I’m probably a cessationist, but I’ve taken the online quizzes; I always get the same results. My spiritual gift, according to the algorithm, is prophecy. It makes sense as long as I’m not considering it predictive or, even, as an actual word from the Lord.

Over the course of an entire weekend, because we are tired parents and cannot commit to a three-hour movie in one sitting, my husband and I watched the Godfather. The violent scenes were few, but unwitnessed: I would bury my face in Timothy’s shoulder and ask “can I look can I look when is it over is it over yet?” The same face-burrowing happened a few weeks earlier, when we watched the Patriot. I have no stomach for blood.

The first time it happened, I found Sam—a unisex name since we were uncertain if the chick would turn out to be a rooster or a hen—face down, wings outstretched, the other babies carrying on scratching and pecking and fluttering as though their yellow sibling was not stiff in the pine shavings right next to them. The loss was not unexpected; Sam had developed pasty butt, which is exactly what it sounds like, and I had attempted to rescue the little chick by washing its rear end (to clear the paste) and then using a hair dryer to keep it warm afterward. My efforts were not enough, and I was glad that I was the one to find Sam. The chicks were still young enough to be in our kitchen, huddled under the heat lamp.