The chickens and I will become reacquainted this week. Farmer Boy takes care of them when he is here but when he is gone they become my responsibility. I don't really care for chickens.
Their aroma doesn't please me. They peck me when I try to get their eggs. They flap their wings and squawk when I enter the barn to feed them and change their water.
Since the New Year began I've been savoring some words from C.S. Lewis. In a letter in which he paraphrases MacDonald, Lewis says, "It is not being loved but loving which is the high and holy thing."
Those words have roosted in my brain. I find freedom in them. If I release myself from trying to be loved by others, which in the past has taken a lot of my time and effort, I become free to bestow love on others instead. Looking outside of myself versus looking in. Being Christlike, attempting to follow his example of high and holy living.
What has this got to do with chickens? Absolutely nothing.