Black sheep? Moi? Oh yes. Sometimes.
During childhood I cradled my stuffed counterpart, complete with music box.
Amid adolescence I perched it atop the desk handed down from my mother.
Seven decades later, it sits near my keyboard, flop ears and button eyes cocked my way.
Twist the oval brass ring in its belly and the song still plays, almost as if, once again, Mom croons the lullaby words of Brahms. One night, an insecure new mama myself, I asked to hear it again, her voice by then crackly with age.
Sleepyhead, close your eyes.
Mother’s right here beside you.
Do we ever outgrow the childlike longing to be held? Rescued?
Re-wind with me . . .
to a distant, long-ago night. A swaddled infant’s gaze locks on his mother’s brimming eyes.
Perhaps Mary sings:
Guardian angels are near,
So sleep on, with no fear.
From starlit Bethlehem, slip further back in time. A month will do. Picture slopes and valleys partially blanketed in wool, as if fallen clouds rest on the earth. These sheep are specifically raised for temple sacrifice.
And King David’s descendants keep watch.
Farther afield, a grizzled shepherd bows over a feed trough. He swaddles a flailing newborn lamb. The birth rags will protect spindly new legs from harm. Little eyes close, the damp body nestled in warmth.
Does the shepherd pipe a tune?
I’ll protect you from harm,
You will wake in my arms.
What of this motherless lamb? And that bleating ewe, over yonder, grieving a stillborn body?
How gently the shepherd nudges the bereaved aside. How painstakingly he bathes the orphan in the dead lamb’s placental blood.
And then, how wondrous, the milk of recognition, the miracle of adoption!
From these hills we can look toward Bethlehem or, five miles north, toward Jerusalem; from incarnation to eventual crucifixion.
Among these grasslands hundreds and hundreds of lambs — black sheep, white sheep — were once raised for twice-daily sacrifices in the temple.
Thousands more of them met the priestly blade at Passover. BUT . . .
. . . before that feast of remembrance, each household brought their best lamb into their home for several days. Hand-fed it. Treated it as family. Maybe the children named it.
Everyone knew that when they presented their gift to the priest, he would ask them one question: “Do you love this lamb?”
Spotless, tenderly cherished lambs led to the temple.
My threadbare black sheep on my desk.
Heaven’s Lamb — who loves us.
Now and forever NOEL, noel, noel . . .
Black sheep, white sheep: Photo by Megan Johnston on Unsplash
Close-up, white sheep Photo by Sam Carter on Unsplash
Lamb: Photo by Bill Fairs on Unsplash
https://video.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search?fr=yhs-trp-001&ei=UTF-8&hsimp=yhs-001&hspart=trp&p=celine+dion+brahms+lullaby&type=Y235_F163_217427_042622#id=1&vid=150f47cd4fb7c8d9305ca40e9f5ccbe2&action=click
Thank you for such a thought out and beautiful message, Laurie. Love your depth:)
You are so welcome. It was intriguing to learn more about shepherds and lambs and ancient traditions.
Wishing you a joyous new year, friend!
Do we ever outgrow the childlike longing to be held? Rescued? – Nope.
And then, how wondrous, the milk of recognition, the miracle of adoption! – how wonderfully said.
I love the photos included.
Certainly puts faces to your offering.
Thank you, once again.
You are so welcome! You might have noticed I like surprises. Each of these creaturely posts has startled me.
In a similar spirit, last Sunday for our family Christmas Dreamer and I and the four grand-kids enacted a surprise trip to Bethlehem, here, where we live, as a gift for their moms and dads who’ve heard the Story every year of their lives. It included “putting faces on” DIY sheep, angels, stars, shepherds and the census taker, plus an almost life-size holy family.
None of the parents saw it coming. All entered in.
Still smiling.
May The Birth surprise us all, again and again, long as we have faces, long as we draw breath . . .
How uncanny that several weeks ago a fellow blogger shared about the new, unblemished lambs born on Bethlehem’s hillsides were swaddled to keep them pure prior to sacrifice. I didn’t that, and now you mention it again, Laurie! That word “swaddled” in the angel’s message to the shepherds surely would have meant much more to them than a simple description of which babe in Bethlehem was the Messiah. It would have identified Jesus as the Lamb of God the Jewish people had awaited for centuries., the One who would save his people from their sins once and for all (Isaiah 53:7)!
Nancy, I was surprised and delighted to learn about this ancient practice. How wonderful others are writing about it.
And yes, I bet those shepherds felt twice-honored: foremost, by hearing from angels, and then, being addressed in the language and practice of their lifelong vocation. Talk about personal!
Love your observation about the way it “identified Jesus” as the long-awaited Lamb.
Wishing you blessings at Christmas, friend. May you and your dear ones rejoice in the all-encompassing Presence . . .