I’m back to the shepherds again.
I know I should know which Sunday we hear the story about the shepherds who, told by a choir of angels about the birth of the Christ child, went to see for themselves what Love looks like. But all I can remember about that Sunday is how it hit me, again, about the shepherds.
Because, you see, as the mother of two pre-school aged children I am one. The shepherding gig is a labor of love. We shepherds often go several days with out the luxury of a bath. As a shepherd I have within my charge those who don’t have the capacity to understand even what their own needs are, much less the sacrifice it takes to meet those needs. The job of a shepherd can be as physically taxing, emotionally draining, socially isolating, as it is rewarding, with payments in snuffly kisses and enthusiastic neck hugs.
And yet, the job of a shepherd is so vital that it was shepherds who were invited to be the first to witness Love Incarnate, the birth of the God of the Universe, wrapped not in glory by the hands of angles, but in swaddling clothes by the hands of a scared fifteen year old girl.
And, get this: while we don’t know any of their names, still, two thousand years later, you can not tell the story of the birth of the Savior of the world with out including those shepherds in it.
This Christmas, may you know that you too are valued and cherished by the only One whose opinion really matters, and that two thousand years from now, He will cherish you still.
Merry Christmas
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