The Peeps Who Played With Matches

Once upon a time there was a mother hen who had a brood of chicks. They lived in a large barnyard surrounded by a field. Her chicks were cute, cuddly, and LOUD. Their constant peeping could always be heard, no matter where you were in the barnyard.

Their mother thought of them as her “precious little peepers.” In conversation with other animals, she simply referred to them as “her peeps.” Their only flaw was that they didn’t always obey their mother.

One day, the hen was digging for worms when she looked up from her work and realized how quiet the barnyard was. In fact it was a little too quiet. She didn’t see any of her peeps hanging around in their normal spots.  If her chicks were out of sight and not making a sound, it could mean only one thing (and every mother knows this): they were up to no good.

So she went looking for them and found them huddled together behind the barn, at the edge of a grassy field. She clucked and the huddle broke and she saw that they were playing with a box of matches that had fallen from the farmer’s workbench.

Three of them were holding the matchbox steady, while another held a match in his little beak, trying to strike it against the box. When their mother saw this, she gave them all good clucking. She flapped her wings, hopped up and down, and cackled in her harshest voice.

She scolded, threatened, and warned. She told them how foolish they were and how dangerous it was to play with matches. They didn’t know how fire worked, but she did. She told them that if they weren’t careful, they could set the whole barnyard on fire.

She made them take the matches back to where they’d found them. Then she made them promise to never again play with matches.  They all promised and they all meant it, with all of their hearts.

But the next day, her precious little peepers were in the barnyard playing “tug of worm.” One of them wondered aloud if the matches were still where they had left them the day before? One chick said no. Another said yes, A third suggested they go see for themselves. And so they did. Five minutes later the barnyard was quiet again.

Too quiet.

Once again, all the chicks were huddled together behind the barn.

This time, they were successful on the third strike. When the flame erupted from the tip of the match, all the chicks stepped back from the bright light. They all peeped their amazement, including the chick holding the burning match in his beak. As soon as he did, the match fell into the thick grass below.

It had been a hot, dry summer. The grass burst into flame. As the fire began to spread across the across the field, the chicks were stunned by its speed and alarmed by the heat.

They peeped in panic as they turned to run away. Their mother heard them from the other side of the barn and came running. As she rounded the corner, she saw the flames and knew immediately what her precious little peepers had been up to. She also saw that the fire was moving faster than they could run.

To make matters worse, when the chicks saw their mother come around the corner, they all stopped, not sure what to do. They weren’t sure what was scarier: the fire behind them or their mother in front of them?

As they were soon to learn, their mother was full of surprises.

She didn’t look angry. She didn’t scold them. And she didn’t stop running. She kept coming until she was standing in their midst. She spread her wings and raised her body to its full height and told her peeps to draw close.

They immediately snuggled in next to their mother. When they were all where they should be, she had just enough time to nestle down over them and cover them with her wings.

Later that day the farmer was walking through the barnyard surveying the damage. He came upon the smoldering remains of a mother hen. He was surprised to find her there. The others animals had fled the fire. Why hadn’t she?

As he stepped over the hen’s body, he heard a faint peep. It sounded like it was coming from a great distance. He looked across the scorched landscape, but didn’t see any chicks. He took another step and heard another peep. He turned around and looked at the dead hen again. He nudged her remains with his boot and saw movement.

He flipped her over with his toe.

There they were.

Dazed, confused, and a bit smoky, but otherwise safe and sound.

The farmer couldn’t believe it. It was the only good thing he had seen all day. The simple beauty of a hen’s undying love for her chicks captured his heart.

For the first time since the fire broke out, he was able to set aside the puzzle of how it had gotten started in the first place.

“O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing. Look, your house is left to you desolate.”
Matthew 23:37-38 (NIV)

(I got the idea for this story from a Tom Wright book.)