Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: Beginning and End (06/04/26)
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TITLE: Holy henhouse Chaos | Previous Challenge Entry
By Corinne Smelker
06/10/26 -
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It started the day Dr. Abernathy donated twelve fertilized eggs to the church’s “New Beginnings” youth project. “Fresh stock for the new coop,” she declared, beaming like she’d handed over the keys to heaven itself. The teenagers cheered. Tim smiled weakly. He knew nothing about chickens except that they had beaks and opinions.
By the third week, the incubator in the church basement had become a twenty-four-hour soap opera. The eggs wobbled, clicked, and finally erupted in a chorus of peeping that could wake the dead. Twelve fluffy disasters tumbled out: yellow, loud, and utterly convinced Tim was their mother.
“Bless their tiny hearts,” Mrs. Pickens said, clasping her hands. “They think you’re Jesus.”
Tim spent the next month chasing escaped chicks through the choir loft, fishing one out of the baptismal font, and explaining to the Women of Significance why their prayer meeting now featured live poultry. The youth named them after the disciples. Judas kept pecking the others and stealing their feed.
Then there was Bartholomew.
Bartholomew had arrived at the church coop as a half-grown bird two years earlier. He was a battle-scarred, bossy rooster who considered the entire church property his personal kingdom. When the twelve new fluffy chicks appeared, he took one look at them, puffed out his chest, and immediately appointed himself their loud, overbearing supervisor. He crowed at 3:17 every morning like a foghorn with ambition. He terrorized the church cat, stole Tim’s sermon notes for nesting material, and once rode the vacuum cleaner across the fellowship hall like a tiny, feathered cowboy.
The congregation thought it was hilarious. Tim thought it was divine discipline.
One crisp October Sunday, everything came to a head. During the morning service, Bartholomew escaped again. He strutted right down the center aisle mid-sermon, chest puffed, crowing triumphantly at the exact moment Tim said, “And on the third day...” Half the congregation lost it. Dr. Abernathy laughed so hard she snorted.
That same afternoon, old Ezekiel, the original rooster who had ruled the coop for eight years, quietly passed away under the lilac bush. The children found him looking peaceful, as though he’d simply decided his work was finished. They held a small funeral behind the toolshed. Tim read from Ecclesiastes about seasons and times, trying not to cry while the new chicks pecked curiously at his shoelaces.
Later that evening, as the sun painted the sky in ridiculous pinks and oranges, Tim sat on the back steps of the parsonage. Bartholomew jumped up beside him, clucked once, and then, miracle of miracles, settled down and let Tim scratch his glossy neck.
“You ridiculous bird,” Tim muttered. “You started as an egg. You’ll probably end up in Sunday dinner someday. And somehow, you’re exactly what this place needed.”
From the coop came the soft rustling of twelve growing chickens settling in for the night. He stood, brushed feathers off his trousers, and headed inside. Behind him, Bartholomew gave one last, slightly hoarse crow at the setting sun; like a proud but slightly incompetent trumpet announcing that another day had been well and truly lived.
And somewhere in the laughter still echoing from the church hall, Tim was almost certain he heard the Almighty chuckling along.
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