Was there a chicken, along with the cows, the donkey, and, of course, the little shepherd boy with his lamb, in the stable with the Christ Child? Though the gospels do not mention a hen, at least this year, I believe there is.

For many years I dreamed about having chickens, not really for their eggs but just as pets. Though my "chicken obsession" remained, I sadly decided, as I was born with a rare form of muscular dystrophy that make all my muscles weak, that hauling in bales of hay, 50 pound bags of feed, taking care of chickens in the ice and snow, etc., was more than I could handle. So, every year, especially in the spring, I became a "virtual" chicken keeper, reading about them in books and on the internet.

Henrietta and Wilomena, Carolyn's Serama hens, at five months old.

Then two years ago, while surfing the web, I discovered the Serama, the world's smallest chicken — weighing only about a pound or less. On a whim, I contacted Jerry Schexnayder, the premier Serama breeder in the U.S., to ask whether he thought I might physically be able to keep such a small chicken. He thought that the Serama, being so small and with a personality much like a puppy, would make a good pet for me. I could even keep them in a cage in the house when it was icy and snowy and I couldn't walk outside. To my complete surprise, a few months after writing him, I received a call from the post office saying they had "live birds" for me. Though I was still in the "maybe-I'll-get-some-next-year" stage, Jerry had sent me two five-month-old pullets.

From the first day they arrived, Wilomena and Henrietta had very distinctive and different personalities. Wilomena, the little red hen, lived up to a "red head's" reputation.

Smart, inquisitive, and demanding, she was definitely at the top of the pecking order. On the other hand, sweet, pudgy Henrietta, the grey-black hen, was the opposite. Shy, unassuming and laid back, was the epitome of a kind earth mother. Yet the two of them bonded intensely. When it was cold, Henrietta would instinctively cover Wilomena with her wing to warm her; and the two of them even set on one clutch of a friend's fertile eggs and conjointly shared the raising of the baby chicks.

The hens were making a positive impact on my life too. They were providing me with fresh eggs several times a week (two of their small eggs were equal to one large egg), and their chicken antics made me laugh and were a constant source of fascination. Then too, though I have been a Dallas County Master Gardener for several years and involved in community gardening, the urban chicken movement was just becoming popular in the Dallas metroplex. My hens in their architect designed coop became the stars of several garden tours, were featured along with others in the newspaper, and were an inspiration to others to have chickens. Plus, I was becoming even more involved in the local food movement and meeting new, very nice people.

Henrietta and Wilomena in their Archipenko coop.

Now, however, I was standing in shock, staring at Henrietta's lifeless body, her eyes already glazed over and her feet drawn into an unnatural position. "God, of all the days, why, on Christmas Eve, have you let this happen?" If God was supposed to have His "eye on the sparrow," it obviously wasn't on her! And already this day had started out being a disastrous one. First I woke to a very cold house as my gas heater had gone out sometime during the night, and it was already raining and snowing. By tonight even more snow was expected, everything would turn to ice, and I would be housebound and would miss my church's Christmas Eve service. And now Henrietta was dead. Though I am usually fairly resilient and try to count my many blessings, on this cold Christmas Eve, there didn't seem to be much to be thankful for.

For a few hours I was angry about the unfairness of life and mourned Henrietta's passing. Until finally I thought: what if I reframe my thinking? My house was now warm again thanks to the help of a kind neighbor, I could watch a Christmas Eve service on TV rather than risk falling on the ice or having a car accident, and I would wish my friends and family a Merry Christmas by phone instead of in person.

And I could imagine the Christmas story a little differently too. My vision of the nativity scene includes, along with the other animals, a little grey-black hen, softly clucking at the foot of the crib. Later in the night, when Mary and Joseph fall asleep and the warmth of their fire dies down, the little hen gently snuggles in the hay next to the Christ Child and, cooing softly, instinctively spreads her wing over his chest to warm him.

In the wonder of this holy night, anything is possible.

In memory of Henrietta, Christmas Eve 2009.