Losing Wendy

“How can God love people who hurt other people?” Our kids have asked us that question many times over the years.

We’ve answered to the best of our ability.  We try to explain a limitless, perfect God, using our limited, imperfect minds.  We think we’ve said all the right things.  God is God.  God’s love is perfect.  God knows the hearts and minds of all of God’s children.

Still, it has remained one of those theological quagmires.  And ultimately, imbedded somewhere in that question, lies the other quandary.  Why try to be good if God loves you anyway?

Tragedy struck our home last night.  Right in the middle of dinner.

We had gotten six little chicks a few months ago.  The kids named them, and we kept them in a playpen in the garage with a heater going next to them to keep them safe and warm until they were old enough to go outside.  We’d been advised to keep them inside until they stopped “peeping” as this is the sound that drew predators.  And sure enough, on their first outing to the backyard their “peeping” brought several eagles to alight in the surrounding trees within minutes.

A week ago, our chicks moved outside to the coop, and the chicken pen permanently. We’ve had beautiful weather these past couple weeks, and after a couple months in the garage, they seemed excited to move out to the chicken pen.

Just yesterday, I sat out on a feed bucket in their fenced in, hopefully predator-safe, chicken pen visiting with them.  I call them our girls.  As in, “Good morning, Girls.”  While we visited I hand-fed them some carrot peels and shredded cabbage.  When they finished those we hand-fed them dozens of worms which the kids had dug up.  When the worms were gone, a couple of the “girls” took a few pecks at my empty hands. One started pecking at my ankle bracelets.

And just a couple of hours later, during dinner, 13-year-old Emma looked outside in horror and announced, “One of our chickens is dead!”

We all jumped up from the table.  “Are you sure?  How can you tell?”

“Because it’s laying in the middle of the backyard, and there’s feathers everywhere!” she yelled, trying not to cry.

I ran outside in my socks, followed by most of the family.  And there, chewed up and wet with slobber, lay Wendy, our little brown and white chicken.  Dead.

Our three dogs, Walker, Lucy, and Optimus, had been out back while we were eating dinner so they wouldn’t be begging under the table.  We’d gotten Optimus a couple months ago.  She was the fifth puppy born to a Chihuahua next door. When the mother couldn’t nurse her, our kids had started bringing her over to our house to be bottle-fed every day. We eventually told the neighbor that we would take her, and care for her, concerned that otherwise she would die.

As we stood inspecting Wendy’s limp, spitty body, Optimus tore over triumphantly. She looked at us expectantly, hyped up over the kill, with a white chicken feather clinging accusingly to her bottom lip.

The word “pound” was mentioned immediately.  And the “hate” word made an appearance, as well.  We ordered the dogs inside, and slammed the puppy in her kennel.

We told her she was bad.  A bad dog. We hollered it at her, as she cowered in the back of her kennel, clearly not really getting what all the fuss was about.

We were angry.  She was a killer.  A “murderer” as one of the kids labeled her.  We didn’t want anyone in our family who would kill another family member.

Geoff fixed the hole in the chicken fence, which was just big enough for Optimus to have gotten through to drag a chicken out of the safety of her pen.  A couple of the boys dug a small grave.  And a little later, tearfully, we buried Wendy in the part of our yard where several other pets have been buried.

It wasn’t until almost bedtime that I let Optimus out of her kennel.

She crept forward, head down.  Submissive. I knew she didn’t understand what she’d done that was bad.  She had tracked the thing, and had finally figured out how to get it.  She probably didn’t even mean to kill it.  Just wanted to play.

I patted her head and told her I wasn’t mad at her.  I told her that what she did was bad.  She pressed against my legs, nose on my hand.  When I finally picked her up, she snuggled in against me. Still breathless.  Worried probably that somehow this, too, would end. That things weren’t really okay. That we didn’t really still love her.

So this afternoon, I’m back out on my feed bucket sitting in the chicken pen. I had a little chat with the girls. I told them I was sorry for what happened to Wendy, and I know that had probably scared them all.  I shared an apple with them, and let them peck at my ankle bracelets.

Optimus is on a run now, on the other side of the yard.  Because if her instinct is to go after the chickens, then she needs some further restrictions to keep her from getting herself into more trouble.  She seems content over there.

And tonight I’m thinking that I might just have a little better idea of how God can be God.  Bad things happen all the time.  People mess up.  Maybe they just thought they’d play.  Never really meant to hurt anyone.  But someone got hurt, nonetheless.  Or dead.

Maybe I can imagine it, because I’ve lived in the chicken pen.  I’ve been one of the wounded.  Lots of times.  I’ve experienced bad things happening, and still tried to trust in a loving, benevolent God who cares about us.

And I’ve also been the guilty one, hiding in the back of the kennel.  Scared to come out.  Sorry.  Submissive. Though maybe not real clear about what I’d done wrong.  I’ve been the one who was worried that maybe this wasn’t real.  That maybe things weren’t really okay.  And that maybe I wasn’t really still loved.

I can imagine God climbing into the chicken pen and sitting on the feed bucket to have a chat with those who loved the one who was hurt.  Apologizing.  Sharing in our pain.  And sorry for our fear.  Offering an apple, and a compassionate ear.  I know that God.

I can also imagine God coaxing the guilty party out from the back of the kennel later.  Offering forgiveness.  And grace. Not making it all okay.  But loving the guilty one, nonetheless.  Offering a hand, and a pat.  I’ve known that God, too.  I’ve felt that hand.

So that’s some of what I’ve been thinking about tonight.  After losing Wendy.