I realized that I needed to pare down the routine to a minimum, in order to make it manageable for the chicken babysitter. There was no getting around it. They had to stay in their coop for the entire week. While even that restriction is significantly better than the captivity most egg laying birds endure, I was not looking forward to it. I bought the biggest waterer I could find, so that our friend would not have to refill it. The girls reinforced the pen called Mossflower, so that the Silkies would not escape. Those two fluffy whites and their gray babe have been given the luxury of exploring the whole yard since they humor us by not leaving our property to annoy neighbors. The plan was that they would spend days in grassy Mossflower and nights in the doghouse called St. Ninian's. They would resent the restriction but it was unavoidable.

I wanted to tell them that it would only be a week. I longed to say that I care about them even though it looked like we deserted them. I promised to provide for them every day. And then we drove away. 

There is no real way to find out what they talked about in the interim. Did they cry? Were they forlorn? Did they forget us? 

But it did remind me of a feeling I get when God disappears. 

Where did He go, anyway? Why isn't He providing for me like He used to?  Although I admit there is food and water, barely, my freedom is curtailed and I am not pleased.  

Yet there are people who show up to fill my cup. Maybe, just maybe, God asked them to. I vaguely remember a reassurance that this will not last forever, but then again I'm not sure. I think He tried to let me know I will be taken care of. But sometimes I forget the language of the dewdrops and hummingbirds.