Kitchen Table Wisdom

A Kitchen Table Conversation

If I could sit down for coffee with anyone from the biblical Christmas story, besides Jesus, I think I’d choose a shepherd.

Not one of the shepherds who knelt beside the manger, but one I’ve imagined for years. The one who stayed behind with the sheep.

I know Scripture doesn’t tell us anyone stayed behind. But I’ve always wondered who watched the flock while the shepherds hurried off to Bethlehem.

So, I pull out a chair, pour two cups of coffee, and begin.

“Were you afraid when the angel appeared?”

“I was. We all were, especially when the heavenly host followed. The sound of their voices was overwhelming.”

I try to imagine it. One moment, a quiet hillside beneath the stars. The next, the glory of the Lord shining around them and a multitude of heavenly voices proclaiming peace.

“What was it like, kneeling at the manger?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

“You weren’t there?”

“No. Someone needed to stay behind with the sheep.”

I hadn’t expected that answer because it is easy to assume they all went.

“I’d be curious to know. Why you?”

“I volunteered.”

“Why? What made you volunteer to stay behind?”

“I was the youngest. My brothers had been waiting for this night much longer than I had.”

“Tell me more.”

The shepherd lifts his coffee mug, looking thoughtful as he takes a sip.

“I wish I could say it was because I was thinking of a young David, left behind to tend the sheep while his older brothers stood before Samuel. But honestly, that thought came later, as I sat alone with the sheep.”

He pauses.

“We knew the stories, you know. David was a shepherd boy before he became king. And the Messiah was to come from David’s line. When the angel told us a Savior had been born in the city of David, we knew what that meant.”

“Then why didn’t you go?”

“I told you. I was the youngest. My brothers had waited longer. And someone had to watch the sheep.”

“Did you regret staying behind?”

“Not staying, no. But I would have liked to have seen the baby.”

He looks down at his coffee.

“It was nearly daylight when they returned. I could see them coming across the hillside, moving like shadows in the early morning light. The sheep were beginning to stir, and I stood beside the flock, waiting.

“I could hear my brothers before I could make out their faces. They were talking all at once, laughing, praising God. They had found the child, just as the angel said they would. Wrapped in cloths, lying in a manger.

“I was so happy for them. For all of us. The Messiah had come!”

He pauses again.

“But I won’t pretend there wasn’t an ache. I wanted to see him, too.”

“So, you believed them?”

“Of course I did! I had heard the angel myself. Why wouldn’t I believe my brothers?”

He chuckles softly.

“Besides, they couldn’t have kept quiet about it if they’d tried. They were different after that night.”

“What happened after that?”

“Life went on. Sheep still needed tending. There were lambs to deliver, predators to watch for, families to feed. The world didn’t stop turning because the Messiah had been born.”

He settles back in his chair.

“Years passed. I grew older. I had a flock of my own. But I never forgot that night.”

“Did you ever see Jesus?”

“Years later, I stood among a crowd and heard him preach. He told us about a shepherd who left ninety-nine sheep to search for the one that was lost.”

He smiles at the memory.

“Now, I knew something about sheep. I knew how easily one could wander away, how frightened it could become, how dangerous the hills could be. And I knew the joy of finding one you thought was gone forever.”

“What did you think of Jesus?”

“I believed he was the Messiah. I had believed it since that night outside Bethlehem. But hearing him speak…”

His voice trails off.

“He talked about God in ways that made you feel as though God knew you. Not just the great men, the priests and teachers, but ordinary people. Shepherds. Fishermen. The poor. The lost.”

He falls silent, and I wait a beat.

“Did you ever see him again?”

“Yes.”

Something changes in his expression.

“I was there when he was crucified.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

“I stood among the crowd, watching. I saw what they had done to him.”

His eyes fill with tears.

“What have we done? It’s all I could think.”

He shakes his head slowly.

“What have we done? I was on the Bethlehem hillside when he was born. I heard the angel proclaim his birth. I watched the sheep as my brothers went to see him. Years later, I stood on another hillside and heard him preach.”

His voice breaks.

“And now they had crucified him. The Lamb of God.”

He looks away.

“What have we done?” he whispers one last time.

I have no answer for him.

I finally ask, “Did you go home afterward?”

“No. Not right away. I had to tell someone. I had to tell people what had happened. I couldn’t just go back to tending sheep as though nothing had changed.”

He looks at me.

“You understand, don’t you? We had waited our whole lives for the Messiah. I had heard the announcement of his birth. I had listened to him teach. And now I had watched him die.”

“What did you tell people?”

“What I had seen. What we had done. I didn’t understand it all. How could I? But I knew I couldn’t keep silent. I didn’t want people to forget him—I didn’t want to forget.”

He grows quiet again, then lifts his coffee cup and takes another sip.

“I saw him, you know. After his resurrection.”

I stare at him.

“You saw him? Alive?”

“Yes.”

He smiles, and for a moment I can almost see the young shepherd who stood beneath the stars outside Bethlehem.

“The angels told us the truth that night. Every word of it.”

He finishes his coffee and sets the mug on the table.

“I should be going.”

“Back to your flock?” I ask.

He rises from his chair.

“No. I left the flock.”

He turns toward the door.

“I’m looking for the lost ones.”

He turns and holds out his hand to me.

“Want to join me?”

I set my coffee cup down and smile.

Cathy D.