Box of Peeping Miracles and the First Day of New Life
They were waiting for me at the post office before the sun even finished rising.
The call came at 6:13 a.m. sharp. I was already up—boots on, coffee in hand—when the phone buzzed with that familiar tone.
“Amanda, your chicks are here. And they’re loud.”
I couldn’t help but smile. There’s something about that first call that turns the whole day golden. It doesn’t matter how tired I am or what else is on the to-do list. When chicks arrive, the world rearranges itself around that box of life.
The Drive to Town
It’s just under 15 minutes to the Red Oak post office, but this morning, it felt like a pilgrimage.
The sky was streaked with rose and lavender, the trees along the roadside just beginning to green with that electric spring hue, and I drove slow. Not because I had to—but because it felt like the kind of morning that should be savored.
When I walked into the post office, the clerk didn’t say a word. She just grinned and pointed to a little box on the counter, bouncing slightly with every chirp.
I leaned down and whispered, “I’ve got you now,” before signing the slip and carrying them out like they were made of gold.
First Peek
Back at the barn, I set the box beside the brooder and peeled back the flaps.
Inside: twenty-five tiny broiler chicks, yellow and downy, blinking in the light like they’d just landed from another world. Some were already standing. One had dozed off mid-cheep. A few were trying to climb on top of each other, because of course they were.
I dipped each beak into the water as I placed them in the brooder, one by one. Some gulped. Others shook their heads and chirped in surprise. But they all caught on quick.
Within ten minutes, they were eating, exploring, and flopping into little nap piles under the glow of the heat lamp.
I sat there and watched them far longer than necessary. Because that’s what you do on chick day—you soak it in.
The Weight of Care
As I watched them tumble and stumble and peep, I felt that familiar mix of joy and responsibility settle into my chest.
This is the part of homesteading that people don’t always talk about.
These chicks aren’t pets. They’re food. They’re part of the cycle. I’ll raise them with care, give them clean bedding, fresh feed, protection, warmth, and space to grow. But in eight weeks, these little fluffballs will be full-grown birds—and on harvest day, I’ll carry them in, one by one.
It never gets easier. And maybe it shouldn’t.
That tension—the joy of new life and the reality of its purpose—is something I hold with both hands. It’s part of why I do this. Because knowing your food, respecting it, honoring the lives that sustain you—that matters.
And it starts on days like today, with a box of peeping miracles and a promise whispered over pine shavings: I will take care of you.
Garden Check-In
After the chicks were settled and I’d confirmed the heat was holding steady at 95°F under the lamp, I wandered out to the garden.
The spinach the goats tried to decimate is bouncing back beautifully. I’ll give it another week, then begin light harvesting. The garlic is already starting to send up scapes—early, but not surprising with the weather we’ve had.
I pulled a few early weeds, staked some of the peas that had started to lean, and made a mental note to direct-sow more lettuce before the weekend.
But mostly, I just stood there with the sun warming my back, hands on my hips, breathing in the scent of compost, blossoms, and purpose.
Goat Update (Because of Course)
The goats behaved today. I’d like to say it’s because they sensed the significance of the moment, but more likely it’s because I reinforced the garden gate with two new clips and a heavy log.
Still, I gave them extra scratches and a small handful of black oil sunflower seeds as a thank-you. Let’s hope the goodwill lasts through tomorrow.
Supper and Stillness
Dinner tonight was humble and satisfying:
- A scrambled egg with sautéed kale and goat cheese
- A small bowl of lentil stew from yesterday, warmed over the stove
- A slice of sourdough, toasted and topped with rosemary from the porch pot
I ate it sitting on the floor beside the brooder, watching the chicks sleep in little clusters, their tiny bodies rising and falling like breath itself.
There’s a kind of stillness in watching something so new, so vulnerable, so unaware of what it means to be cared for.
It makes me want to be better. Gentler. More faithful.
Final Thoughts
Some days are about beginnings.
Not dramatic ones. Not the kind that come with banners or bells. But the quiet, living kind that arrive in cardboard boxes and shift the whole rhythm of the day.
I built this life to be connected—to the land, to the food, to the creatures I steward. And days like this remind me why it’s worth every hard choice, every cold morning, every goodbye that comes later.
Tomorrow, the chicks will eat and sleep and grow a little more. I’ll add fresh bedding, check their heat, and make more plans for their future.
But tonight, I’m grateful. For peeping boxes. For sunlit roads. For a God who meets me in the dust and the chores and the quiet.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek