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Good evening, little lambs. Tonight's story is called The Ribbon in the Mist, inspired by the Gospel of John twenty one two eleven to eighteen. Before we settle in, here's something wonderful the Bible tells us tonight. Jesus knows each of us by name, and he comes looking for us in our sadness before we even think to look for him, and when he finds us, our tears can turn into a joy so big we can hardly keep it inside. Tonight we're back on Shepherd's Hill before the sun is even up, where a lamb named Fig is about to learn exactly how true that is. The whole hill was wrapped in soft gray mist, the kind that turns every bush into a shadow, and every shadow into a maybe. Most of the flock was still curled together, near the dying fire, wool pressed warm against wool, dreaming their slow morning dreams. But Fig was awake, and Fig was crying. She hadn't meant to lose it. The little braided ribbon, soft green, tied around her foreleg every night since she was small enough to fit in old Woolly's shadow, had simply slipped off sometime after dark while she chased fireflies near the stream. Now it was gone, swallowed somewhere in the fog and the wet grass, and Fig felt swallowed right along with it. It's just a ribbon, she told herself, wiping her nose with a hoof. Nobody else would even miss it. But that only made her cry harder, because it wasn't just a ribbon to her, and she felt certain no one would understand that, and so she hadn't woken anyone to ask for help. She had simply slipped out alone into the mist to search, and now she was more lost than the ribbon was. A shape moved near the old thorn bush by the stream, tall, still, half swallowed in grey. Fig's heart jumped. Old Woolly, she called softly. Is that you? The shape didn't answer, didn't move the way old Wooly moved, and Fig's stomach dropped. She didn't know who it was at all. She only knew she felt very small, and very unseen, in the middle of all that fog. Then a voice, warm, familiar, unhurried, said just one word. Fig and something in her chest knew before her eyes ever cleared. She turned, and there he was, sitting quietly on a flat grey stone that had probably been there the whole time. Jesus, not a stranger, not a shadow. Him. You knew it was me, he said gently, before you could even see my face. Fig ran to him, ribbonless and puffy eyed, and he simply made room beside him, and let her cry the rest of it out. He didn't ask her to explain why a ribbon mattered so much. He already seemed to know. I was going to bring this to you at breakfast, he said at last, and opened his hand. There, looped safe around his fingers, was the little green ribbon. I found it caught on that thorn bush last night. On my way back from checking the far fence, I was already carrying it toward you before you even knew to look for it. Fig stared at it, then at him. You were already coming to find me? Always, Jesus said, tying it gently back around her foreleg. Long before you go looking for me, Fig, I am already on my way to you. Just then the gray began to thin. Pale gold crept along the top of the ridge, and the mist unraveled into ribbons of its own, drifting up and away. Fig laughed, a wet, surprised, delighted laugh, and scrambled to her feet. Clover has to know this, she said. And biscuit, and old woolly, especially old woolly. And before Jesus could say another word, she was off down the hill, bursting through the thinning fog toward the fire, calling their names before she'd even reached them, too full of joy to keep it to herself for one more step. And so tonight we learn that Jesus already knows us by name, and he is already coming to find us in our sadness before we even think to call for him. Being truly known by him is what turns our tears into joy, the kind of joy that makes us want to run and tell someone. Is there a time you felt sad and alone and then felt Jesus or someone who loves you, call your name and find you there? Let's close our eyes now, hill and fold gone quiet, the last of the mist drifting off toward morning. Dear Jesus, thank you for knowing my name and for always coming to find me, even before I know how to look for you. When I feel sad or alone, help me remember that you are already on my way. Turn my tears into joy and help me share that joy with the people I love. Amen. Good night, little lamb. God loves you so much. Sweet dreams.