Last week I was out the door by seven thirty. The feed store was selling chicks, and when I went last year they were sold out by noon. My Silkies were still broody, and the store had promised bantams, so I made sure to be there on that particular morning. As soon as I walked through the door the incessant chirping told me that the plastic pool full of fluff was in a different place this year.... near the garden tools, rather than next to the feeders. I scooped up four tiny chicks, and put them in the basket I had brought. 

The chicks seemed confused by yet another bout of transportation in their seventy two hours since being inside a shell. But it was brief. I tucked them into the chicken house, under the black and white feathers, and hoped it would work. I had a heat lamp in the event the mamas did not adopt them, but really, mamas work best. 

The instructions for raising chicks all say that they need to be kept at ninety degrees for the first week, eighty five the second, eighty the third and on down until they can bear to be outside in spring weather. But as pleasant as it has been it is nowhere near those temperatures in my yard. This morning, a week after I brought them home, there was ice in the water trays. 

Yet experts tell me that chicks raised by mothers are hardier than chicks under a lamp. I would have to agree. These four little ones spend time tucked under the feathery wings of my Silkies, but most of the day they follow behind them in a short parade, listening to instructions about food and scratching. No signs of stress for being in air fifty degrees colder than their motherless siblings adopted by another customer. 

Someone is looking out for them. And it seems to make a difference.

While I have no feathers, I do feel somewhat henlike when I check on young couples that I love. This week I spent an hour supporting a woman who is short on sleep, and went out to lunch with a couple just settling into parenthood. On Friday a gaggle of adults and teenagers will watch a gym full of kids while their parents exhale over an uninterrupted dinner. And, as I do every week, I hold a flock of marriages in prayer. 

While I cannot control the cold winds that buffet against these couples, I believe that knowing someone cares increases their resilience.