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Good evening, little lambs. Tonight's story is called Boulder's Best Wool, inspired by the gospel of Luke eleven thirty seven forty one. Have you ever polished something until it shined, but forgotten to think about what was happening underneath? Tonight, Jesus shows us that God doesn't just care what we look like on the outside, He cares just as much, maybe more, about what's happening on the inside in our hearts, where only He can see first. So let's go back to Shepherd's Hill. On the evening the flock is getting ready to welcome some tired travelers up from the flooded lower meadow. The rain had finally stopped falling on Shepherd's Hill, though the lower meadow past the creek was still under water, and word had come up the path that three or four lambs from that flooded flock would be climbing up before dark, looking for a dry place to sleep. Old Wooly had the fire laid and ready before the light even started to go gold, and Clover and Biscuit were sweeping the flat stones around it clean of every last twig, because, as Clover put it, you want things nice for people who've had a hard day. Down by the still pool at the bottom of the hill, Boulder was working on something of his own. He was the tallest lamb on the hill, with wool the grey brown color of a wet river stone, and tonight he wanted that wool to shine. He dipped his comb in the water and dragged it through tangle after tangle, checking his reflection in the pool each time, until the lamb looking back up at him was smooth and gleaming from ear to hoof. He wanted the new lambs to walk up the hill and see him first, tall, clean, impressive, the kind of lamb you'd want to be friends with right away. It wasn't a bad thing to want. He just wasn't thinking yet about anything past the wanting. The new lambs came up the path just as the sky was turning the color of a ripe peach. Three of them hurried straight to the fire, shaking water from their wool and laughing with relief, but the last one hung back at the edge of the firelight. Her name was Sorrel, and she was so coated in mud from the flooded creek that you almost couldn't tell what color her wool had started out. She stood there dripping, looking at the warm circle of lambs, as if she wasn't sure there was room in it for someone so dirty. Boulder looked up from the pool just as Sorl took a step toward the clean, dry stone he'd claimed for himself. Careful, he said, not unkindly, just quickly, the way you say something before you've thought about it. I just got that stone swept. Sorrel stopped. She looked down at the mud dripping off her own legs, then back at Boulder's gleaming wool, and she took a small step backward instead, out of the firelight. Clover saw her go. Something tugged in her own chest, the small tug she always felt when she noticed someone standing just outside of where the warmth was. That was when Jesus came up the path behind the new arrivals, his cloak still damp from helping them across the last stretch of the flooded creek. He crouched down by the still pool right next to Boulder, and looked into the water for a long moment without saying anything. That's good work, Jesus said at last, nodding at Boulder's reflection. You got every tangle out. Boulder stood a little taller. I wanted to look nice, for the new lambs. I noticed, said Jesus. Then he turned and looked back down the hill, to where Sorrel was still standing just outside the fire's light. I wonder what Sorrel saw, though, when she looked at you just now. Boulder's ears went back. I didn't do anything wrong, he said. I just wanted my spot to stay clean. That's not mean. That's just caring about my wool. Jesus didn't answer right away. He pointed down at the water instead. Look again, he said. Boulder looked, and just then Sorrel crept close enough to the pool's edge to see her own face in it too, muddy and tired and streaked with creek water, right next to his, clean and combed. For a moment the two reflections sat there side by side in the water, one shining, one covered in mud. Boulder stared at it a long moment. We don't look anything alike, he said slowly. Then he stopped. Except we're both lambs, underneath all of that. Jesus nodded. That's it exactly, Boulder. Clean wool is good, but what matters most is being kind underneath it all the way through, where the wool doesn't show. Boulder looked at his own comb, still wet in his hoof. Then he looked at Sorrel's matted muddy wool. He didn't say sorry out loud. Lambs don't always find the words right away, but he held the comb out toward her. Come sit on the clean stone, he said. I'll help you get the mud out, if you want. Sorrel's eyes went wide. She stepped into the firelight at last, and Boulder worked the comb gently through her tangles exactly the way he'd worked it through his own, until she was warm and dry, and sitting right in the middle of the circle, same as everybody else. Old Woolly watched the whole thing from his spot by the fire, and said only that some of the best cleaning anyone ever does isn't done with a comb at all. And that's tonight's whole lesson tucked right into one muddy evening on Shepherd's Hill. It's good to take care of how we look, but God cares most about what's happening in our hearts, whether we're kind, whether we share, whether we make room for someone who doesn't look like they belong yet. He made the outside and the inside both, and he loves it when they match. So before you close your eyes tonight, is there a small corner of your heart you could let shine a little brighter tomorrow, somewhere nobody else can see but him? Dear Jesus, thank you for loving all of me, not just the parts people can see. Help my heart be as kind on the inside as I try to look on the outside. Help me make room for anyone who needs a warm place by the fire. Keep me safe and close to you all through the night. Amen. Good night, little lamb. God loves you so much. Sweet dreams.