Returning to the Fields

 Returning to the Fields

      I once was a shepherd who tended a flock.  But that seems like a long time ago.  A time before an opportunity came to leave the flock and to enter an office.  The office offered more comfort, it offered more finances, it offered what seemed like a dream opportunity.  It offered more influence, more authority.  It offered predictability and a roof over my head.  It would provide a bank account that would be in the green and not the red.  It would allow us to live for tomorrow instead of today.  Who wouldn’t want to sit behind the desk and leave behind the dirt, pain, and mystery of the flock.  Who wouldn’t want to lay down the staff that calloused your hands and the heat of the midday.  The only caveat, I had to leave the field.  A field that I had tended, a field that I was called to, a field of sheep that needed a shepherd.  The glitter of the office can blind you; the offer can make you stagger with potential opportunities.  Was it wrong to set aside the staff to go into the office?  I have pondered that long and hard.  A shepherd doesn’t seem like a good fit for the office.  To be fair, no serious office would ever seriously consider a shepherd’s resume.  The office wasn’t the wrong move; it was a God move….but for a different reason then I could have envisioned.  The office didn’t benefit me as the shepherd, but instead it would benefit the most precious sheep entrusted to my care.  I loved that sheep.  I would lay down my life for that sheep.  I tended to that sheep for fourteen years.  I adored her more then any other in the field.  Her heart was to go.  She knew it, she was convinced of it.  This shepherd wasn’t so convinced, but I knew it was the right move.  I knew that leaving the green pastures and the bleating of the sheep would hurt, but would be worth it to tend to the one in which my soul loved.  So, I took off my garments, laid them aside to be forgotten.  In the corner near the door I put my staff and rod.  And there I labored until the valley of the shadow of death pounced on us.  My sheep that I loved became sick.  I desperately poured out all that I had for my precious one.  I protected, provided, and loved….until finally my sheep died in my arms.  There is nothing more painful then watching the final breaths of your love one escape their lungs.  To hold their body until it slowly grows colder and colder.  It bring the sheep near to you so you can smell them one more time, so you can nuzzle into their wool.  My sheep went to her chief shepherd….a place of unending green pastures and still waters.  She is tended by the only one that could love her more then me.  And that is where my precious sheep rests now….on a mountain high and untainted by disease or death.  She will never be molested by death’s cold hand again.  She went to the chief shepherd who over twenty years ago called me to His field.  She rested in a place of unending green pastures and cool, still waters.  Her journey through the valley of the shadow of death ended with glorious light and the welcoming voice of that Chief Shepherd saying, “Welcome home good and faithful servant.” 

      The loss of that sheep changed me deeply.  I cared for that sick and dying sheep.  I held nothing back.  I loved without regret.  I miss that sheep that was given to me to tend to.  I always will miss my sheep with the darkest of brown wool and eyes to match.  I miss that sheep’s laugh, constant presence.  How she would listen to this shepherd drone on and on about nothing.  I miss her patience, her tender care.  To this day I ache for that sheep that was mine.  After she passed away I returned to the office, and the office felt empty.  A dream built for two became a nightmare for one.  The office was no longer a palace, but a prison.  Peace gave way to panic, anticipation gave way to anxiety, and pain replaced purpose.  I sat in my chair behind my old wooden desk.  I was a shell of what I was, or what I was supposed to be.  The office was never my home or my calling.  It was a triage center to provide purpose and happiness to my sheep.  I sat behind the desk in that cold and sterile room and it dawned on me, this was never about me….it was about her.  A shepherd always sacrifices for his sheep, even if it costs him his safety, his happiness, or his security.  The shepherd gives himself away, bit by bit so the sheep can thrive.  She lays awake at night so they can sleep, he starves so they can eat, he worries so they can be at peace, he works so they can rest.  I might be behind a desk, but I was still a shepherd.  I faced an identity crisis.  I could stay in the office and honor my long gone sheep.  I tried, but that wasn’t fulfilling.  It left me emptier, a deeper void.  She sheepfold felt further away from her.  Plus I had been an abused shepherd….one hurt and injured.  One wounded deeply.  The field was a place of painful memories.  Plus the field meant facing more uncertainty, more question marks.  It meant changing things.  Shepherds don’t like change.  They like certainty, predictability.  This shepherd was already tired of change, I was willing to endure my own demise if it meant not having to alter my plans or change my now predictable life.  But my heart ached, my soul burned.  Something deep within me, something that could only be divine sparked.

