choosing and the red hen
When I was a little girl my mother told us a Sunday school story which has always stuck with me. I can see the picture pages that showed the story one drawing at a time. The story was about a little red hen and her chicks.
They lived on the prairie with the farmer who cared for them. Each day the hen would cluck for the chicks when it was time to go to sleep. "here, here, come here, time for safety, time for sleep".
Each day the chicks would huddle under her wings safe from the dangers that were a part of their lives.
One of the chicks tended to delay, wanting to decide for himself when to go to bed, when to listen to his mom, when to bother to go back to mom instead of staying and playing at whatever game he was playing.
On Tuesday mother hen told him " hurry, hurry, night is coming, come now".
On Wednesday she said "quick, quick, danger lurks, come now, come now".
On Saturday she told the chick "I worry, I want you safe, hurry home, come be safe".
On Monday the sun blazed down on the prairies,
On Tuesday the heat rose,
On Wednesday the heat got worse and worse.
Thursday came and with it came the fire.
Spreading so quickly the farmer was unsure if he could save his home much less his farm, his crop, his stock. Mother hen saw the flames, felt the heat, called the chicks "come, come, come to safety". She clucked, she squaked, she flapped her wings wide, wide, wide. "Quick, quick, hurry, hurry, faster, faster, come my chicks come." But the one chick, the stubborn chick, the one who would decide his own fate, would know what was best for himself, the one who did not want to do what his mamma said, he - foolish chick - said "I have time, I know best, the bright red flames are pretty, the heat is warming, the worms are tasty, I will go to momma when I decide best". Momma clucked, momma squawked, momma urged him to "hurry, hurry", but did he listen? did he heed? No. Then the flames blew with the prairie wind, swirling and sliding around the grasses, eating the barn with a "whoosh", consuming the house with a "swoosh". Now the chick realized he was in danger, now he knew he must flee the heat, run to momma, hurry to safety. But, as it sometimes can be when we decide what's best instead of listening to the wisdom of our elders - it was too late.
The next morning when the farmer was looking out over his farm, sadly wiping the tears from his smoke stained face he saw a small bump on the ground near where the chicken coop had stood. He approached the scorched, burned bundle and scuffed it with his boot, curious as to what this mis-shaped lump was or had been.
All of a sudden the farmer jumped back and started to laugh. For out from under momma hen, who had given her life for them, came chicks cheeping, cheeping, cheeping.
All but one, one who wouldn't come, wouldn't hurry, wouldn't listen to his momma hen calling him to safety.
Ok, I ramped up the descriptions but this is how my mind remembers the story.
Full of momma calling to safety, choices made both good and bad, decisions with cost and consequence clearly expressed with life or death results.
It was brought to my mind tonight after my youngest son (stationed overseas in the military) called to say he would be home tomorrow. He is home because Grandpa died.
So, choices,
some leading home (brother comes in next week)(sister in a day or two) others who keep families divided by distance, divorce, disagreements. See, my dad chose; he chose to remain in California when his girls were moved to the Pacific Northwest by mom. He chose to stay in the society of new age gurus instead of staying true to his Christian upbringing. He decided he would rather be with his companion than move near his grown daughters and their children. He chose spending his time and energy with strangers instead of on his family. He chose. He chose the path of least resistance, the walk that would keep him going in the circles he had walked for years, the path of loneliness. He died alone among strangers.
He did return to Christ before his death. For that I am grateful. But I am so sad that for his entire adult life he chose to keep us at a distance, to not engage in our lives for more than a week at a time. Always speaking of "someday", "soon", "I want to ...but I need to .... first" "I'll move soon, I'm looking forward to being near all of you, being a part of your lives".
Soon, always, someday.
I always wished he had made different choices, wished he had moved sooner rather than not, wished he had always been there in our lives, daily a part of lives.
He chose and the choices he made always remind me of my red hen's little chick,
choosing, choosing,
too late choosing.
Choices.
They lived on the prairie with the farmer who cared for them. Each day the hen would cluck for the chicks when it was time to go to sleep. "here, here, come here, time for safety, time for sleep".
Each day the chicks would huddle under her wings safe from the dangers that were a part of their lives.
One of the chicks tended to delay, wanting to decide for himself when to go to bed, when to listen to his mom, when to bother to go back to mom instead of staying and playing at whatever game he was playing.
On Tuesday mother hen told him " hurry, hurry, night is coming, come now".
On Wednesday she said "quick, quick, danger lurks, come now, come now".
On Saturday she told the chick "I worry, I want you safe, hurry home, come be safe".
On Monday the sun blazed down on the prairies,
On Tuesday the heat rose,
On Wednesday the heat got worse and worse.
Thursday came and with it came the fire.
Spreading so quickly the farmer was unsure if he could save his home much less his farm, his crop, his stock. Mother hen saw the flames, felt the heat, called the chicks "come, come, come to safety". She clucked, she squaked, she flapped her wings wide, wide, wide. "Quick, quick, hurry, hurry, faster, faster, come my chicks come." But the one chick, the stubborn chick, the one who would decide his own fate, would know what was best for himself, the one who did not want to do what his mamma said, he - foolish chick - said "I have time, I know best, the bright red flames are pretty, the heat is warming, the worms are tasty, I will go to momma when I decide best". Momma clucked, momma squawked, momma urged him to "hurry, hurry", but did he listen? did he heed? No. Then the flames blew with the prairie wind, swirling and sliding around the grasses, eating the barn with a "whoosh", consuming the house with a "swoosh". Now the chick realized he was in danger, now he knew he must flee the heat, run to momma, hurry to safety. But, as it sometimes can be when we decide what's best instead of listening to the wisdom of our elders - it was too late.
The next morning when the farmer was looking out over his farm, sadly wiping the tears from his smoke stained face he saw a small bump on the ground near where the chicken coop had stood. He approached the scorched, burned bundle and scuffed it with his boot, curious as to what this mis-shaped lump was or had been.
All of a sudden the farmer jumped back and started to laugh. For out from under momma hen, who had given her life for them, came chicks cheeping, cheeping, cheeping.
All but one, one who wouldn't come, wouldn't hurry, wouldn't listen to his momma hen calling him to safety.
Ok, I ramped up the descriptions but this is how my mind remembers the story.
Full of momma calling to safety, choices made both good and bad, decisions with cost and consequence clearly expressed with life or death results.
It was brought to my mind tonight after my youngest son (stationed overseas in the military) called to say he would be home tomorrow. He is home because Grandpa died.
So, choices,
some leading home (brother comes in next week)(sister in a day or two) others who keep families divided by distance, divorce, disagreements. See, my dad chose; he chose to remain in California when his girls were moved to the Pacific Northwest by mom. He chose to stay in the society of new age gurus instead of staying true to his Christian upbringing. He decided he would rather be with his companion than move near his grown daughters and their children. He chose spending his time and energy with strangers instead of on his family. He chose. He chose the path of least resistance, the walk that would keep him going in the circles he had walked for years, the path of loneliness. He died alone among strangers.
He did return to Christ before his death. For that I am grateful. But I am so sad that for his entire adult life he chose to keep us at a distance, to not engage in our lives for more than a week at a time. Always speaking of "someday", "soon", "I want to ...but I need to .... first" "I'll move soon, I'm looking forward to being near all of you, being a part of your lives".
Soon, always, someday.
I always wished he had made different choices, wished he had moved sooner rather than not, wished he had always been there in our lives, daily a part of lives.
He chose and the choices he made always remind me of my red hen's little chick,
choosing, choosing,
too late choosing.
Choices.
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