By Danika Dinsmore
I lived in rural Hawaii for many years, looking after my elderly mother and her property. When COVID hit, all flights to and from my home in Vancouver, Canada, were canceled. I was literally stuck in the middle of the Pacific. But being stuck brought many unexpected silver linings.
Not knowing how long I would be there, and with food prices escalating, I decided to raise some chickens. I put my trigonometry skills to work and built a chicken coop with a friend (also stuck in Hawaii with us). We blasted our tunes, measured everything five times, and taught ourselves to use a circular saw We were immensely proud of ourselves.
I acquired three Australorp chicks and fell in love with them. They’d follow me around, jump into the porch swing with me, and cuddle in my lap as I scratched them behind their combs. Who knew chickens made such great pets?
I tried not to play favorites, but Ruth Birder Hensberg, the large and benevolent alpha chicken, was the most loyal and the best layer. She always came into the coop when it was time for dinner and did not try to sleep in the trees with the wild “jungle fowl.” Her feathers were blue-black, her comb large and bright red.
A few years into my rural Hawaiian residency (Mom terminal and now living in a local care home), I got the chicken owner’s routine down. It got me up early, a blessing when depression and anticipatory grief threatened to keep me in bed all day, and they were a never-ending source of entertainment with individual personalities. I could tell you which egg belonged to which chicken. Ruth’s were the largest.
Chicken cuddling was a source of comfort as I witnessed Mom’s mind and body deteriorating, and I fretted about running out of money for her care home.
One day, the 30th straight day of rain, I got a distressed phone call from my neighbor.
“A dog’s got one of your chickens,” he told me.
My heart jumped, thoughts sped, Which chicken? Where? How?
“Some guy has it,” he said. “They’re halfway down the road. You can probably catch up to them.”
I tore out of the house, already in tears. “Oh no, oh no, oh God, oh no.”
I jumped into my car, peeled down the driveway, opened the gate, and turned up the muddy road. I raced toward two figures in the distance, ignoring the jolts as my car hit each pothole. One of the figures was an older man leading a dog on a rope, and the other a younger homesteader carrying a large, black chicken upside down by the legs. I gasped, horrified and furious.
I pulled up beside them and leaped out of the car. “That’s my chicken!” I shouted to them as the rain streamed down. “That’s my chicken! You’re taking my chicken!”
The younger man handed her over to me, her body limp. “Maybe she’ll be okay?”
I could tell by the way her neck dangled that she was not going to be okay. I cried as I held her to my chest. It was Ruth. She was warm, but unresponsive.
“You killed her!” I cried. “You killed her and took her! Why would you just take her like that!”
The man with the dog turned and started back up the road. The younger man looked apologetically at me and then turned to join him.
“Where are you going!” I screamed at them. “You’re not even going to apologize?! You killed my f***ing chicken and you’re not even going to apologize?!”
Soaking wet, I tearfully climbed back into the car and drove home. I sat on the porch rocking her in my arms until her little heart stopped.
I stayed in bed for most of three days, depressed and angry, replaying the scene over and over in my head, Ruth dangling from the young man’s hand so nonchalantly. Plus, they didn’t even offer to pay for her or buy me another chicken!
I knew I was neglecting Mom, the house, and the other chickens, but I didn’t want to let go of my anger. I wrapped it around me until I grew tired of being so depressed. I decided to get some help.
I began to pray and meditate my way forward. I did my ACIM lessons. I set my timer for hourly reminders. I sang a little song that had come to me:
When I see error
in one of my brothers
It’s only illusion
and a call to heal
Only the love is real
Only the love is real
After a few days of this, I felt an inner shift. Yes, only the love is real. My purpose is to love. My purpose is to give miracles. My purpose is to forgive.
The following week, I was on my way to visit my Mom in her new care home when I saw the man walking his dog along the side of the road. I pulled over and rolled down my window.
“Hi,” I said as he eyed me warily. “Your dog’s the one that got my chicken, right?”
“Yeah,” he said, looking down at his dog, who wagged his tail innocently.
“Well,” I continued, “I’m sorry for yelling at you. That must have been scary. I was really upset.”
“I’m sorry for just leaving like that,” he admitted. “I felt so bad I didn’t know what to say or do.”
His name was Paul, and he’d just moved to Kea’au from Alaska (where Mom spent her childhood). He was retired and all alone, so he’d picked up a rescue dog, Juneau, at the SPCA. The day Juneau killed Ruth was the first time Paul had taken him for a walk. He showed me the new harness he bought so the dog wouldn’t get loose again.
“He’s a good boy,” he said, the dog smiling up at us, tongue hanging out. “I think he got over-excited.”
We talked for a while, me telling him about Mom and why I was there, and I drove away warmer and lighter than I’d felt in months, a sense of joy radiating from the inside out.
This is what sticks in my head now when I think of Paul and his dog and that day. I think about the moment my heart lifted. I give thanks for the time I had with Ruth and thanks that Juneau and Paul found each other.
I still wave to them each time I pass.
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And from forgiving thoughts a gentle world comes forth, with mercy for the holy Son of God, to offer him a kindly home where he can rest a while before he journeys on, and help his brothers walk ahead with him and find the way to Heaven and to God. [CE W-325.1:7]
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