The moment my eyes opened this morning, I was thinking about roosters. Probably because one was crowing 6 feet away at my window, telling me to get up and feed him. So as I dragged myself out of bed and to the teapot and then out to feed the chickens, God started talking to me. And the story was bigger than the roosters. Will you hang with me for about 10 minutes and let me tell you this story? It will be worth your time!
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Every morning here at Grace Walk Farm, the roosters tell a story. The air’s crisp, the hens are stirring, and those crowing kings set the rhythm of the day. I’ve got a pair that couldn’t be more different, and lately, their tale has been tugging at my heartstrings—showing me things about chickens, sure, but also about us, about life, and about the God who tends us all. So, come sit with me on the porch swing, and let me spin you the tale of Frank and Tiny Tim—two roosters who’ve turned my farm (and my folks’ place) into a living parable.
First, meet Frank. He’s a Rhode Island Red, big as a linebacker, with feathers that catch the sun like burnished copper. Frank lives over at the big farm as we call it. The big farm is where Josh’s parents live and where our fruit orchard resides.
Anyway, over on the big farm you’ll find Frank, ruling the roost with an iron spur. Trouble is, he’s meaner than a hornet in a windstorm. Every time Dad steps out to tend the flock, Frank’s on him—wings flapping, spurs slashing, beak like a battering ram. I’ve seen Dad hobble back with welts on his legs, muttering about that “mean old rooster.”
Mom won’t even go near the coop anymore—she’s too afraid of Frank’s fury, and I can’t blame her. He’s turned their farmyard into a war zone, and it’s not just the humans who suffer. Frank’s hens? They’re a nervous wreck. They hardly lay eggs anymore, and when they do, it’s sporadic—like they’re too jittery to settle down. None of them go broody, either—no sitting on nests, no hatching chicks. It’s like the whole flock’s holding its breath, waiting for the next attack.
Then there’s Tiny Tim, my little Olandsk Dwarf here at Grace Walk. He’s a pint-sized rooster, barely a handful, with a messy mop of black and gold feathers that make him look like he just tumbled out of a fairy tale. Tim’s not much for strut, but he’s my shadow. Most mornings, he hops right up on my shoulder while I scatter grain, crowing soft and sweet like he’s singing me a hymn. I love spending time with my chickens because of him—his kindness makes the farm feel like a sanctuary.
His hens cluck and peck in peace, laying eggs like clockwork. Big, beautiful eggs, too, with yolks so rich they glow. And fertility? Tim’s flock is a baby-making machine. The hens go broody all the time, tucking those eggs under their wings like treasures, hatching chicks left and right. It’s a thriving little kingdom, and Tiny Tim’s the gentle heart of it.
So what’s the difference? Turns out, it’s more than just personality—it’s science and soul, tangled up together. Roosters like Frank get aggressive for a few reasons: too much competition, fear of threats, or just that hardwired urge to dominate.
Frank’s got it all. Over at Dad’s, he’s not the only rooster so he has something to prove. He acts like every shadow’s a rival. He’s on edge, and it shows. That constant tension wrecks his flock. Stress hits chickens hard—studies show it messes with their nervous systems, spiking cortisol levels and throwing their hormones out of whack.
Egg-laying slows or stops because their bodies can’t relax enough to cycle properly. And broodiness? That’s a no-go. Going broody takes a calm, healthy hen who feels safe enough to sit still for weeks. Frank’s hens don’t have that—they’re too busy dodging his tantrums. Fertility takes a hit too. Science backs this up: a rooster’s stress can lower sperm quality, and a hen’s anxiety can mess with egg viability. Frank’s flock is a picture of chaos, and it’s barren because of it.
Tiny Tim’s a different story. Being an Olandsk Dwarf, he’s small, but his peace is mighty. He’s the only rooster in his coop, so there’s no turf war. I’ve handled him gently since he was a chick, so he trusts me—no fear, just friendship.
His nervous system’s steady, and it shows in his flock. Happy hens mean healthy eggs—research says a calm environment boosts oxytocin, the hormone that drives laying and broodiness. Fertility thrives too; a rooster at ease keeps his vitality high, and hens who feel safe produce eggs that hatch strong. Tim’s little empire is fruitful because it’s peaceful. I can’t help but smile watching those chicks toddle after their mamas—it’s life abundant, right there in my backyard.
Now, here’s where it gets deep. Frank and Tim aren’t just roosters—they’re mirrors. I see myself in them, and maybe you do too. There’s a Frank in all of us when life feels like a fight—when we’re scared of losing our place, when we lash out to protect what’s ours.
I’ve been Frank, snapping at the people I love because I’m wound tight, leaving my little “flock” scattered and on edge. It’s a barren way to live, and it doesn’t bear fruit. Then there’s Tiny Tim—the me I want to be, the us we’re called to be. Secure, content, resting on the shoulder of someone trustworthy. I cherish my time with Tim’s flock because it’s a taste of what could be—what should be.
And here’s the hope: we’ve got a Good Farmer who can change us. God steps into our coops, spurs and all, and He’s not afraid of our Frank moments. Scripture says it plain: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul” (Psalm 23:1-3).
That’s the kind of Farmer who can tame a rooster—or a heart. See, Dad’s been working on Frank. It’s slow going, but he’s trying a trick I learned: consistency and calm. He walks in steady every day, no sudden moves, carrying a stick not to hit but to guide. He’s teaching Frank he’s not a threat—just the guy with the feed.
From time to time when Frank starts to charge, Dad will firmly push his beak to the ground and force him to kneel. This posture is code for roosters, forcing their will to submit to the will of the farmer. This little move of teaching a rooster to humble himself can save an entire flock. But it takes a brave farmer to humble an aggressive rooster. Thankfully, we serve a brave God.
Bit by bit, Frank’s starting to ease up. God does that with us, too—meets us where we’re at, trains us with patience, transforms us with love.
Jesus said, “I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he bears much fruit” (John 15:5). That’s the Tiny Tim life—abiding, trusting, fruitful. God’s not here to dodge our spurs; He’s here to lift us up, to make us roosters who perch instead of pounce. I’ve seen it in Tim, I’m seeing it in me, and I pray it for Frank—and for you. So next time you feel that Frank rising, look to the Good Farmer. Let Him tend your soul. The eggs will come, the chicks will hatch, and the farm—your life—will sing with abundance.
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