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And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: . . . And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men. And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, . . . And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. (Luke 2:8-16)
The Youngest Shepherd
I must confess that I
do not like sheep. The lambs
kick at the slightest whim, the older
ones turn away when
they should follow,
straying blindly. They must
be constantly herded, pressing
against each other’s flanks, bleating
continuously, for no apparent reason.
I was only a child.
It was my first winter
on the cold hillsides, among
grown men who either
paid me no heed or teased
me unmercifully. I sat
on the outskirts
of the group by the fire.
I was warm enough that night,
next to the sleeping dogs, and tired
from a long day of following
lost lambs.
I still do not know how much I dreamed,
what I saw. I only know
the light was intense, the sound
glorious.
The men felt it too.
We left the flocks with
the dogs and groped
our way to the village, the path
uncertain in the torchlight.
By the time we reached
the stable I was wide
awake. But I saw
only a baby
asleep in a makeshift bed, the straw
poking out in all directions, its mother
smiling with tired and happy eyes, its father
hushing us
with a finger.
There was no shining light, no glory there.
And yet—long since I’ve had
anything to do with sheep—
still the memory haunts me.