[SB] Sabbath Blessing

[Molly Wolf]

Cinders

I am having a difficult time plying this yarn. I have spun three 
singles -- individual strands -- of this pale grey fleece, and now I 
want to spin the three strands together into a yarn that will be 
correctly twisted, not too much, not too little. But I'm badly out of 
practice, and it doesn't go well. The yarn doesn't look or feel right.

This is particularly un-good because it's such pretty fleece. It 
comes from a sheep called Cinders, who lives on a farm north and west 
of here. Tracy, who bred Cinders, always smiles when I mention her 
fleece. Like most people who raise sheep for fleece, she knows her 
sheep as individuals.

It was a revelation to me, getting to know sheep -- getting to know 
that they aren't nearly as stupid as I thought. The sharpest knives 
in the draw of the animal kingdom, no: they have nothing on rats or 
pigs, much less dolphins. But they just as those of us with cats and 
dogs speak of our covivants as our fur-persons, sheep (and alpaca and 
llamas) are fleece-people, distinct and individual.

It is, of course, different at (say) Topsy Farm on Amherst Island, 
which has a herd of something like a couple of thousand sheep bred 
for lamb chops. We don't like to think of them, or chickens or 
turkeys or cattle or pigs, as meat-people. We're not going to go there.

But to the people of the Bible, sheep were both fleece- and 
meat-people, and more than that: units of fundamental well-being and 
of wealth. We, who are separated from that world, don't "get" what 
shepherding was about, or why it mattered so much.

Shepherding requires far more thought than we think it does. It's not 
just about making sure that the sheep stay in a herd -- that's what 
sheep do instinctively anyway. It's not just about protecting them 
from predators, although that's an important part of the job. It's 
also about choosing breeding mates, about finding pasturage -- no 
mean feat in arid country!  It's about doctoring the sick and helping 
with births and looking after lambs. It's intensely hands-on, and 
it's an occupation requiring judgment and a sort of detached but 
definite love.

Most of the shepherds I know are women, and they are motherly towards 
their flocks. They see each sheep clearly and with detachment, but 
also with a strong desire for the sheep's well-being. They are 
intensely pragmatic and unsentimental, but also devoted. The hours 
they put in during lambing season are endless, but so is the joy of 
each birth.

They have taught me more about Jesus than any piece of doctrine.

I took that with me to church this morning. I sat out the service 
next to my favourite window -- favourite not for aesthetic reasons 
(it's actually quite ghastly, in an awful late-Victorian way), but 
because it shows Jesus with a lamb laid across his shoulders and two 
sheep peeking out from behind his florid robes. This window drew me 
into my new parish, and I sit by it whenever I'm not in choir.

I thought of the lambs I've held -- quivering, lively, intensely 
curious, but ready to bolt, mouthing my fingers and jacket because 
that's how they explore. Getting hands-on with lambs was a 
revelation. I had no idea that something I thought of as rather 
stupid could be so intensely lovable. And maybe that's us.

For a lamb to lie quietly across the shepherd's shoulders speaks of 
woundedness and trust. If the lamb wasn't wounded,  it would be 
bounding along beside its dam. But it also knew to trust the shepherd 
deeply and completely. Maybe if we did that, acknowledging our 
woundedness and entrusting ourselves to our Shepherd, life would be different.

I know only that I am a lamb of his flock, just as dumb/intelligent, 
trusting/anxious, vulnerable/bold as any other lamb. But I trust him 
to come after me when I'm lost and bring me home.