A transformation from unhappiness to gratitude

I stifle a gag as I open the door to the chicken house. My nose reacts as if suddenly submerged in water; the strong scent of ammonia chokes out the freshness of early morning on the farm. I don’t want to be part of this “chicken concentration camp,” as I often call my farmer husband’s main source of income, 35,000 laying hens. Not only does the hen house assault my nose, it also offends me. I don’t enjoy the dirty, boring work of gathering eggs, but I love my kind husband, so, saying nothing, I take my place beside him and stack egg flats onto the cart beside the conveyor belt. I work quietly, while internal grumbling rises in a wave.

During a lull in the egg flow, I look out the door at the beauty of the bitter cold morning. Late March snow covers the fields, mist hugs the land and the rising sun paints the scene with rosy softness. The metal hand railing on the tiny porch outside the door glitters with delicate frost crystals. Horses munch hay, their backs sprinkled with crisp snow. Steamy breath wafts around their heads, adding to the gentle morning mist.

Suddenly, egg flats ram into each other at the end of the conveyor. I leap into action, grabbing and stacking before the flats can buckle or upend, exploding into a gooey, snotty, drippy mess of crumpled shells, yolks and whites. As I stack egg flats, I fume about not being able to open the door for extra ventilation. I grumble about being stuck here morning and evening, doing a job I dislike. Ranting on silently, I work at the dirty job before me while longing for a walk in the beautiful countryside. I waffle between trying to pay attention, and escaping the present monotony by day dreaming.

Finally, tiring of my peevishness, I bring my attention to what I touch: the smooth, warm eggs, the stiff, plastic flats. The switch to the conveyor belt is firm. It’s cool to my fingers as I flip it on and off. Running my hand over the belt, I’m amazed it is smoother than eggshells. I nestle five flats of eggs on top of each other, then lift them up on the cart, aware of weight in my hands.

Unexpectedly, I feel enveloped in a gentle mist of profound gratitude. I am grateful for my body, its ability to touch, move and breathe. I am grateful for my mind, the freedom to believe differently from my husband, for our love, despite our differences. Gratitude and love warm me from within, then radiate outward. I think about the farm cats, foxes and scavenger birds that eat our discarded eggs. I consider the people whose hands will also touch these eggs: the processors, packers, truck drivers, store clerks, cooks. I contemplate all the neighbors, friends and family who use our eggs. I reverently bless each precious life.

As I do, I smile, remembering my reaction to the stink of this place. I notice my tendency to focus on unpleasant areas of my life, the suffering of those I love, my own restlessness and boredom, my negative thoughts and emotions. When I step back from my current problems and become receptive to God, to how I want to be prayerfully present to each moment, there is a beautiful, spacious quality to my life. I notice how rich I am with friendships and opportunities. When I am present and grateful, finding the hidden gifts in each moment, life is full of joy.

There will always be days when the chicken house fans don’t dissipate bad aromas or when personal situations stink. In those moments, if I can behold my whole life, while living moment by moment, I can see incredible beauty. Each moment is precious. My smellier moments teach me as much about myself as my successes do. All life can be embraced as a gift, thus releasing the grace I need for self-knowledge, spiritual growth and abundant life—in the chicken house or in the meadow.

Sharon Clymer Landis lives on a farm with her family in Lititz, Pa., and attends Rossmere Mennonite Church.