Feed My Sheep

The sky was clear and sunny, but the wind blew from the north. Spring took its time finding the Bar MK ranch — in the valley between Bear Lake and the Wasatch Mountains.

The little girl, maybe 10 years-old, was named for her dad. The youngest of six kids, she would rather help with the animals and fields than be cooped up inside doing housework.

And so it happened that she and her dad rode across the ranch one afternoon: he on his favorite horse and she on a horse named Copper.

She heard the sounds of two tiny lambs before she saw them. Bleating and alone. No mama in sight.

Her dad dismounted his horse to get a closer look. Lambs separated from the flock wouldn’t last long on the range.

He lifted one lamb onto the horse in front of the girl. He placed the other lamb in front of his saddle.

The girl and her dad got home before sundown. The lambs were hungry. Someone would need to take care of the lambs until they could fend for themselves. She volunteered for the job, feeding each one a bottle of milk several times a day.

You could say she rescued the lambs. 

When the lambs were big enough, the little girl’s dad sheared the wool. The girl and her dad drove to the mill where the wool was untangled and cleaned, then dyed (she chose dark pink and light blue) and spun into two blankets.

The little girl grew up. She left the cattle ranch to attend college and become a high school teacher.

Later she met the man she would marry. She returned home to get her things. She packed embroidered pillow cases, dish towels, a dark pink blanket and a light blue one.

My siblings and I used those blankets throughout our childhoods. When my mom snuggled us under the blankets, she’d remember the story of the two little lambs. And she’d tell us.

It wasn’t until much later that I began to see the story of the lambs as a metaphor for my mom’s life. 

I mean I saw it as a child. I was with her when she drove 30 minutes or more every week to pick up a child for primary and then take him home afterward.

I remember their faces. The boy my brother’s age whose parents didn’t come to church. The little girls who lived in an old house downtown.

She’d open a can of soup those evenings. We’d eat soup and oyster crackers and grilled cheese sandwiches with a glass of milk.

I remember the woman from the Philippines who married an American soldier. My mom helped her with English and family history. Later during a difficult teenage year, her son lived with my parents.

I remember the family from Japan down the street. Their boy was friends with my brother. My mom visited with the woman when the boys played. Yukia brought my mom a pearl after one of her trips home. 

A number of my mom’s closest friends brought their kids to church alone. They joined mom’s fold.

One of these friends called when her little boy was hit by a garbage truck. My mom was one of the first responders and took the woman’s daughter home to spend several days. That little girl became one of my lifelong best friends.

A professional woman in her early 20’s with no family around, came for dinner every Sunday. Later a student from halfway across the country regularly pulled a chair up to our table.

When she saw someone new walk into church, my mom would hurry over to introduce herself. You can bet she was the first person they’d talk to. She’d find a connection right away and they were officially friends.

If you needed a friend, she’d be yours. She didn’t fret that she couldn’t feed the whole world. She fed the person next to her.

I think my mom’s experience with the two lambs helped her learn early how to look outside herself. She learned to really see a person. And see ways she could help. She learned that a small thing like a smile, hug or a bottle of milk can make a difference.

Sometimes a small thing, or series of them, could rescue a person.

• 

• 

• 

I’m not saying these friendships were one-way. I can only imagine what her friends gave her — the little girl who grew up with more livestock than people as neighbors.

She got to know people from around the world. She loved people whose lives looked totally different from hers. People who were brave enough to try new things and go new places.

The story of the lambs came to mind when I read about the Savior’s names: The Good Shepherd and the Lamb of God. Both sheep and shepherd. The sheep, a similitude of His sacrifice. The shepherd seeking the one who is lost. 

Jesus told Peter, “Feed my sheep.” He repeated it three times. 

I think He meant this. 

• Do what you can.
• Help one person. And then another.
• Sometimes you will need help; other times you can give help. Both of these times can be sacred.
• Remember your life isn’t all about you.
• You are like Him when you really see a person. When you offer your hand or your voice.

In those moments you get to be a little bit like Him.