Thank heaven

We. Like sheep. Gone astray? Not always. So trusting, though. Some seem so much like us, then are not. Wolves. Dressed like us, but they're not like us.

A Shepherd. He would know us, speak to us, tenderly, calmly. He not only knows our names, but gave us our names. Preciously, purposefully named us. His voice, we know it. We know the velvet, the softness, the smoothness, the inviting fragrance that sound can create.

We. Like sheep?

We wander. So prone, so prone to wander. We know that Voice, but we enjoy others too. Too often.

Thank heaven. Thank Heaven for a Shepherd. A Shepherd who knew the importance of inviting earthly shepherds to come and worship Him on the night of His birth. The night He would lay among sheep, among us. A Shepherd who knew He had to stoop down to our height or lack thereof, to show us His heart. A Shepherd who knew that we are oh so limited in what we can comprehend.

We know His voice. But we can't always understand it.

This Shepherd knew He would have to communicate somehow, communicate differently to us, His sheep.

He in His splender, His glory, so bright. Too bright.

We couldn't look right at Him. We might only get to glance at His back as He passes by, sometimes in places we weren't even aware He was surely there.

A reflection might have to do. A dull, but true representation of the Son, like rays dancing on still water, dim, but there. Existent because it's real.

The moment our lips pressed against the fruit, the forbidden... good and evil, knowledge, nakedness. Hiding. Hidden.

The reflections might be harder to find now.  The skin of the fruit we bit off now films over our eyes, shading, sometimes disfiguring what we behold.

Should the reflections give up? We can't always see them. Maybe it's not worth it.

But, no. The Good Shepherd would be good. He would be bright, even when we couldn't see. He would know us, even when His light wasn't responsible for our blindness.

He had a plan. There would be arrows. Arrows shot straight for our hearts, and then pointing up. Everything, arrows everywhere. Pointing, leading, inviting, assuring.

The world broke when the skin on that fruit was pierced. The sweet flavor of fruitful flesh delighted for a moment. Then ate ours. Damaged.

But there was a plan. A reflection, sometimes so dim we'd miss it entirely.

We. Like sheep. So, so like sheep. He would walk with us along water, to see His reflection when we'd follow Him only to see His back sometimes.

He would orchestrate every facet of our lives, and as we'd walk through each day along the waters, we might see Him.

Thank heaven for a Savior. For a Shepherd.