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Good evening, little lambs. Tonight's story is called Counting the Lovely Things, inspired by the Gospel of Matthew twenty one thirty three forty three. On Shepherd's Hill tonight, the evening before the whole flock makes its long walk down to the winter pasture, old Marigold sits very still at the edge of the firelight, weighed down by something she has been carrying all evening without setting it down once. Tonight Jesus teaches us that worries like hers were never meant to be carried alone. We can hand them over one at a time and let him hold them instead, and then fill up the space they leave behind with every good and lovely thing we can think of. The pouch hung from a loop of rope around her neck, and it was full of stones, not pretty stones, plain, grey, river smooth stones, each one about the size of an acorn. Marigold had been collecting them all evening, one for every worry about tomorrow's walk, a stone for the steep part of the path that might be icy before sunrise, a stone for whether the youngest lambs could keep up, a stone for whether the new valley would have good grass at all, a stone for whether she'd remember the way if the fog came down. By the time the fire was lit, the pouch dragged so low it bumped against her knees when she walked, and she had stopped trying to walk anywhere. Clover noticed first she had been setting up the evening games with biscuit, but she kept glancing over at Marigold, who sat apart from everyone, shoulders bent under that small clinking weight. Your pouch is heavier than you are, Clover said finally, sitting down beside her. I know, said Marigold. I keep thinking of one more thing to worry about, and it needs a stone, and then I have to carry the stone too. It doesn't help. It just gets heavier. She tried to shift the pouch and winced. Old Wooly settled on her other side with a soft grunt, the way he always did when a conversation needed room to breathe. I remember a letter, he said slowly, written long ago by a man in a hard, dark little room, far from anyone he loved, with every real reason to be afraid. And he wrote to his friends and told them Don't carry your worries by yourselves. Tell them to God instead every single one, and a peace bigger than you can even understand, will stand guard over your heart. That's nice for him, Marigold said, not unkindly, just tired. But his worries were about staying alive. Mine is about ice on a path. A worry doesn't have to be enormous to be heavy, said old Woolley. A small stone in a full pouch weigh exactly the same as a small stone anywhere else. That was when Jesus came and sat down across from her, close enough that the firelight caught both their faces. May I see one? he asked, nodding at the pouch. Marigold hesitated, then reached in and drew out a single stone, turning it over in her hoof. This one is the icy path, she said quietly. Give it to me, said Jesus, and held out his open hand. She wasn't sure what would happen if she let go of it. Some nights she had set a worry down before, and found it back in her wool by the next morning, heavier than ever. But she dropped the stone into his palm anyway, because some part of her wanted tonight to be different, even if she couldn't yet say why. Jesus closed his hand around the stone and tucked it into the satchel at his side. Another he said. One by one, Marigold reached into the pouch and named each stone out loud before she let it go, the steep path, the tired lambs, the new grass, the fog, and one by one Jesus took them and placed them into his satchel, which never once looked any fuller, no matter how many stones went in. Biskit, who had wandered over with the others to watch, finally couldn't stay quiet. But what if the path really is icy tomorrow? she asked. Jesus putting the stone in his bag doesn't melt the ice. The worry could still come true. It was a fair question, and nobody answered it right away. Marigold turned the last stone over in her hoof, the one for the fog, and found she already knew the answer, even though she hadn't thought it through before saying it out loud. You're right, she said slowly. I don't know if the path will be icy. Giving Jesus the stone doesn't tell me that, but I'm not holding it all by myself in the dark anymore, turning it over and over, trying to guess. That's different than the ice not being there. It's just different. Jesus nodded. Giving me your worry doesn't make the hard thing not happen, he said. It means you don't have to carry it alone while you wait to find out. Nobody said anything else for a moment. It was somehow exactly enough. When the pouch was empty it hung light and loose around Marigold's neck, swinging a little instead of dragging. It feels strange, she admitted, like I've forgot something. Then let's fill it with something else, said Jesus. He asked each lamb gathered at the fire to name one lovely thing from today, not a worry this time, but something good, something true, something they'd actually seen or felt. Biscuit named the warm bread old Woolley had baked that morning. Clover named the particular blue of the sky just before the stars came out. A smaller lamb named the feeling of being picked for a game before anyone had to ask. One by one, as each lamb spoke, they tucked something small and soft into Marigold's pouch to match, a flower petal, a curl of wool, a round stone from ripe beside the fire, warm instead of cold. By the time they finished, the pouch wasn't empty at all. It was full of something else entirely, and it didn't weigh anything close to what the river stones had. Marigold lay down by the fire that night, with the warm, light pouch tucked under her chin, and for the first time all evening she wasn't thinking about tomorrow's path at all. She was thinking about bread and blue sky and being picked, and a hand that had taken every stone she'd offered without once seeming burdened by it. Jesus doesn't promise us the hard day won't come, but he does ask us to bring him every worry one at a time, instead of carrying it alone, and then to fill the space it leaves with everything true and good and lovely that we can find. That's how we fall asleep with a piece too big to fully explain, even on the night before a long, uncertain walk. Dear Jesus, here are my worries one at a time. Please hold them for me tonight and help me remember all the lovely things, the warm, the kind, the good, so my heart can rest. Amen. Good night, little lamb. God loves you so much. Sweet dreams.