MIRACLE AT THE CROSBY FAMILY FARM

　
As many who have read the archives of my blog realize, I depend on science to explain a whole host of unknowns. In debate, I stress that my disbelief in a Spirit God snapping His fingers, I should say, speaking the word, and there the sun stood, has nothing to do with the faith that I have, that somehow He was able to do it. I explain that God knows a great deal more about science than anyone on earth, and uses it often in the implementation and expansion of His great plan for our universe. I go on to state that I find it very easy, yet less scientific, for a bunch of fishermen to come up with enough fish to feed a multitude gathered around a popular sea shore during a day of sermonizing. Not sure how the bread got there but I bet there were a bunch of women who missed the afternoon lecture, but that, in no way lessens the impact and spirituality of the words and deeds advanced on that miraculous day. Indeed I state, miracles are likely, easily explained, but we’ll just have to wait for heaven on that.

The next thing I’d like to state is that when my family coins the title, “Crosby Family Farm”, there should in no way be the supposition made that we are farmers. Yes, we are learning as if we were first graders, no kindergartners, the knowledge and science needed to care for animals/birds like chickens and pigs. This leads us to a story, a miracle, if you will, about something that happened on our “farm”.

It just so happens that Erin had invited some friends over for her birthday party on the 14th of Aug. Hers actually is on the 10th but weekends are far better for parties. It was early afternoon and the barbeque had been lit. That was my job, ya know, the manly thing to do. At a point, Erin asked if she could go feed the chickens some scratch. With her friends in tow and explaining everything under the sun about chickens, she proceeded. At a point about ten minutes later Erin came running to the barbeque where I was fully involved in the manly thing, ya know, flipp’un hamburgers. She had big tears running down her cheeks. “Papa”, she cried, “I think I killed one of the baby chickens” (not so much a baby, about two months old). My response was, “No you didn’t, now go away, I’m cooking!” UM, WRONG! Wrong answer, dude! How’d I miss those big tears? “NO, I think I did!”, she cried. I do love my grandkids, and I do try to listen to them, and I did get the message the second time around. So, out to the coop we went, and sure enough, there was one of the “babies”, Geegee, (yes chickens get named on this farm) feet straight up in the air. OK, that’s never a good sign and even a rookie farmer like me can see this isn’t going to work out like some children’s fairy tale. Ok so you get the picture, sad ending to the day, but not the story or the miracle.

Fast forward to the last part of September. We suddenly realized that free-range brown eggs are a popular commodity and wanted by those willing to part with a good chunk of their hard earned money to have/eat. OK, being the experienced farmers that we were, we decided to hatch some eggs and well, ya know, raise some egg layers, so to speak. Several of our hens seemed perfectly willing, well adamant, about sitting and warming a “few” eggs, oh say for about a month, give or take a few days. Ya know, farmers like us have it down to a science. I’m the science guy; you read my blog don’t you?!? And hey, why not just put some of the neighbors eggs in there, too, and a few days later, well, while we’re having chicks, maybe just a few more of those from that hen over there. At some point there were 16 eggs under two hens in the same nest. Figured that was ok since one hen was having a hard time covering all the eggs….NO!, not taking any eggs back out. If one is determined to have chickens, why not go all the way.

About three weeks later I got a complaint from one of my buyers at work that one of the “eating” eggs had plopped out into the frying pan, a, well, for lack of a better farming term, half baby chicken, um, so to speak. Now I’m not much of a chicken farmer, but I am a good businessman. I immediately produced another dozen eggs that I supplied for free. Then I had a meeting with my work force. That would be the chief egg collector, one, Miss Erin. “Oh no, I didn’t take any eggs out from under the mother hens”. Sure ya didn’t! And what ever ya didn’t do, don’t do it again!”

The following week, baby chicks start arriving at the family farm. One afternoon, egg-collecting time, Erin brought in the usual 7-8 eggs and began the washing process. I know, you are not supposed to wash off eggs. They last longer if you don’t. But my wife has a science streak in her as well and she says anything that comes out of a butt needs to go through a bit of a wash cycle. Yep, she does the laundry around our farm too and yells at any of us who get the slightest amount of dirt or mud on us. Sure, you get the type! As it so happens on this afternoon at the washing station, Erin declared that she hear a chirp in an egg. Between yelling at Erin for collecting eggs, AGAIN, from under the mother hens and trying to figure out what to do with the egg, they found themselves out at the hen house, Debbie, still complaining about “labor”, and wondering how to save the baby chick.

What good scientific farmer wouldn’t want to know the answer to that question rather than just putting the egg back under the hens. So they peeled the egg and out came a wet, a little bit bloody, mess. About that time I came home and Layne, who was in the house playing Zelda, and who by the way, might just be a better farmer than all of us combined, answered the question of where grandma and Erin were this way. “Oh, they’re out killing chickens”. WHAT! This was my original plan, to raise meat for my family, ya know the survivalist type. That’s me! And my family was buying into the dream? WHAT! Were these the same folks who gave names to all the chickens and told me they would NEVER eat any chicken from this farm! So, out to the coop I went. There they were, holding this, whatever it was, and I took my turn holding it, and Debbie rubbed its little semi-feathered back, and every now and then seemed like it convulsed for air, and I said the next one would be it’s last, and Erin said, “NO! God brought Geegee back to me!” OH yes, you’ve got that right, that’s the feet upside down, sticking straight up in the air, bird from the first part of this story. Am I going to throw this bird over the fence to nature like I did the original Geegee? Are you kidding me? What God giveth, He can go ahead a take away without my help! So under the heat light the little blob went, and the following morning, it was a little blob of yellow feathers running around with its “brothers and sisters”.

For the egg farms sake, can we all pray that there are more sisters than brothers and while you are at it, since you just might have a better connection than I do, say thanks for the Crosby’s, for sending Geegee back, the Crosby Family Farm miracle. Erin will thank you. By the way, Erin was not allowed to go into the hen house to collect eggs by herself after the last mishap. Well at least not until Thursday last week when her and grandma went out to collect eggs and again in the washing process heard another chirp. OH REALLY! Erin was telling the truth after all. How are eggs about ready to hatch getting next door in an “eating egg” nest you ask? So now, the Crosby Family Farm, which not only had a miracle happen on it, has a mystery to solve. And that’s all I have to say about that, for now.