|Posted by Donna Dawson on December 12, 2013 at 7:55 AM|
It defies the teachings of the day. It spits in the face of words that claim scientific validity but are nothing more than emotional rantings against One misunderstood. It's there nonetheless.
I stand and stare through gentle eyes into the dimness to the bright heat lamp. It dangles a mere six inches from a bed of wood shavings. A water tankard sits on a maple wood block, its spout facing the light's warmth--allowing it to hold winter's blast at bay. Crumbled grain sits in a mound on the opposite side of the life giving circle of illumination. And that is all. The four occupants who should be clustered beneath those rays are huddled in the far corner--in the dim and cool light. A six week old chicken hen and three newly hatched ducklings. The hen knows the light offers heat. She knows it is the place to be on such a bitter winter morning but the ducklings are too new to remember their inner compass. They have lost their way--struggled away from the bright into the dark where cold bites and saps life.
An evolutionist cries "Survival of the fittest!" spurning the beauty of a sacrificial heart, denying its reflection of a Creator who sacrificially loves yet that small hen, not yet covered in its full array of adult feathers, has contradicted the 'logical ways'. She has left the security of the light, followed the errant ducklings, ruffled her newly sprouted pinions and hovered. She has offered self for the sake of the little ones. There is no logic behind it. They are not her chicks. They don't continue her species. They are competition for the food and water and warmth. Still, she fluffs up down and gathers them under her, clucking and cooing to them, coaxing them step-by-step back to safety.
Once she has corralled them into the light's embrace, she pecks at the food, chuckling at them to emulate her. She teaches them the laws of nutrition--of survival. She pours her sprouting instinct into another species just for--what? Just because?
I stand, unmoving, tracking with wondering eyes. The ducklings acknowledge her as mother. They chirp in response as though language barriers are nothing to them. They huddle in and around clawed feet, their webbed feet shuffling. They sift through the feed by her beak; sip from the water she dips into for a drink. It is a silent slap in the face to those who, with their lips, deny God's existence and with their hearts, rail at him just the same.
I shake my head and leave the shadows behind. I understand the denial. I was one once too--an atheist. I know the truth. I know the heart and mind. There is no scientific proof of a lack of a Creator. Creatures show the contradiction. Creation shows the hand of a Creator but those who tout the science aren't convinced of their own argument. They just don't like the One who Created. They don't understand him--can't control him--so they deny him. I long to drag them into the wood sided hovel that is my barn and point an insistent finger and demand they explain the occurrence of a hen chick adopting three ducklings at the peril of her own survival. But they won't. They can't. So I shake my head again and hope they will some day see what I see moment by moment--the miracles of God's love.