The Shepherd's Call

I took a little child’s hand in mine. We were to walk together for awhile. I was to lead him to the Father. It was a task that overcame me, so awful was the responsibility. And so I talked to the child only of the Father. I pointed to the sternness of His face were the child to displease Him. I spoke of the child’s goodness as something that would appease the Father’s wrath. We walked under the tall trees. I said the Father had the power to bring them crashing down with His thunderbolts. We walked in the sunshine. I told him of the greatness of the Father who made the burning, blazing. Sun. And one twilight we met the Father. The child hid behind me. He was afraid. He wound not take the Father’s hand. I was between the child and the Father. I wondered. I had been so conscientious, so serious.

I took a little child’s hand in mine. I was to lead him to the Father. I felt burdened with a multiplicity of things I had to teach him. We did not ramble. We hastened from spot to spot. At one moment we compared the leaves of different trees. The next moment we were examining a bird’s nest. While the child questioned me about it, I hurried him away to chase a butterfly. Did he chance to fall asleep, I wakened him, lest he miss something I wished him to see. We spoke of the Father. Oh, yes, often and rapidly, I poured into his little ear all the stories I thought he ought to know. But we were often interrupted by the wind blowing, of which we must trace its source. And then in the twilight we met the Father. The child merely glanced at Him and then his gaze wandered in a dozen directions. The Father stretched out His hand. The child was not interested enough to take it. Feverish spots burned in his cheeks. He dropped exhausted to the ground and fell asleep. Again I was between the child and the Father. I wondered. I had taught him so many things.

I took a little child’s hand to lead him to the Father. My heart full of gratitude for the privilege. We walked slowly. I suited my steps to the short ones of the child. We spoke of many things the child noticed. Sometimes we picked the Father’s flowers and stroked their soft petals and loved their bright colors….Sometimes we watched one of the Father’s birds. We watched it build its nest and lay its eggs. We wondered, elated a the care it gave its young….Often we told stories of the Father. I told them to the child and the child told them again to me. We told them, the child and I over and over again. Sometimes we stopped to rest, leaning against one of the Father’s trees and letting His cool breeze cool our brows, never speaking. And then in the twilight we met the Father. The child’s eyes shone. He looked lovingly, trustingly into the Father’s face. He put his hand into the Father’s hand. I was for the moment forgotten. I was content.

Journals of the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd 1984-1997, page 16

These words sum up my passion. Sometimes, this is what I eat, drink, and sleep for days at a time. I know many might find my work to be one great big yawn or even offensive. And I can't explain "the why" behind how children's spiritual formation interests me so, except to say, it's way down deep inside me.

Though I have many irons in the fire, my calling lately is concentrated on The Shepherd's Call, a project to invite Protestant Evangelicals like myself to reflective ways of working with children in ministry. When my dear friend and Shepherd's Call partner and I launch our website, I'll let you know.