The frailty of life

 

So you want to raise baby chicks, do you? Those cute little, adorable, fluffy balls who are peeping in the feed store are so irresistible.  Yeah, I get that. So this year I decided to raise baby chickens, partly out of a need to have something to do and something living to raise, and partly as a bonding and fun experience to have with my grandchildren, especially the three that normally reside in India. I conducted exhaustive research, reading books and  blogs,  watching YouTube videos, and asking questions on local FaceBook chicken groups. I knew Mandy and Brian and the girls were arriving in mid March, so I checked out local places to buy baby chicks, deciding on an area urban farm where we could select different breeds of chicks instead of having to purchase a minimum of six of one breed at the feed store. This allowed the kids to pick out their own little chick, as well as select ones for their cousins who couldn’t be here. I made all the preparations for the new arrivals, converting an old Rubbermaid tub from Goodwill into a brooder; hubby constructed the lid out of scrap wood and some hardware mesh. A chick starter kit (heat lamp, plus water and food dispensers) completed the nursery preparations; we were ready to welcome the babies! 

Lydia and Petunia

When the grandkids arrived Wednesday afternoon, we planned an expedition for the next day to buy baby chicks (read that phrase in high pitched, squealing, excited voices of three little girls); their parents wouldn’t be able to go with us, as they would be otherwise engaged attending a 3-hour Zoom conference. Thursday after lunch, PopPop, three very excited little girls, and I hopped into the van, and off we went on our adventure, stopping first at Tractor Supply to purchase chick starter and some pine bedding. Thirty minutes later, we arrived at the farm, where the owner ushered us into the chicken nursery, a converted garage filled with at least ten large brooders, each one containing 10-25 baby chicks. Anyone who has ever been thrilled and mesmerized by a tub full of fluffy, peeping, adorable baby chicks knows how we felt; the kids (and I) were in baby chick heaven. We opened tub after tub after tub, each of us selecting precious little fluff balls and naming them on the spot. Aside from Molly getting scratched by a farm kitten who just wouldn’t let go of her neck, nothing marred the experience, and we left with a box of seven baby chicks. The cherry on top was a pitstop at Pelican’s Snowballs for a delightful afternoon treat. 

Isabella and Pearl

The drive home was peppered with constant questions as to the health of the chicks, with the girls begging to take out the chicks and hold them “because they are lonely.” Once we arrived back home, the chicks were introduced into their new home, each one having its little beak dipped in the water bowl to encourage it to rehydrate. The rest of the day was filled with all of us (adults included) making frequent trips to stand over the brooder and watch the chicks eat, play, and run around, and of course the inevitable pleas from their human mamas to “please can we hold them, please please please?” We all laughed at the antics; a couple of them like to sleep in the food dish as if they are worried about losing their place in line at the food buffet, some unceremoniously walking over sleeping brood-mates, and all of them producing a prodigious amount of poop. Five  of the chicks received names: Petunia (Lydia), Clutch (Molly),  Pearl (Isabella), Buttercup (Sophie), and Creamsicle (Pop Pop). Chicken lovers know they are quite addictive to watch; the chicks monopolized a lot of our attention, but we eventually all went to sleep that first night praying for a good, safe night for our new little flock. 

The next morning, it was obvious Pearl was not faring well—she was listless and not eating or drinking, and despite our efforts, she was our first casualty. Isabella held little Pearl, and nonplussed by her chick’s pending demise, asked if she could just adopt Creamsicle instead in typical Isa fashion. They held a little funeral, singing hymns, and we buried her right next to the resting place of our family dogs. I think I felt worse than the kids did, so I drove back to the farm and got her a replacement Pearl. All was well, we were back to seven fluff balls, and the grandkids left for a two day visit with some nearby friends, admonishing me as they left to take good care of the chicks while they were gone (they were coming back Sunday for a two day stopover on their way back to Atlanta). So, Friday evening found me checking each one for pasty butt, cleaning the ones afflicted, and fussing over one of them in particular: little Petunia was looking very lethargic and listless, so I hand fed her some electrolytes and hovered over the brooder until I was too tired to stay up any longer.  All to no avail, because the next morning, she was gone.  I was heartbroken, even more so because I’d have to break the news to Lydia.  

