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Good evening, little lambs. Tonight's story is called Just Say the Word, inspired by the Gospel of Matthew eight, verses five through seventeen. There is something in tonight's gospel that is very, very small, and also very, very big. A man comes to Jesus with a problem that feels impossible to fix. He doesn't ask Jesus to come and do something complicated. He just says Say the word, that's all. Just say the word, and it will be done. He trusted Jesus so completely, so quietly, that Jesus himself was amazed. And tonight, back on Shepherd's Hill, Clover is about to find out what it feels like to trust like that. It was the kind of evening that made everything seem a little uncertain. The sun had gone behind a thick gray cloud, and a cold wind had come off the hill. The lambs had gathered near the warmth of the old stone wall, wrapped in their scarves, listening to it moan through the long grass. Matt was the first to notice. Where's Wren? he said quietly. Everyone looked. Old Wooly's new little grandlamb, the one with the smallest, softest voice on all of Shepherd's Hill, was gone. She had been playing near the old apple tree just a moment ago, tumbling through the clover, and now she simply wasn't there. Wren called Biscuit, her golden tuft flattening in the wind. Ren! No answer. The lambs spread out across the meadow, calling, searching. Old Wooly moved slowly along the lower fence. Matt checked the stream bank. Biscuit ran all the way to the oak tree and back. Clover stood very still in the middle of the field. She pressed her eyes closed and thought. She remembered. The little lamb had a favorite spot, a hollow under the old gorse bush on the far side of the meadow, past the big dip in the path around the corner of the hill, that Clover had never actually gone around herself, because on the other side of that corner was the steep part, the part that made her stomach go watery just thinking about it. Clover's clover sprig drooped. She had been so brave lately. She had built her den on the rock. She had sat beside the bramble hedge with Jesus. But this, walking to the steep edge of the hill, in the wind, in the dark coming, this felt like a different kind of brave entirely. She stood there. She didn't move, and then Jesus was beside her. He hadn't come from anywhere, exactly. He was just there, the way he always was, quiet and warm, like finding a fire already lit. She's in the hollow under the gorse, Clover said. She didn't know how she was so sure, but she was. On the other side of the hill, I know she is, but I she stopped. Jesus looked at her. I can't walk to the edge, she said quietly. Not tonight, not in the wind. My legs won't do it. Then you don't have to, said Jesus. Clover looked up. But Wren, I'll go, said Jesus simply. And then, without hurrying, without fussing, he said one more thing. She will be safe, I promise you that. He said it gently, the way you say something when you mean it all the way through. And then he walked, past the old apple tree, down through the long grass, around the corner of the hill, and he was gone from Clover's sight. The wind was still cold, the cloud was still thick. Clover couldn't see anything past that corner. She couldn't hear anything but the grass and the wind and biscuit puffing back from the oak tree. Did you find her? Biskit asked. Jesus went, said Clover. Biscuit blinked. That's all? He said she'd be safe. Clover's clover sprig lifted just slightly. I believe him. They waited. Matt came and stood beside them. Old Woolly arrived too, silver fleece ruffled in the wind. None of them could see past the corner. None of them went to look. They just waited. And then, not very long after, though it felt long, Jesus came back around the corner of the hill, and in his arms, tucked against his chest, her tiny hooves folded under her, was Wren, fast asleep, safe. Old Wooly let out a long, slow breath. Biscuit made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Matt didn't say anything at all, but his dark wool seemed to relax somehow, the tension going out of it like air from a held breath. And Clover stood very still, because something had happened while Jesus was around that corner, something she hadn't expected. She had trusted him, not with something easy, not with something she could see and check and confirm. She had trusted his word in the wind and the dark, without any proof except that he had said it. And it had been enough. Jesus settled Wren gently against old Wooly's warm flank. The little lamb stirred and made a small sound, not afraid, just sleepy, and old Wooly folded her close. Jesus looked at Clover. You waited, he said. You said she'd be safe, said Clover. He nodded, the way he did when something had genuinely pleased him, not a polite nod, a real one. His eyes were bright with it. That kind of trust, he said quietly, is the most beautiful thing. The cloud shifted. A strip of golden light fell across the meadow. The wind didn't stop, but somehow it didn't feel as cold anymore. What Jesus showed us tonight is one of the most wonderful things in all the gospels. True faith doesn't wait for proof. A brave, humble heart says, just say the word, and I believe you. And when we trust Jesus like that, quietly, completely, without needing to see what's around the corner, his heart is moved. He is delighted by that kind of trust, and his word always, always holds. Dear Jesus, help me trust you even when I can't see what comes next. I don't always have to understand everything. I just have to believe your word, because your word is always true, and you always keep your promises. Amen. Good night, little lamb. God loves you so much. Sweet dreams.