For the Love: Fighting for Grace in a World of Impossible Standards

by Jen Hatmaker

Conclusion I may have mentioned we have chickens. We moved into our old farmhouse, cleaned out the coop, and now we are Chicken People. (Memo to potential Chicken People: Various predators like to kill chickens, which are not smart enough to get away; so it is advisable not to treat them like pets by, say, naming them McNugget and Teriyaki and Barack O’Brahma like some Chicken People who assumed their chickens would live forever. As my son Ben said, “In Ethiopia, we don’t cry over chickens.” Duly noted.) Chickens are so funny, you guys. We open the coop door every morning and they sprint out like Flo-Jo. We let them free range all day long, and each one has her own ideas. We have three rogue chickens that squeeze through our gate every day and loiter in our neighbors’ yards. They have wanderlust, apparently. They will waddle their weird little bodies a block away, because I guess their fallen sisters weren’t a cautionary tale against predators. Others stick to the same exact pecking path in our yard. We have a whole acre but they keep to the fence line on the south side. One chicken is constantly on top of our cars, outdoor table, refrigerator, and trampoline. Our yard is her Everest. But no matter where they wander during the day, as soon as the sun starts setting, there they are, all ten of them, back in the coop roosting on their perch, packed tightly together like brave little Chicken Sisters. The day’s adventures are done and they are home for the night, snuggled in w...