Molly and Clutch

So, I bought 7 chicks on Thursday.  I’ve replaced one, and am seriously contemplating a trip to replace Petunia. I’m doing everything I can—electrolytes, food, heat, checking their butts,  etc, and I’m at a loss as to what to do next.  I’ve never raised baby chicks before and I feel silly for sitting here crying over dead baby chicks. Sure I know loss is to be expected with little fluffy babies less than 2 weeks old but to lose two of seven is heartbreaking, especially because those two were handpicked and named by two of the granddaughters. So I’m worrying over them like a mother hen (now I know where that phrase comes from) and feeling helpless. I have to fight the urge to constantly stand over the brooder,  and trust that I am doing everything I can to keep them warm, fed, watered and safe. When one of them looks weak, or isn’t at the feeding bowl with the rest of them, my first desire is to pick it up and hold it and nurse it with a medicine dropper. I fret that it may be too warm or too cold or the food is too hard or the chicks are too little. I keep going to backyard chicken blogs and YouTube to glean more advice, hoping to find the magic bullet. I wonder if  the coop I have ready for them outside will be safe enough or big enough. What about raccoons and foxes and possums? How do I ensure these little ones will survive in here, let alone outside? Should I get a guinea hen or a rooster to keep them safe and warn them about predators? So many questions, so many factors over which I have little to no control. 

Like life.

How easily I slip back into old habits, the illusion that I am in control, that I can know all and fix all. And how quickly I forget who truly holds the reins, and who is the creator and who is the created.  

Raising baby chicks will humble you in a heartbeat, and remind you very quickly how fragile and fleeting and precious and exhilarating life truly is. 

"How many are your works, Lord! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures. There is the sea, vast and spacious, teeming with creatures beyond number – living things both large and small." (Psalm 104:24-25)

Desperate Evangelist

Have you ever learned something so amazing, or heard news that so radically changes your life forever, that you just HAVE to tell everyone you love? Or gone to a restaurant and ordered something that, when you get it, is so mouthwateringly delicious, so fantastic, you just have to share it, and you are practically trying to force a forkful of whatever it is into your friend’s mouth? But then no one wants to hear the great news, because they would rather talk about what is important to them. The delectable treat you want to share? Refused, oftentimes by pushing your hand away, with the person mumbling, “thanks, but I’ll just take your word for it.” But you stubbornly persist, looking for that perfect opening to interject that wonderful nugget of information into the conversation, waiting for exactly the right moment to slip the tasty morsel onto their tongue.  And you dream of the oohs and aahs and the grateful appreciation and accolades you will receive for not giving up, for being so dogged in your pursuit. Dream on, oh impatient one.  Sharing the gospel and my faith with my non-believing family and friends is a challenge, to put it mildly, only made worse by my lack of finesse. (That’s a nice way of saying I’m rude.) So intent am I on getting MY point across and proving I’m right, I forget all my listening skills and social decorum, and monopolize the conversation, even interrupting others when they try to make their point. Needless to say, I am not very effective. 

Why? Because I forget the basic tenets of sharing Jesus—do everything in love, be kind, pray, and most importantly, let God do the heavy lifting.  I forget I’m planting seeds, not whole trees. Instead of asking what the other person feels (and then actually pausing to hear the answer), I turn into Mrs Buttinski. Throwing all decorum to the winds, I run in like a bull in a china shop, and bash them over the head with my Bible. 

Funny thing is that approach didn’t work with me—in fact it drove a wedge between me and my faith for twenty years; what brought me back was love and understanding and a dose of suffering that knocked me to my knees.  And now that I’ve finally realized I DO need God, that I cannot do anything on my own, I want to share my joy with those I love; it’s  only natural. I love them. I want them to know what I know, to feel what I feel, and most of all I want them to avoid the pitfalls, false steps, and sorrow my stubbornness caused.  And that’s how my pride trips me up: I cannot make a seed grow, I can only plant it and water it in a heart made soft and ready by the Holy Spirit.  All the bashing and blustering and pushing in the world won’t do a thing until that happens.  

