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Topic: Precious (11/14/24)
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TITLE: The Wanderer | Previous Challenge Entry
By Jack Taylor
11/17/24 -
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Two days before Passover I got the tingles bad. My arms shook like a man with palsy. Josh, my good friend noticed first. “Jeremy,” he called. “There’s not a cloud in the sky. What’s going on?”
I held my hands up, watching them shimmy like we’d been caught in a quake. “Not sure,” I answered. “We better get the flock together, just in case.”
Nabu, my herding dog, rounded up the strays and we counted every woolly coat, checking for tics, rubbing oil into wounds, massaging the heads of the ewes ready to lamb. These were precious treasures, each one. We’d named the sheep and I welcomed each by name. Josh was counting as they passed under his shepherd’s staff. Something wasn’t quite right. “What did you get?” I asked.
“One’s missing,” he said.
“Who?”
“Sheba.”
“Not Sheba!” That was the one-year-old we’d set aside for the king’s Passover sacrifice. He was the perfect choice. The high priest himself had examined the little one a week ago and smiled his favor. This was our chance to share the quality of our breed. “Guard the others!” I said. “I’m going to look for him.”
As I rushed to the top of a nearby hill, the first dark clouds crawled over the forest. They’d been like lions on the prowl, hiding in ambush. I scanned the perimeter, seeing nothing. A lamb would be a perfect snack for the wolves, bears, jackals, and even lions slinking through the woods.
Sheba! I remember the day he was born. Eager to get his knobbly knees under him, scrambling to his feet, nuzzling my hands before turning to nurse. How marvelous new life was. He grew out the whitest coat and frolicked in the meadow, chasing butterflies like a child. As the law commanded, we took him in as a precious pet, caring for his every need, returning him frequently to mingle with the others.
And now, he’d gone.
Our neighboring shepherd, Zeke hadn’t seen Sheba, Neither had Miah, the fowler who traipsed through the forest snaring birds. I stumbled through thicket, grove, and copse of trees by the creek. By then, the clouds had emerged from their ambush and swallowed the sun. I listened for the faintest bleating carried by the breeze now bending the green peaks atop the forest. Nothing.
I should have brought Nabu. His keen dog nose might have sniffed out the stray. Too late now. I raced into gulleys and ravines, peeking into caves. The first drops soaked into my tunic and I wrapped the shawl tighter around my face as the wind howled. I’d stubbed my toe and my foot throbbed but there was no stopping. Small rivulets started rushing down the hills caking my feet in mud.
I bowed my head, raised a quick prayer, and pushed on. I pressed into the teeth of the storm. And then, there he was. Out on a ledge, caught in a thicket. I doffed my sandals, sought out rocks to anchor myself, and climbed to his perch. He was bleating hard into the falling darkness. I untangled him from the snare, stuffed him inside my outercoat and returned to firmer ground.
Now, was the moment of decision. This lamb, so precious, had broken the fundamental rules of a flock. He’d strayed. Every shepherd knew the remedy. The lamb would have a leg broken and then be carried back on the shoulders of the shepherd where its leg would be splinted. In this way, it would learn not to wander.
But this was the king’s chosen Passover lamb. A lamb that had to be perfect. A lamb too precious to harm. What would I do? The future of our flock as the king’s choice was at stake. Still, a shepherd does what must be done. I snapped Sheba’s leg, slung him over my shoulder, and returned home, soaked to the bone. The splint would do its work in time. He would heal, but he’d never understand that another would be the sacrifice in his place. Wandering is costly.
Luke 15
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