The Shepherd and the Lost Lamb

There was a shepherd who had one hundred sheep.

That's a lot of sheep, {child_name}. Try counting to a hundred sometime — it takes a while.

But he knew them all. Every single one.

He knew the fat one who always shoved to the front at dinner. He knew the shy one who hid behind the others. He knew the one with the crooked ear who sneezed when it was windy.

They weren't just sheep to him. They were his sheep, and each one had a face he'd have known anywhere.

One evening, as the sun went orange behind the hill, he counted them into the fold the way he did every night.

“Ninety-seven… ninety-eight… ninety-nine…”

He stopped.

He counted again, slower.

“Ninety-nine.”

Somewhere out there in the going-dark was one small lamb, on its own, among the rocks and the thorny bushes, with no idea which way was home.

Now — ninety-nine is a very good number. Almost everybody would say ninety-nine is plenty.

The shepherd didn't even think about it.

He picked up his lantern and went out into the night.

He climbed the rocky places. He looked under the thorn bushes. He called and called, and his voice went out across the hills and came back to him empty.

The stars came out. His legs ached. His lantern got low.

And still he went on, because somewhere out there was one small sheep who belonged to him, and he was not going home without it.

And then — very faint, from down among the rocks —

“meh.”

The smallest sound in the whole world.

And there it was. Muddy. Shivering. Extremely sorry for itself.

The shepherd didn't tell it off. He didn't say “you silly thing” or “why did you wander?”

He just knelt down in the dark and picked that little lamb up and put it round his shoulders, the way shepherds do — and started the long walk home.

The sun came up while they were walking.

And when he got back he called out to everyone he met: “I found her! She was lost and I found her!” — as if one small muddy lamb were the best news anybody had ever had.

Because to him, it was.