Love, kindness, patience, and prayer. Most of all...prayer

"So faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of Christ"

Romans 10:17

Wolves in Sheep's Clothing

“Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves." (Matthew 7:15)

Ravi Zacharias has now joined the ranks of such Christian leaders as Jim Bakker, Ted Haggard, Jimmy Swaggart, Bill Gothard, and countless Catholic priests, and not for the souls he may have brought to Christ. Instead, Mr Zacharias perpetrated gross deeds of sexual abuse, manipulation, financial bribery, and debauchery over a period of at least 15 years...and he did so while writing and publishing 89 books, speaking at countless conferences, churches, and seminaries, and becoming one of the most articulate apologists of our time. Millions of people around the world followed his ministry, Christians and non-Christians alike, especially on the subject of apologetics, of which he was arguably one of the best. For those of you not sure of what an apologist is, an apologist defends Christianity and demonstrates the error of non-Christian religions, using logic, evidence, and examination in the support and defense of the Bible and what it teaches. Apologists usually know their Christian doctrine very well. Unfortunately, knowing doctrine does not ensure the person practices that same doctrine. Obviously, Ravi Zacharias was not only a skilled apologist, but also a practiced liar and a deceiver on a grand scale, hiding his sins in plain sight from his staff, his family, and his ministry. 

I am always shocked when famous religious leaders so publicly fall from grace, but this one was a sucker punch to the gut. I had only recently "discovered" Ravi, and was duly impressed and encouraged listening to his lectures and arguments, and used them as a basis and rough outline for my fledgling study of apologetics. Even though he died in May 2020, his teachings lived on, and I loved sharing his talks, his words, and his ideas. But now, his teachings and, in fact, his entire ministry, are tainted and suspect. How can I, as a believing follower of Jesus Christ, a Christian, promote or support the teachings of one such as this abuser, this deceiver? He took advantage of his position, his authority, his power, and worse yet, twisted Scripture, the unerring Word of a holy God, to obtain personal pleasure and to silence those he was abusing. The answer: I cannot. It sickens me to my very core to even think of reading his books or following his talks on YouTube, and I wish I could take back every recommendation I made to friends and family to "listen to this."  

Many believers, while shocked at the news, want to dilute the effect, excusing his actions by saying we are all sinners, that we should not judge, that only God knows the state of Ravi's soul. When The Gospel Coalition published a summary of the report, the reactions were all over the board: from disgust, shock, disbelief, denial, and even blaming his sins on the victims, and I would hazard to guess those reactions accurately reflect how all believers will receive the news.  The actions of this one man, in my opinion, have done irreparable harm to the spread of the Gospel, effectively erasing any and all good he accomplished. And while it is true that only God knows the state of Ravi Zacharias' heart, the depths of depravity to which he sank, and the methods of deception he used to hide his sin, indicate to me he was indeed, a wolf in sheep's clothing. For me, Ravi Zacharias is exactly the type of man Peter spoke about when he said:

"But false prophets also arose among the people, just as there will be false teachers among you, who will secretly bring in destructive heresies, even denying the Master who bought them, bringing upon themselves swift destruction...these are waterless springs and mists driven by a storm. For them the gloom of utter darkness has been reserved. For, speaking loud boasts of folly, they entice by sensual passions of the flesh those who are barely escaping from those who live in error. They promise them freedom, but they themselves are slaves of corruption. For whatever overcomes a person, to that he is enslaved. For if, after they have escaped the defilements of the world through the knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, they are again entangled in them and overcome, the last state has become worse for them than the first. For it would have been better for them never to have known the way of righteousness than after knowing it to turn back from the holy commandment delivered to them." 2 Peter 2:1, 17-21

Thank God we have Jesus as our Shepherd to protect us from such wolves, and may we continue to keep our eyes on him, not on man.

