands and on their boots.
And beyond that, I saw that same discipline spill over into their studies and their spiritual lives. The same skills they had learned in the practice room and on the farm, were the very things that caused them to go back to God’s word every day. They were the same things that kept them from procrastination. They were the things I saw in their character that I longed to exhibit too.
But, as I said, I’m no musician. And I didn’t grow up on a farm. But I recognized several years ago that I needed to learn discipline, not from a book or a class, but from having to do something—the same something—every day, whether I wanted to or not… and that’s why I raise chickens.
