Stewardship at 1:30 in the Morning

Last night, around 1:30 a.m., I was sitting on the couch doing what I often do—thinking through the next project.

Our family has spent the better part of a decade intentionally transforming our property into what I can only describe as an urban homestead. Fruit trees. Concord grapes. A blueberry bush. Herbs. Vegetables. Pollinator habitat. Native plants. Spaces designed with purpose—not just for beauty, but for food, wildlife, healing, and resilience.

The next piece of that system has been on my mind for a while.

Chickens.

Not as a hobby, but as another living part of the ecosystem.

I had been researching coops, comparing designs, pricing materials, and mentally project-managing the whole thing.

Then I heard it.

Not just noise.

A disturbance.

If you’ve spent enough time around animals, you learn there’s a difference.

Within seconds I had socks on, my steel-toe boots pulled up, a corduroy jacket over my pajamas, and the closest thing within reach that gave me some distance—an industrial deck brush with a hollow steel handle.

I flipped on the backyard lights and grabbed the only flashlight immediately available: my iPhone.

Mental note… find the Maglite.

From my backyard I could see enough to realize something wasn’t right.

At first I noticed the cat.

Calm.

Watching.

Then I caught movement.

It looked like an opossum had wandered through an open coop door and into the attached run.

Honestly, I was slightly relieved.

I grew up around opossums.

My grandparents volunteered with wildlife rehabilitation, transporting injured animals to DNR rescue facilities. I also have a family story involving my older brother, an opossum, the middle of the night, and an old pickup truck that still makes me laugh decades later.

Opossums usually aren’t looking for a fight.

They’re looking for the easiest meal they can find.

Eggs.

Feed.

Insects.

But corner almost any wild animal, and the situation changes.

My concern wasn’t that an opossum had shown up.

My concern was that frightened chickens and a frightened wild animal had suddenly been forced into the same small space.

So I stayed on my side of the fence.

Not because I was unwilling to help.

Because stewardship also requires discernment.

I made enough noise to let whatever was inside know it wasn’t alone while doing everything I reasonably could to get my neighbors’ attention.

Eventually they came outside.

The coop door had been accidentally left open.

The opossum had escaped.

Every hen appeared to be safe.

By the time I came back inside, it was just after 2:00 a.m.

Nearly an hour had passed.

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This morning I replayed the entire situation.

Not to congratulate myself.

To make sure my thinking matched the facts.

Maybe the opossum would have stolen a few eggs and wandered off.

Maybe nothing worse would have happened.

We’ll never know.

What I do know is this:

Ignoring it wouldn’t have been consistent with the kind of neighbor—or steward—I aim to be.

Those chickens aren’t mine.

That coop isn’t mine.

That responsibility wasn’t technically mine.

But stewardship has never been about ownership.

It’s about recognizing something of value within your reach and choosing not to look the other way.

Whether that’s a neighbor’s chickens.

A struggling coworker.

A customer.

A child.

A community.

Or an opportunity.

The older I get, the more I realize maturity isn’t about involving yourself in every situation.

It’s about developing the discernment to know when your presence helps and how to help without creating more harm.

Sometimes stewardship means stepping in.

Sometimes it means respecting the fence while doing everything you can from your side of it.

Last night, that’s exactly what stewardship looked like.

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What do you think?

When have you found yourself protecting something that wasn’t technically your responsibility—simply because you knew it mattered?