Knee jerks

Have you ever looked back on a rough place in life and realized that something you did or neglected to do precipitated that very situation?  That by not stopping and thinking it through, by not praying over a decision, by just reacting emotionally and plowing forward caused an avalanche? Yeah, well I’ve done that quite a few times in my 60 plus years, making knee jerk decisions and reacting emotionally instead of cognitively. It’s not pretty, and it’s quite embarrassing to admit. And when that momentary lapse in judgment snowballs out of control, you can get crushed by the weight of it.  With crystal clarity, I see how a response made in anger, to hurt those who hurt me, precipitated a storm of epic proportions. I knew my defiance would piss them off—I just didn’t know how pissed off they could get. Eighteen months and over fifteen thousand dollars later, I found out. 

Hindsight is always 20/20, and tears of regret could fill an ocean, and this is no exception. And while it was demoralizing to realize I was worth less than a poodle, I can honestly say it was refreshing to finally learn what they really thought of me.  Made letting go that much easier—no pretense or facades to deal with anymore. So, to whom it may concern: I am sorry for not telling you where the dog was. I was angry and sad and felt betrayed so I reacted by refusing, because I knew it would make you all mad. If I’d known that I’d be sued over a dog, I’d have driven you all to his new owner’s house. In a limousine. With champagne. And a marching band. 

Maybe things would have turned out differently.  

But I doubt it.  

In Memoriam

While looking through some old scrapbooks, I came across an "obituary" I wrote in 2002, after my two teenage daughters had pretty much destroyed my 1991 Dodge Dynasty, a car we had named Trishie. Great memories. 

Well, folks, we knew her days were numbered. We loved her even though many made fun of her--her multi-colored body (blue and burgundy and gold), her taped down airbag stuffed unceremoniously back into the steering column and secured with red duct tape, her passenger  side mirror barely hanging on, also secured with red duct tape. We got a lot of mileage out of the old gal, and laughed at the band stickers on the back window (and wondered how in the world did Becky ever see out of that window!). And yes, we know the CD player was well worth more than the car itself.

Trishie the Hoopdie has been through a lot (two teenage girls); she does not have a body panel on her that is not dented or scratched, except possibly the trunk. Her tires are bald, the doors don't shut all the way (free air conditioning), and the windshield wipers only work if you turn the knob just right. To unlock the door you have to click the unlock button seven times (six won't do it). And the airbag light is on constantly, since it was deployed a year ago and just rudely stuffed back into the steering well. She has been driven without oil, without radiator fluid, on flat tires, and with fumes for gas. Yet she very seldom complained. She has been through major surgery too many times to count: at least three transmissions, countless tires, and possibly a million quarts of oil.

On Thursday, January 17, 2002, at approximately 3:40 pm, Trishie passed away. She got her owner all the way from Columbia, SC, to the intersection of US 378 and SC 261; smoking from the front and rear, leaking oil for half a mile, she coughed, threw a rod, and breathed her last. We towed her gently to a mechanic, but he could not revive her; he is only human, you know. So, we will be laying her to rest in a local junkyard. Minus that rear windshield: Becky is keeping that as a souvenir and keepsake

Trishie is survived by her two mommies, Becky and Mandy, her grandparents, Alex and Barbara, and numerous friends and ride-moochers. She will be missed by all. A memorial service will be held at the Ritchey home on Monday, January 21st. The family asks you do not send flowers; a simple donation to Becky's "I need a new car now!" fund will suffice.

How will all Becky's friends get around now? And how will she survive without her Trishie?

Very sad indeed

Putting it out there

Over the past 11 years, I have shared my joys and sorrows and disappointments on this blog. Actually, this endeavor began as three separate blogs: Nana's Nook, dedicated to my experiences as a grandmother; Faith, Grace, and Fibromyalgia, an exercise in finding God through my struggle with chronic pain; and Growing in Grace, an introspective self-study into Romans 8:28. I have entertained and amused with photos and anecdotes of my grandchildren, and shared the pride of accomplishment I feel as a parent of three beautiful daughters. Every significant life event (and some not so significant)--births, deaths, illness, birthdays, vacations, elections--has merited space here. Most of all, though, I have chronicled the journey I am on as I undergo trials, tribulations, and sanctification. Through it all, I have bared my soul and shared my deepest fears. This process has truly been a catharsis. 

