Why Mary didn't blink

This morning one of our chickens, Meg, flapped her way out of their run. I heard a squawk, and turned to see her walking alongside the others, outside the fencing, puzzled. I went to pick her up and she hopped a bit away, flapped a little, and then settled down against my chest as I stroked her. She's used to my giving her food and treats, picking her up, smoothing her ruffled feathers.

As the baby continued to eat her breakfast (or toss her breakfast on the floor. Whatever.) our cat Jamba joined the throng beneath her chair to collect whatever manna might fall. I reached my hand down to stroke him. He didn't flinch, letting my hand graze his fur as he continued his pursuit.

We are often mystified -- even incredulous --at Mary's acceptance of the angel's presence. Some reject it outright, explaining it as a patriarchal view of a simperingly weak woman. Or as just not what a young teenager would do. Or even as a rape of sorts -- Leda and the swan.

Perhaps our response to Mary's equanimity reflects our own experience of God's loving provision. We doubt because we have not spent our lives knowing we were being fed, loved, cared for. We are the feral cats, the factory-farmed food, accustomed to scrounging or gulping, lost or confined.

But for Meg, and Jamba, and Mary, the Provider is loving, trustworthy, and ultimately safe. And the only response to the assuredness of love is: Yes.