I caught a glimpse of God in Romney, West Virginia, the other day. He was carrying library books and was wearing a blue sweater. Actually, he . . . was a she. Let me explain.
Some men like to play golf or skydive in their free time. I enjoy walking. Give me a path through a leafy forest or a street through a small town to explore and I’m one happy guy. That’s exactly what I was doing when I witnessed something incredible.
My walk of choice that day was in Romney, West Virginia—about an hour and a half drive from my home. It’s a nice small town surrounded by mountains, sparkling rivers, and grassy meadows. Traffic was light along its main street as I looked into shop windows and relished the cool autumn air. That’s when I saw it.
At the base of a metal pole holding up a store awning I noticed a collection of what looked like dirty feathers. Upon closer inspection, I discovered I was right. They were, indeed, feathers, lots of them, and they were attached to a plump chicken with big yellow feet and a thick yellow bill.
“Well, hello,” I said, looking for signs of serious injury and seeing none. The animal was simply sitting there, unmoving. I reached down and stroked the top of its head. It blinked, but nothing more.
“Are you lost?” I asked. “Did you wander away from home?”
The little chicken remained motionless, frozen in fear.
a busy town
I glanced about. I hadn’t seen any farms nearby that included chicken coops. This was a busy town with hurried people going about their business. There was even a beautiful school for deaf and blind people a few blocks away. Raising chickens wasn’t on the agenda of most who lived and worked here. What was this small, feathered creature doing huddled at the base of a metal post at the edge of a sidewalk all by itself?
I walked across the street to a convenience store parking lot and asked the first person I saw if there was a farm with chickens nearby. I told her about the bundle of feathers and pointed to where the animal was waiting. “Strange,” she said. “I don’t know of anyone nearby who raises chickens. Sorry I can’t help.”
I was turning to leave when she stopped me. “Wait. I think I know exactly where that chicken came from.”
“You do?” I enthused.
“Yes,” she responded. “Early each morning, a big eighteen-wheeler truck rumbles through our town loaded down with crates of chickens headed for the slaughterhouse in Moorefield. I’ll just bet that that chicken fell from the truck earlier today. Yes, I’m sure that’s what happened.” She glanced in the direction of the ball of feathers. “Poor thing. It’s all alone now. Probably really scared.”
As I walked back to where the chicken waited, I thought about what the woman had said. This creature had been hatched along with hundreds of other chicks in a small, temperature-controlled environment. It had spent its short life packed in with thousands of others just like it, being fed fattening food so it could put on a lot of weight in a short time.
Then, very early this morning, it—and many just like it—had been jammed into cages and loaded onto the back of a big semitruck, the crates stacked high and open to the weather. Somehow, while bouncing through this town, the door to its cage must have burst open and it had fallen to the pavement below. It had stumbled to the relative safety of the sidewalk and settled at the base of the steel pole. That’s where I found it hours later, confused, terrified, and totally alone for the first time in its life. It sat in a pool of its own feces and urine with that of other chickens staining its feathers.
My eyes suddenly filled with tears. “I don’t know what to do for you,” I said softly “I live far from here and don’t have any way to take care of you if I got you home. But I can’t leave you here to die. I just can’t!”
In desperation, I glanced around and noticed the pillars of the town’s public library fronting the sidewalk across the street about two blocks away. Maybe someone there could help. Maybe someone there would know what to do.
the dilemma
The warmth of the library lobby felt comforting as I moved through the big glass doors. Two women stood behind the counter and a third woman with a small collection of books tucked under one arm was talking with them. When they saw me—a stranger—approaching, the librarians smiled. “May we help you?” they asked.
“I have a dilemma,” I responded. “I found a chicken on the sidewalk just down the street, and I don’t want anything bad to happen to it. I don’t know what to do!”
“A chicken?” they said, almost in unison.
“Yes. And it looks frightened and lost. One person I spoke with said it probably fell off the truck that comes through each morning on the way to the slaughterhouse in Moorefield.” The librarians nodded knowingly. “Can you help me save that little chicken?” I pleaded.
The woman with the books under her arm started for the door. “Show me,” she said as she hurried past. I quickly followed.
The chicken was still there when we arrived. It remained by the pole, lost in a world it didn’t recognize, surrounded by sights and sounds that were foreign to it and more than likely frightening in ways it had never known.
The woman from the library called out to it softly. “Hi there,” she said, kneeling beside the creature. “Are you OK? Can I help you? I want to help you.”
I stood and watched as the woman with the blue sweater reached down and gently picked up the dirty, feces- and urine-covered chicken and brought it close to her chest and chin. “You’re OK,” she soothed, stroking the stained feathers. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll help you.” She stood and glanced over at me. “I’ll take good care of our friend,” she said. “I love animals. I love all animals.”
“You’re making my heart glad,” I whispered, holding back fresh tears.
She smiled. Then she tucked her library books under her free arm and slowly walked away, talking to the chicken, reassuring it, loving it.
A thought entered my mind at that moment. That chicken is us! We’re covered with the terrible stains of sin. We’re lost in a dangerous and deadly world. But God knows exactly where we are and, if we’re willing, will rush to our side and pick us up—stains and all—in His strong, loving arms. He’ll hold us close to His heart. Why? Because, in His mind, we’re precious, worthy, and in desperate need of saving.
He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High
Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress;
My God, in Him I will trust.”
Surely He shall deliver you from the snare of the fowler
And from the perilous pestilence.
He shall cover you with His feathers,
And under His wings you shall take refuge;
His truth shall be your shield and buckler (Psalm 91:1–4, NKJV).
Yes, I caught a glimpse of God in Romney, West Virginia, that day. And she brought joy and hope to my heart.
