I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me…”
— John 10:14 (NRSV)

On a wall near her kitchen table were the words my grandmother prayed each morning as she ended her time of quiet communion with God: “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want ….” That was the image of Christ she carried in her heart and life — the image of the strong and tender Shepherd who will not lose even one of his sheep. For my grandmother, too, was a goodly shepherd, a curate to the world around her, caring for the lost and broken members of God’s own flock.

As a young boy, I spent a good bit of time with my grandmother, often staying the night with her in the little white frame house she called home. During the day I would work with her in the garden, gathering just enough corn for our supper and a basket of tomatoes for canning. In the evenings I would sit by her side as she read from The Upper Room and the bible she so gently cradled in her hands, as though it were a precious thing, treasured and holy. And from those ancient words that spoke of truth and grace, she would weave stories. And from the stories my grandmother told, God would weave healing and hope.

It happened on a dark and dreary day when I was seven, maybe eight years old. I was sitting alone at her kitchen table imagining that the brown china rabbit I had taken from the shelf was a living thing, a real live rabbit hopping through the forest. The rabbit had been a gift to her from a friend — someone very dear to her heart. On days that were dark and dreary, my grandmother would take the little brown rabbit from the shelf in her kitchen, place it in my hands, and begin to piece together a story. It might be the tale of The Hare and the Tortoise, The Velveteen Rabbit, or a story of her own making about a little brown rabbit that lived in the woods. And always, at the end of the tale, there would be a treat — a small glass of milk, a lemon cookie, and the warm and wonderful feeling of being welcome and wanted in my grandmother’s house.

But on that dark day, when I sat alone with the fragile brown rabbit, I imagined it hopping along — which it did, of course, with the help of my hand. But suddenly it “hopped” too close to the edge of the table and fell. When it landed on the old braided rug beneath the table, it was broken in two. And at that very moment, something inside me was broken, too. Everything was broken. After all, the rabbit had been a gift, something precious and dear to my grandmother’s heart, something that could never be replaced. So I ran. I ran and hid behind the old shed at the far end of the garden, where I was sure I would never be found. I sat there crushed and broken inside, mourning the loss of my grandmother’s love and the trust I had broken along with the rabbit. “No one will ever find me here,” I thought. And after what had just happened, I thought I didn’t deserve to be found.

But as the shepherd seeks the lamb that has strayed, my grandmother sought me. I could hear her footsteps coming closer and closer. As she came around the shed, I braced myself and looked down at the dirt, ready to bear the bitter scolding that surely was coming. I was in tears and trembling silently, because I knew that I was about to hear my own grandmother tell me how terribly disappointed she was in me — how ashamed she was to have such a grandson. She would tell me, surely, that I wasn’t welcome in her house anymore, that she didn’t want me to be her grandson, and never again would I sit at her table or hear her stories or know her love.

Ah, but grandma really was like a shepherd. She was like a goodly shepherd who seeks the one who has gone astray. Instead of scolding, she gathered me up in her arms and gently carried me back to her house and into her kitchen. And there on her kitchen table sat the little brown rabbit, no longer broken but all in one piece, as if it was new. She pointed to the rabbit, put her arms around me, and said, “If I had to, I could probably get along without that rabbit … But I don’t think I could ever do without you.”

That day she gave two lemon cookies and a tall glass of milk. And she told me a story about a little brown rabbit that was broken in two and put back together with a whole lot of love … and a wee bit of glue.

And the truth that Christ has woven in my heart from that experience is at the very heart of all the “I am” sayings of Jesus. It is what our hearts most long to hear: “I am with you… I am with you.”

He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep. — Isaiah 40:11 (NRSV)