The Invitation

A few weeks ago, the Shepherd left a note in my mailbox. It was an invitation. Would I be willing to join him in his work in a neighboring town? The situation was that I would climb the mountain on set days to continue loving my little flock, but my focus would become serving a much larger flock. A flock I also loved and would come to love more dearly.

Moving with him meant leaving this cozy hut and its beautiful setting. No more waking with the reflection of water dancing on my ceiling. No more listening to the wind running its fingers through the tree tops that screen my little nest. No more quiet evenings with us sitting in front of a warm fireplace. It meant trading this peaceful honeymoon suite - where he had wooed my heart, my trust, my love - for the grime, noise, and stench of a busy town populated with unsightly people.

Of course I will come. This hut I love so dearly is only a shell if you, dear Shepherd, are not here.

And so I packed my bags and came. We walked down the mountain together, talking of precious treasures to come. Nearly at the bottom, the Shepherd sat down under a clump of pines and told me to go on ahead, cross the bridge, and wait for him on the other side. But, when I came to the bridge, I found it terribly broken down, uncrossable, with the river raging. Running back to the Shepherd, I reported my find. "We'll need to take the long route," he replied; and he picked up our bags and began to move downstream. Planting myself, I cried, "Shepherd, there is no other way! The river is long and dangerous. There is no other safe crossing point!" He turned and, looking at me with his penetrating eyes, stretched out his hand to me. "Will you trust me?" he gently asked.


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