My intention was never to glorify or call attention to myself, nor was it to vilify or judge or shame anyone. What began as a tongue-in-cheek way to highlight my own shortcomings and faults evolved into its present form: an online journal of my innermost thoughts, and a way to work out my salvation with fear and trembling. Sure I could have merely journaled these events in a diary or a personal journal and not have posted it online, but the very act of putting myself out there, naked and afraid, for anyone to see, is what has made this blog authentic. I admit, on a few occasions, it has been a way to vent, to answer unfounded rumors and false accusations, saying what I never had the chance to say, but that was few and far between. Writing, telling my story, is how I stay sane.

Numerous acquaintances, friends, and even strangers have told me my posts have touched their hearts, reassured them, and strengthened their faith in God. That means so much to me, that I could highlight in a very concrete, public, and, at times, disconcerting way the impact God's marvelous grace has had on my life, and make a difference in someone's life. Despite how undeserving I am of God's forgiveness, He continues to bless me and challenge me to become what He has planned for me, and to submit to His will. Looking back over the 286 posts to date, I see in black and white how much I have grown, how much my faith and understanding have matured over the years, and how I have come to grips with who I was, who I am now, and how I got here. Experiences that at the time seemed totally devastating, leaving me spent and gasping for air, not only no longer have that power, they actually point out where God was working in my life. Always teaching, the Spirit is there, urging me on, comforting me, encouraging me, uncovering my innermost self. This endeavor has motivated me to continue to discover myself, to persist in uncovering God's fingerprints on my life. It is not always pretty, or fair, or palatable, but it is, at its very core, me. And God is obviously not finished with me yet. He continues to confront me with my sins and convict me without condemnation, teaching me, leading me, guiding me (isn’t that a song?). Every time I try to go it alone, to control my life, He allows me to wander, until I cry out for Him to come find me. And while I persist in this futile behavior, those occurrences are fewer and farther between. Thank God for that!

As long as I am on this earth, I will continue to reach back, to make some sense of my life: the heartbreaks, the victories, the struggles, and the achievements, all the moments and minutia of my life that made me who I am today. Then, as I am a work in progress, a new creation, I will take all those events and bump them up against who God says I am, and measure my worth against His Word, throwing out all the chaff and debris. My writings are not self-serving, or vindictive; they are leadings by the Holy Spirit, and how God shows me how He is working in my life. By exposing sin in my own life and heart, and sharing that with others, God can touch their hearts, and if it upsets them, perhaps there is some truth pricking at their conscience. 

Perhaps Anne Lamott says it best:

Epiphany

No Christmas nativity scene is complete without the figures of the Magi. When I was growing up, we celebrated the 6th of January as Epiphany; it marked the 12th day of the Christmas season, a time when we'd bring out the three wise men, or the Magi, and their camels, and place them around our family creche. When I was younger, I did not really ascribe much meaning to the presence of the wise men, or to Epiphany for that matter, other than it marked the official end of the Christmas season: the tree and all the trimmings would be put away for another year, and school would start back up the following Monday. As I matured, though, I learned the significance of these few verses was much more important: the manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles. Epiphany.

For those of you not familiar with the the Bible, the story is recounted in the gospel of Matthew; several Magi came from the east to worship the newborn King of the Jews, bringing him gifts. Along the way, they stopped off at the palace of King Herod (who had been appointed the earthly "King of the Jews" by his Roman superiors) and inquired where the new King of the Jews could be found. Understandably, King Herod was not too happy about this potential usurper to his throne, and later on Matthew tells how Herod tried to ensure his throne was secure by ordering the death of all little boys under the age of two. Pretty traumatic story, one that always made me shudder at the horrific, senseless brutality of it all. Epiphany.

