But this week I found Pom Pom, one of the fuzzy white Silkie Bantams limp and bleeding in the coop. I had held her soft little body, as gentle as a lamb, only two hours before so I knew the deed had happened when I was but a few steps away enjoying eggs. One of the older chickens pecked her mercilessly. I was horrified. Screaming, I wrapped her barely breathing body in a cloth and cried. Scrambling to bring the other two Silkies inside, I yelled at the hens. They did not get any treats all day.

How was it possible that a perfectly well fed chicken could viciously attack a smaller and defenseless chick? I kept checking on Pom Pom, wondering if this was the day for a miracle. She had been pecked to a far lesser degree before and healed.

Zack came down the stairs complaining about the smell of burning beans and I fell into his arms weeping. 

"It's ok! It's just burned!" He held me. Eventually I choked out what had happened and he said all the right things. 

Pom Pom grew cold by the time the girls came home. 

What pained me over the next few days was seeing the blood stains on the white hen's breast. How could I care about her again when she had done this? 

I heard an interview about the fighting in the Ukraine. A woman named Olga with a thick accent said that the attacks are because one ethnic group feels bigger than another. I am not sure if she was reaching for a word like superior. 

For this cause, many have been killed. The thought crept into my psyche that God grieves as much for the one hurt as the one who did the hurting. How is it possible that one of His children can cause intense pain to another? 

When I was the age of my twins I remember reciting the ten commandments to myself at bedtime. When I got to the one about murder, I shook my head. Quietly I padded down the hall to my father in his study, surrounded by books. 

"I don't think I need to worry about obeying the fifth commandment, Dad. I am never gonna do that." He smiled knowingly, the corners of his eyes crinkled like hen's feet. 

"That's right. Don't worry about it. Go back to bed, sweetheart."

Years later I realize that I am actually not immune to an inclination to murder. Every time I trample John's mood with criticism, or lambaste a friend with gossip, I transgress. 

Perhaps Pom Pom's memory will teach me to keep my peckishness to myself.