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Good evening, little lambs. Tonight's story is called The Word That Kept Growing, inspired by the Gospel of Matthew thirteen one twenty three. Tonight's Gospel is the story Jesus told about a farmer who went out to scatter seed, not carefully, but everywhere, on the hard path, among the rocks, in the thorns, and finally in the soft, good soil. He wasn't teaching about farming, he was teaching about his own words of love, scattered generously into every heart, and how what matters isn't how much seed we get, but whether we let it take root and grow even when things try to crowd it out. And so tonight we're back on Shepherd's Hill, where a small, uncertain lamb named Wattle is about to learn just how that happens. The morning came warm and golden, dew still clinging to the grass in soft silver beads. Wattle sat a little apart from the others, as she often did, her dusty brown wool sticking out in six directions, her droopy ears folded like a piece of paper someone had forgotten to smooth flat. She watched biscuit and clover chase each other through the clover patch, wishing she felt more certain she belonged among them. Jesus came and sat beside her, unhurried, as if he had nowhere else in the world to be. Waddle, he said, and something in the way he said her name made her look up. You were made for this meadow. You belong here, exactly as you are, dusty wool and drooping ears and all, and nothing that happens today can take that away. Something warm dropped into Waddle's heart, small as a seed. Her ears lifted just a little. But the day went on the way days do. At the Meadow Games one of the older lambs laughed when Waddle tumbled over her own hooves, not unkind, just quick and careless, and the laugh swooped down on the little word like a bird on a path, nearly carrying it clean away. Maybe he only said that to be nice, she thought, and her ears folded back down. At midday, bursting with the memory of it, she told Biskit everything Jesus had said, glowing for a happy minute, until she was picked last for the next game, and the glow wilted fast, a sprout with no roots to hold it through the heat. By evening worry had crept in and tangled around the little word like thorns around a fence post. Worry that she didn't really belong, worry it wasn't even true, crowding so close that Waddle could hardly find it in her heart anymore. She slipped away to the fire circle where old Wooly sat and curled close beside him. I keep losing it, she whispered. The good thing Jesus said, it keeps slipping away. Old Wooly's voice was like a fire you could sit beside. That's how it is with every good word, little one. It isn't lost because you're not strong enough to hold it. It grows because you keep bringing it back into the light again and again and let it rest, the way that garden out there, he nodded toward the dark field, keeps opening itself to the rain night after night until something grows. Just then Jesus settled onto the grass across the fire and told them the whole story of the farmer who scattered seed everywhere, the path, the rocks, the thorns, the good soil, holding nothing back, even when so much seemed to come to nothing. But the seed that lands where the ground keeps opening up, he said, looking right at Waddle, grows into more than anyone could have counted on. Not because the soil worked hard, because it kept letting the seed stay. He turned to her. Waddle, you were made for this meadow. You belong here exactly as you are. He said it slower this time and asked her to say it back once out loud, and this time she let it settle all the way down, past the doubt, past the worry, until it took hold. Later, when Little Bramble scraped her knee and sat sniffling by the wall, it was Waddle, droopy eared, dusty Waddle, who went and sat beside her. You belong here, she said softly, surprising even herself, exactly as you are. And the word planted and kept and grown, became something to give away. And so tonight we learn that Jesus scatters his good true words into every heart, generously, without holding back, and the ones that grow aren't the hearts that never face a doubt or a worry, but the ones that keep opening back up to him again and again, until finally, quietly they bear fruit. Is there a kind, true word Jesus has spoken over you that you could open your heart to again tonight and let it grow a little deeper? Dear Jesus, thank you for the good true words you speak over me. When doubt or worry tries to crowd them out, help me open my heart to you again and again until your love takes root and grows. Amen. Good night, little lamb. God loves you so much. Sweet dreams.