      It was then that I heard a voice that I recognized.  It was the voice of my Chief Shepherd.  He gently said to me, “Son, it’s time.”  I said to my Shepherd, “what is it time for?”  And again, with the voice of deepest empathy and love He said “It’s time to come home to the field.  You have worked but not worshipped.  You have helped but not healed.  You have tirelessly served, but you haven’t tended My lambs.  It’s time to come back to the fields, to the place where the little lambs mourn and weep.  It’s time to sit with the broken and weep with them again.  You’ve done what I asked.  You have finished this course.  You loved the sheep that I gave you deeply.  Take me by the hand and come back.”  I cried deeply and simply said “I know it’s time.  I’m ready.”  But He said to me, your flock will be different this time.  They will be just like you.  They will be wounded and hurting.  They will also have lost their most precious sheep.  Some of those don’t know me as their Shepherd.  They will question the value of life itself.  You won’t be tending near the green grass or the still waters this time.  Your flock is lost in the valley of the shadow of death.”  I swallowed hard because I had lived there for so long.  I knew the landscape well.  I felt the scorched grass under my feet, the torturous heat from the journey.  I remember the anxiety and pain that I felt as I walked through that place that felt so barren and deserted.  It was the valley that broke me, and it was there that God was asking me to return.

     So I left that which was predictable and provided, to enter into the unknown, and yet known at the same time.  I looked in the corner and there stood the garments and tools of my former trade.  A trade that had I had become bitter over, a trade that I said, no, never again.  I walked over and  I held the shepherd’s garment in my hands.  I brought it close to my nose and smelled the old smell.  To be honest it smelled like tears and blood.  It was stained with mud and dirt.  That garment could tell a story of walking through the deepest waters with sheep.  It smelled like smoke from the fiery trails in which it helped others endure.  It even stunk a little bit like pain, betrayal, shortcomings, failure, and my own battle with self worth.  I put the garment back on.  To my surprise it fit.  It was comfortable.  It was right.  I looked in the corner and grabbed my old staff.  I held it in my hand.  I forgot what it felt like.  Long had been the time since I held the staff, but it felt like it was back where it belonged….or maybe it was me that belonged to the task of the staff.  The staff called to me from afar.  The staff that was used to guide sheep, to lead them and to love them.  The staff was grizzled from previous use.  It didn’t glisten with new stain like it did decades before.  Its veneer was gone, gloss faded away.  You could see moments where my hands gripped tightly.  Ding and knicks from where I fought off the wolves.  The staff was darker, but more beautiful.  The most beautiful tool of my trade.  How I missed leaning on it, leading with it. 

      I left the office and I stood at the gate of the sheepfold and paused.  I knew that once I walked through the gate that there was no going back.  I knew that things would not be the same.  That I would leave the predictable, the comfortable, that which provided well to sleep back under the stars, to grasp a staff ready to defend my sheep, to be used for the glory of God by tending to the needs of others.  I hesitated for a moment, the handle in my hand.  Can I do this I asked myself?  Can I take this great adventure?  But then I heard the sound in the distance.  A sound that I had not heard for a long time.  A sound that broke me the first time I donned the garment and held the staff.  It was the sound of the sheep, bleating for help, needing comfort, needing fed, needing loved, needing healed…..needing a simple shepherd.  Not an office manager, not someone with soft hands and an ivory tower, but instead a shepherd like unto themselves as sheep.  One that understood and had empathy. Someone who loved and lost.  One that would go to the ends of the world for their plight.  I cried at that moment.  The Chief Shepherd long ago called me to these fields.  Called me to leave safety, comfort, and predictability behind, and instead to step into the great unknown of faith.  I missed the sound of the sheep.  I didn’t realize until that moment.  I opened the gate, took a deep breath, and set my bare feet on the grass.  I heard a voice in the wind gently whisper, welcome home shepherd, welcome home.  If you love me, tend to my sheep.  They are not just my Chief Shepherd’s flock, but they are mine.

      So now I’m in the field of the valley of the shadow of death.  I hear their cries; I see the tears that run down their woolen face.  I see their lack of strength.  I get to pick them up and hold them.  I hear them bleating at all hours of the night.  I gently use my staff to guide them.  My garment is covered with their tears, their blood, their dirt.  I sit in the ashes with them in this valley.  Most shepherds long for the green pastures and the still waters.  Not this shepherd.  My sheep do not wander there.  My sheep are here in the lowlands.  My sheep struggle to find blades of green grass or a comfortable place to lay down their head.  My sheep need to be held and comforted.  My sheep need to be heard.  My sheep need a shepherd who is empathetic.  They don’t need a shepherd who studied sheep, but one who is a sheep themselves.  My sheep don’t need lectures or lessons…. they need love.  They need hope and healing in a barren wasteland designed seemingly for their demise.  It is in this place of chaos and smoke and ashes that I have found my home……I have found my flock…. I have found my purpose.