Our Faithful Flock

  It’s been sweltering here in Oklahoma, with days so hot the air feels heavy and still. And in the middle of it all, I find myself constantly watching my chickens. In the backyard chicken groups I follow, post after post tells of birds lost to the heat. There’s a flurry of advice: put out sprinklers, offer pans of ice water with bricks to perch on, give frozen treats like watermelon, keep fans running day and night. We’ve tried so many of those things. And while they help, I still found myself obsessively checking the cameras—seeing their beaks open, wings spread, panting to cool down. I could tell they were hot. I could tell I was stressed. The worry started to seep into everything. I wasn’t sleeping. I’d wake up at night, heart heavy with concern over these little creatures that God placed in our care. Then one night, I felt a quiet nudge in my heart. The Lord whispered, “Can you not trust Me with the chickens I gave you?” It stopped me in my tracks. And I realized, yes,...

  What a sluggish starter taught me about patience, persistence, and seeing God’s lessons in the little things. ⸻ Home-from-Vacation Excitement… and a Flat Starter Yesterday I could practically smell the fresh-baked loaves as I unpacked. My sourdough starter—normally a bubbly, faithful friend—had been resting in the fridge for a couple of weeks while we traveled. No problem, I thought. A couple of feedings and we’ll be back in business. Except… nothing happened. Feed #1: no rise. Feed #2: a faint puff, then deflation. Feed #3 and #4: still a lifeless puddle. Disappointment began creeping in. Starting over felt like losing a little piece of homestead history. ⸻ A Curious Tip from ChatGPT Desperate, I asked ChatGPT for help. The suggestion?  Swap the water for pineapple juice  during the next feeding. The gentle acidity can neutralize excess sourness and give the yeast and bacteria a balanced environment to wake up. I mixed in the juice, stirred, covered, and waited—again. ...

  I’m tucked into a lawn chair beside our little koi pond, the fountain burbling in gentle contrast to a chorus of birds overhead. Six backyard hens dart for cover every time a plane flies overhead , then emerge moments later to peck and scratch beneath the tomato buckets. Their antics make me smile; their simple world reminds me to breathe. This spring I planted my first “bucket garden”, eighteen 5-gallon pails plus a Berry Barrel with strawberries, raspberries, and blackberries. Honest confession: between Oklahoma’s torrential rains and my own enthusiasm, ChatGPT tells me I may have loved those plants with a bit too much water! Whether the harvest is bumper or bare-bones, the act of tending has already borne fruit in my heart. Contentment looks a lot like dirt streaked hands and chickens roosting in the shade of cucumber vines. We live smack-dab in the middle of a neighborhood, yet our postage stamp slice of creation feels like holy ground. My daughters call barefoot gardening “g...