The Missing Shepherd

Every year as a part of our family's Christmas celebration, I'm in charge of the Nativity. I've provided various versions over the years and this was one of my favorites.

As I've mentioned before, I'm all about seeing stories from different perspectives. I suppose it was only natural that I write about one of the most famous stories in history from a different angle. I was even able to convince one of my brothers to pose for a photo to include as a visual while I read this short story to my family on Christmas Eve.

I woke to the sounds of rejoicing, but was confused for the reason. In the darkness, it seemed as if the noise was from my brothers, coming towards me. But I was unprepared for their story.

It had a typical morning for me. I rose from my bed, hearing my brothers already awake and preparing to head to the pastures. I splashed my face with water, thankfully not too cold. It had been a long winter; spring had finally come upon us in the last weeks. I dawned my tunic, tying it at the waist before grabbing my scrip and leaving the tent.

My brothers greeted me before returning to their preparations. Being the sixth son, I’d always been the runt brother. My nearest brother in age was still eight years my senior. Our eldest brother, Timothy, was a good and patient man. Since the death of our parents, he has lead our family and we’ve prospered well. I was but a child when we’d lost our father, two short years after our mother died bringing a sister into the world, who we’d also lost when an illness swept our village a few months later. Father never recovered, leaving six sons to tend his flocks.

As I filled my scrip with supplies and prepared my water bag, I could hear some of my brothers grumbling. This had become a traditional start to the day and a large part of who I was in my brothers’ eyes. I never woke early enough, wasn’t fast enough, efficient enough, or careful enough. Timothy always hushed them, reminding them that they were young once and also had to learn the skills necessary to becoming a successful shepherd, as our father was. I did my best to ignore their murmuring as I grabbed the final item, my precious reed pipe. It was the only thing I had of my father’s.

Reaching the pasture with my brothers, we took inventory of what needed to be done. Due to the lengthy winter we’d experienced, we were behind in our preparations for spring. The sheep still wore their winter fleece and many of the ewes were due to give birth. We had delivered several of our nanny goats the previous week and had to tend to the newborn kids. There was still much to be done. Timothy made assignments and we went to work.

I was assigned the back of our pasture, my usual task. It was a place I was comfortable with as my favorites of the flock tend to dwell near a tiny stream by the hill. It took near an hour to reach, but was worth the trip. I took to a run and reached my destination in record time.

My morning was full of sheering sheep, gathering the wool to take to market to fetch a price. I’d wondered if Timothy might let me join him in the barter as the village dressmaker had a beautiful young daughter I fancied. I was almost of age and wanted to impress her with my abilities to provide for a family. Despite the grumblings of my other brothers, Timothy told me that I had the skills needed to be a good shepherd. I was patient with my sheep and goats. I knew them personally, giving them names and knowing by each bleat from their mouths what they required. I had a sense when one or several of my flock were in trouble – whether spooked by a wolf or caught in the briar. 

Once I’d had a feeling about one of our rams when I couldn’t see him. He was always in close proximity to the stream and never wandered unless beckoned by me. This day, I couldn’t see him and had a sense that something was wrong. Without causing panic, as my flock would have felt my distress, I quickly made my way through the herd, checking as I went toward the well that was located halfway between our tents and the back of the pasture. In recounting the events to Timothy, he taught that it was because of my faith in the Divine and my understanding of my flock that I was able to know precisely where this ram would have gone. Sure enough, I’d found him stuck trying to reach the water bucket at the well. I rescued him and he followed me back to the stream. I’ve never since seen him away from his station. That must have been enough adventure for his lifetime.

As the sun rose directly above me, I decided to stop for my midday meal. Pulling the cheese and olives from my scrip, I gazed at the work I’d done. More than half of the sheep had been sheered. I’d have little to do before nightfall. 

Before I could finish my meal, I heard a little bleat from one of the new kids near a briar bush. I looked in the direction from which I’d heard the sound and spotted five kids standing around the bush, no doubt looking at one of their own who’d wandered too close and found themselves stuck. When I reached the curious group and found this to be truth, I freed the little goat’s ear from the thorns and sent them on their way. The rescued kid gave a grateful noise before pouncing along with the others.

I’d left myself very little to do and had finished the sheering shortly after midday. Wiping my brow, I checked the herd to see if there was anything I’d missed. When I found my work complete, I retired to my watch place, pulled my pipe from my scrip and began to play. 

This was a soothing action for both myself and my flock. The soft sounds echoed off the surrounding hills, causing a sense of peace to fall upon us. I found myself growing tired as I continued the melody.

My next memory was hearing the voices of my brothers. Opening my eyes abruptly, I found myself in the darkness. It hadn’t been the first time I’d fallen to sleep on my watch. Concerned of my brothers’ wrath, I prepared my retort that I’d only succumbed to my sleep after all the work had been done. However, it wasn’t anger in their voices, but rejoicing as they reached my side.

I was suddenly in the depths of their tale – of the star that shone more brightly, marking a place over Bethlehem, our home. As they were pondering over the star, they had been approached by bright figures, angels Timothy declared, who spoke to them saying to fear not and that the Christ child of Whom we’d waited so long to come had been born this night. In their jubilation, they hastened to a stable beneath its marker, where they found the babe lying in a manger. 

They spoke of the radiant mother and proud father, testifying to the truthfulness of the angels’ message. My brothers shared the peace and joy they felt in that sacred place. Regretfully leaving the young family, but filled with hope, Timothy looked to his brethren with him and realized that I had not been there. They ran to be at my side, to share the news and bear witness of all they had seen.

After their tale was thru, my brothers began their journey home to tell their wives and children. Timothy remained behind. “How sorry I am, little brother, that you were not with us this night, for you could have seen for yourself.”

I shook my head. “All’s well, my brother, for I was with my sheep. I needn’t see to know the truth of what happened this night.”

Timothy smiled and nodded, clapping his arm around my shoulders. Seeing the collected wool, he helped carry a load and we followed our brethren home to rejoice together.