So as I circled my home on Sunday between a dying Frigg, an injured Astrid, and a living Sigyn, Sif, and Skaði, so brain dead from lack of sleep that I completely forgot to watch the church live stream, unable to stop checking on everyone, there was a certain calm strength in my core because this was me being a woman, fully and completely. This was in a way part of my God-given earthly glory: attending birth and death. I raised Frigg from a baby. She was a day old when I got her, and I was determined to be there at her death. She was mine. My little, mortal soul to tend, and tend her I would through every step of her short life.

God is good, and He cares about His creation. Freya’s death wasn’t unknown or outside of His control. She wasn’t unknown to Him. Not many people may realize that a chicken makes a sweet companion, but God knows. He set Freya in my path a little over a year ago, randomly, humanly speaking, chosen by the Tractor Supply guy, and gave me a whole year with her. A whole year. I don’t know why, but I found it a great comfort to know that the Lord created her, loved her, and was in charge of her beginning and end and that it mattered to Him, she mattered to Him. He knows when the sparrows fall.