Resilient

Some days you go along thinking you’ve got this thing, that you are strong and unshakable, and you’ll be alright.  Then a weasel gets into the chicken coop and kills every last chicken.  Every last one.  Two mama hens and their five almost grown chicks. Chickens we (mostly Mae) had been nurturing and loving since spring.   It was Mae’s hen who first went broody, and Mae who steadfastly checked her every day in her special nest box, and Mae who was there the morning they hatched, who came running to the house before breakfast to tell us that two fluffy heads were peeping out from under Pepper’s wing.  Both girls doted on them, checking them countless times through the spring, but it was Mae who would head down to the coop on her own to stroke Pepper and whisper to her “what a good mama” she was.

We found them before the girls and it gave me time to crumple in the barn, sobbing, shaking and swearing.  I know how weasels work, it’s not like they eat what they kill when they get in a coop.  I wanted not to blame the weasel, to feel that it was doing what it evolved to do, but I couldn’t help feeling something dark and ugly and totally senseless had happened.  Seven chickens, left whole but dead, just like that.  The rage and heartbreak gripped me and the tears wouldn’t stop. My mind screamed, “this too?”  I wasn’t sure how I’d walk out of that barn and tell the girls.

But we did, and there were tears, and questions, and anger at the weasel.  And then they made plans to pick flowers and bury the chickens in a special spot in the woods…right after we got back from swimming lessons.  (Seriously, we are going to swimming lessons?  Of course, Mama.)

All day long the tears spilled over for me.  It didn’t take much.  The sadness of the morning hung tight, and fed all my worries and fears.  I kept looking for a place to put it down, to find comfort.

Though the sadness still lingers it’s clear to me where to look for strength.  These two sweet and loving girls, who bravely picked bouquets, asked for a turn with the shovel, gently brushed the dirt back on top and decorated the grave with tenderness and acceptance.  

Mae and I lingered at this special spot in the woods for a little while, she made plans to plant some flowers on top of the grave.  We sat quietly for a little while.  Then she took my hand and said, “let’s go mama, I’m ready to ride my bike”.  

May resilience be what comes of hardship.  For them, for each of us.