Over the past two weeks, I often wondered about how odd it was that the Congressional certification of the election results coincided with Epiphany. I had never paid any attention to that ritual, let alone what date it occurred on, but this year was different (shocker...something else different and weird to happen this year). I watched with some trepidation, but mostly bemusement, at all the rumblings of a pending march on Washington, encouraged (some say incited) by our current President via Twitter, ultra-conservative news outlets, and (anti) social media outlets. To many Americans, albeit not a majority, January 6 represented their last chance to express protest of the results of the November election; the movement took on a life of its own, and hundreds of thousands of American citizens organized a march on the nation's capital. I figured it would be a repeat of the Jericho March a few weeks earlier, and that it would garner some airtime and some attention, but that it would be mostly harmless. Boy was I wrong. Epiphany.

Today I watched, for the first time in my life, the airing of the actual certification of the Electoral College votes--a tradition that goes back 232 years. My husband and I watched as Vice President Pence began the session in the House Chambers, calling on the states to announce whom their electoral votes supported, votes VP Pence would then confirm. First, Alaska announced their awarding of three votes for the Trump/Pence ticket, and Pence, after ensuring there were no objections, confirmed that announcement, and told the clerk to record it. I commented to my husband how neat it was that we were watching this process, something we had never before seen. Next, Arizona, and I again watched as the state elector announced their votes, this time for Biden/Harris, and VP Pence asked if there were any objections. This time, a Congressman objected, backed up by Senator Cruz, and officially objected to those votes, thus stopping the entire process. It was truly interesting to hear the explanation of the process, and what would happen next. Epiphany. 

No one, though, seemed prepared for what happened next (although they should have been). A peaceful march of citizens disillusioned with the outcome of the election, waving flags and wearing MAGA gear, was first just something interesting to watch, but the media was intent on making it into more than it was, using words like "riot" and "takeover" and "insurrection." According to them, the protest somehow morphed from a peaceful protest and expression of first amendment rights to a threatening storming and potential takeover of the US Capitol. What I saw? People marching peacefully, standing on the steps of the capital next to capitol policeman, waving flags, not guns, until I spied a few protesters in riot gear and camouflage and helmets breaking windows to get into the building. I almost thought they were part of the police force. Everywhere it appeared to be peaceful; folks actually in attendance were posting and tweeting their confusion over the media misrepresentation. Epiphany.

Soon, members of Congress were unceremoniously whisked away via underground tunnels and buses. The electoral confirmation was immediately halted. The DC mayor implemented a 6 pm curfew. The FBI and the National Guard were activated. Accusations were flying from both sides, and all the major media channels feigned surprise at an event that had been promised for weeks. The same media that quietly stood by and practically condoned the violence of last summer, excusing burning buildings and destroyed property and injuries and deaths and calling it all peaceful protest now called the gathering in DC a mob, a riot, an abomination, an insurrection. We turned off the TV, realizing there was no unbiased, objective reporting to be seen. Epiphany.

As I was eating dinner, I began to cry. I tried to not focus on what had transpired, the implication of what I had seen. I tried to believe in the goodness of people, that truth would win out, that all this would just be another expression of freedom of speech, and that voices would be heard, even if the outcome of the election was not changed. But it felt hopeless, and suddenly became clear to me what was happening. Truth was twisted, voices were silenced, drowned out by the echo chambers of reporters and the internet.  I cannot prove it. I am not even sure what happened. Other than, yet again, millions have been manipulated to believe what the world wants them to believe, to see what they want them to see. And all the protesting or trying to convince folks otherwise, is pointless. Epiphany.

I don't know what happened today, but intuitively I know it is not what the news reporters and social media would have you believe.  And no, I am not spouting some ill-founded conspiracy theory. Nor do I believe President Trump is blameless and innocent of manipulation. However, I do not trust the narrative being hawked by glib, well-dressed, talking heads posing as journalists. Today, Americans tried to express their support of their candidate, peacefully, and somehow that protest was hijacked by forces wanting to discredit everyone who refuses to subscribe to the secular rhetoric of a nation bent on socialism. But I guess that's what happens when  we make gods of money and power and fame, when we put self before others, when  we put our trust in earthly leaders instead of Christ, and when we worship the creation instead of the Creator. Epiphany.