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Good evening, little lambs. Tonight's story is called Small Enough to Count, inspired by the Gospel of Luke twelve one seven. Some evenings the whole flock gets so big and loud that a very small lamb could wonder whether anyone would notice if she simply wasn't there. Tonight Jesus shows the lamb something warm and a little surprising. The bigger and noisier the crowd gets, the more carefully he makes sure every single lamb is found and known, right down to the smallest and quietest one. And so tonight we're back on Shepherd's Hill on the busiest evening of the whole summer, when a small lamb named Wattle is about to discover exactly how well she is seen. Wattle counted her own hooves twice that morning, just to be sure they were still there before she dared count anyone else's. It was the busiest day Shepherd's Hill had ever seen. Three flocks from over the far ridge had come down for the end of summer gathering, and by midday there were lambs everywhere, leaping over the low stone wall, splashing in the shallow end of the creek, tangling the grass into knots with their games. Dust hung gold in the afternoon light. Somewhere in the middle of it all, biscuit turned a perfect somersault, and six lambs she had never met before clapped and cheered. Wattle watched from the edge where she usually stood. Her wool stuck out in six different directions, no matter how she was brushed, and her ears drooped like two folded leaves. She was not big, and she was not loud, and on an ordinary evening that had never bothered her much. But this was not an ordinary evening. There were more lambs on the hillside tonight than Waddle had ever tried to count, and a small worry had tucked itself into her wool like a burr, and no matter how she shook herself, it would not fall out. With this many lambs milling about, would anyone even notice if one very small, very quiet one went missing? By late afternoon the worry had gotten harder to ignore. A visiting ram's enormous flock had drifted between Wattle and her friends near the stream, and for a few long minutes she stood pressed behind a hayrick, unable to see a single lamb she knew. She found her way back easily enough, but the worry stayed. What if, tonight of all nights, with this many lambs to count, she simply wasn't counted? So Waddle decided to try something new. She slipped behind the stone wall and practiced biscuit's bounce, three hops and a little spin, the kind of thing that made a whole hillside turn and look. Her first try sent her stumbling sideways into a thistle bush. What are you doing? Biskit asked, trotting over, with grass still caught in her golden tuft. Practicing, Waddle admitted, her wool full of burrs. There are so many lambs here tonight. I thought if I could bounce like you, Jesus might actually notice me at the count. Biskit tilted her head, puzzled. He counts everyone every night, even on quiet nights with hardly anybody here. But not like this, Waddle said. Not with this many. Clover had wandered over by then, her blue scarf dusty from the day's games, and she sat down to think about it properly, the way she thought about most things. That's actually a good question, she said slowly. There really are more lambs here tonight than Jesus has ever counted at once. How could he really know each one exactly when there's this many? Nobody had an answer right away, so they watched. When the light went long and golden and the visiting flocks began drifting toward their own fires, Jesus called the Shepherd's Hill lambs home the way he always did, one at a time. He did not sweep his eyes across the crowd and guess a number. He stood by the gate and waited for each lamb to come to him, and when they did, he rested his hand on their head for a moment, said their name out loud, and let them pass through to supper. Biscuit, fig, mat, cedar. One by one, slowly, the same as always. Not faster, not sloppier, just because there happened to be more of them tonight. Clover worked it out before he was even halfway through the line. He isn't counting the crowd, she said quietly. He's only ever counted lambs, one at a time. It doesn't matter how many more show up tonight. He was never going to count us any other way. That answered the worry, but Waddle's feet still carried her to the very back of the line. When her turn finally came, she kept her head down, half expecting, though she could not have said why, that she would need to do something to earn his attention after all. But Jesus simply knelt the way he did for everyone and rested his hand gently on her head, right where her wool stuck out every which way. There you are, Waddle, he said. I already know exactly how many wisps of wool stand up on this head of yours. I counted them long before tonight. Waddle looked up, startled. I tried to bounce like biscuit today, she confessed. So you wouldn't miss me? You don't need to be anyone else for me to find you, Jesus said. I was never looking for the loudest lamb in the crowd. I was looking for you, the real you, wisps and all. You were never going to be missed, no matter how big the crowd got. So you don't have to be afraid of that, not tonight, and not ever. Waddle let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. For the first time all day she stopped trying to be louder than she was. She simply walked through the gate exactly as herself, dusty, small, and seen. And that is the gentle surprise Jesus gave the lambs tonight. No crowd is ever too big for him to know you by name, and you never have to pretend to be someone louder or bigger to be loved by him. He already knows every small true thing about you down to the last wisp of wool, and he is never, ever going to miss you. Dear Jesus, thank you for knowing me by name, even on the biggest, loudest, most crowded days. Thank you that I never have to pretend to be someone else for you to see me. Help me remember that I am never too small or too quiet to be loved by you. Keep me safe through the night, counted and close to you. Amen. Good night, little lamb. God loves you so much. Sweet dreams.