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Good evening, little lambs. Tonight's story is called Matt Finds His Words, inspired by the Gospel of Luke eleven one four. There is a kind of quiet that isn't peaceful at all. It's just not knowing what to say. Tonight Jesus teaches us four short lines, so plain that even the smallest lamb could learn them by heart, and so big that nobody ever finishes learning everything inside them. And so we're back on Shepherd's Hill this evening, where a quiet lamb named Matt is about to ask Jesus the bravest question he has asked anyone in a long while. The sun was dropping low and orange over the far ridge, and the whole hillside smelled of warm dust and crushed grass, the way it always did right before supper. Matt had been sent down to the hollow below the big oak to gather kindling for the evening fire, and he had done it carefully, the way he did most things, picking only the driest twigs, stacking them crosswise in his arms, so none would slip. He was almost back to the fire circle when Fig came barreling down the path, chasing a moth that had caught the last of the light, and ran straight into him. The twigs went everywhere, some down the slope, some into the ferns, one skittering all the way to the creek. Sorry, Fig called over her shoulder, already three bounds past him, still chasing the moth. Matt didn't say anything. He never did. He just knelt down in the near dark and started picking the twigs up again, one at a time, and something small and sour sat in his stomach like a swallowed stone the whole time he worked. By the time he carried the bundle back, the fire was lit, and the flock had gathered close around it, the way they did every evening before supper, each lamb saying a little something to God before they ate. Jonah went first, and his words rolled out long and round and polished, full of grand phrases that made two or three of the older ewes murmur appreciatively. Biscuit went next, quick and cheerful. Then it was nearly Matt's turn. He opened his mouth, nothing came. He had a prayer in him somewhere, he could feel it, heavy and real, sitting right behind his teeth. But it didn't have any of those big round words in it, and he was suddenly sure that meant it wasn't a real prayer at all. He closed his mouth again and stepped back from the circle, the way he always ended up doing, a little outside the warm ring of firelight. Jesus noticed. Jesus always noticed the ones who stepped back. He came and sat down next to Matt in the cooler grass outside the circle, not saying anything for a moment, just letting the quiet settle between them. What's sitting in you tonight? he asked finally. Matt looked at his hooves. I want to talk to God, he said. Properly, the way Jonah does. But I don't have words like that. I don't think I know how to pray at all. Jesus didn't laugh, and he didn't look surprised. Matt, he said, you don't need Jonah's words. You need four plain ones, and I'll teach them to you right now, if you want. Matt nodded, hardly breathing. Call him Father, Jesus said, because that's exactly what he is to you. Closer than close, and already glad you're his. Ask that his name be kept holy, which just means let it matter more than anything else does. Ask for his kingdom to come, for his will to be done here, the same way it's done up where he is. Ask him for bread, just today's. Not next week's, not a whole winter's worth stored up in a barn somewhere. Just what you need to get through today, and ask him to forgive you the same way you forgive whoever bumped into you and scattered your twigs tonight. Matt's ears went warm. He hadn't told Jesus about the twigs. Biskit, who had wandered over to listen, frowned. But wait, she said. If the Father already knows we need bread, and he already loves us before we even ask, why do we have to ask at all? Wouldn't he give it to us anyway? Jesus turned to Clover, who was curled nearby with her chin on her hooves. Clover, he said, When something good happened to you today, who was the first one you told? Old Woolly, Clover said. I always tell him first. Did he need you to tell him in order to love you? Clover thought about it. No, she said slowly. He loved me before I said one word. Then why did you tell him? Clover was quiet for a moment, working it out loud the way she liked to. Because telling him was the whole point, she said. It wasn't information he needed. It was just being close to him, sitting with him, saying it out loud instead of just having it true somewhere inside me. Jesus smiled. That, he said, is exactly what asking is. Matt had always believed a real prayer needed real words, big, round, grown up words that rolled like smooth stones down a hill, the kind Jonah always seemed to have ready. He was not at all sure his four plain lines counted as praying, but he said them anyway, quietly, under his breath, because something about them felt true in a direction he couldn't quite explain. Later, after supper, he found Fig down by the creek, still looking for the moth. I'm sorry about before, Fig said, before Matt could say anything. I should have stopped and helped you pick them up. I was just so busy chasing that silly moth. It's all right, Matt said, and when he said it, he found that it actually was. That night, lying in the flattened grass with the stars coming out one at a time above the hill, Matt said his four plain lines all the way through, out loud by himself for the very first time. They didn't roll like stones. They didn't need to, and that is the gift Jesus gave the lambs tonight. You don't need fancy words to talk to God. He is already your father, already loving you before you say a single word, so just tell him in your own plain voice what's really in your heart. That is a real prayer every single time. Father in heaven, your name is holy. Let your kingdom come and your will be done. Thank you for today's bread and help me forgive the way I want to be forgiven. Amen. Good night, little lamb. God loves you so much, sweet dreams.