My boy and his chickens

On Easter Sunday, my husband surprised the kids with ten baby chicks. They were so young their feathers looked like fur. They were chirping, hopping balls of fluff. Although all the kids enjoyed them, we knew the chicks were really for Truman. He'd raised chickens before we lived overseas, and he was ready to raise them again.

Fast forward four months. The chicks are now full grown with beautiful glossy black feathers and rust accents. Truman loves his chickens. And it seems, they've imprinted on him. They follow Truman around when he's outside, bobbing their heads and making their cheerful clucking noises. Truman takes time to find worms, kneels down, and hand feeds his chickens. He puts them away to roost each night, and gets them up each morning.

So when it was time for Truman to leave for a week at scout camp, his only request was that we take extra good care of his chickens.

The first Monday night he was gone, we decided to go to the drive-in theater in Stephen's City.  Just as we were ready to go, sitting in the car, with the engine rumbling, we realized we should probably put the chickens away to roost for the night. Unfortunately, it was only 5pm...three hours earlier than their normal "bedtime." After some furtive attempts of chasing the chickens around the shed, and out from under the cars, we decided to go ahead and go...postponing the chicken catching until we got home.

We returned at 2:30AM.

Three of the chickens were missing. A few scattered piles of feathers dotted the yard, the only clues to their demise.

We felt horrible. Charlotte cried.

When Truman returned home a few days later, I was the one who told him what had happened. I confessed my lapse in judgement and apologized. I feared he would be either devastated or furious. But he surprised me by being neither. Yes, he was sad. And although my son had every right to be angry with me, he chose to forgive, love, and look on the bright side. "I still have seven, Mom," he said. And then he hugged me.