"Which came first, Tessa,
'the chicken or the egg'?" I asked
as we stood holding our latest discovery.
A few days ago I glanced into the chicken coup and, to my utter delight, there, amongst the feathers, lay three tiny eggs. They were less than two inches long and seemed almost a joke, like a can of fake snakes or a whoopie cushion.
"The egg." she stated firmly. "Remember?
We got the chickens from Kathy, and Kathy got them from eggs."
"And where did those eggs come from?" I puzzled.
"Oh..." she wavered , her confidence slackening.
"Well, the chicken, I guess. I always thought God just, *Plink!*,
put the chicken here with Adam and Eve."
It's an interesting quandary.
I don't mind that I don't know the details of the eternities.
There are five miracles that stomp the floors of this house daily.
It is enough to me that they are here.
Yesterday someone said, "I don't need to know exactly how electricity makes my lights work,
but I have faith that when I flip the switch, the lights will turn on."
There have been some other miracles around here of late.
One of my sons, one who I am not allowed to blog about,
came up behind me the other night, pecked me on my cheek and said,
"G'night Mom. Love you."
It was the first time in about 6 years.
I don't need to understand the mysteries of God
to enjoy them.