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Good evening, little lambs. Tonight's story is called Matt and the Missing Words, inspired by the gospel of Luke twelve eight twelve. There is a kind of fear that has nothing to do with the dark. It is the fear of being looked at, of having every eye on the hill turned toward you, waiting to hear what you will say. Tonight, Jesus teaches the lambs that when they tell the truth about him, even in a small, shy voice, he is glad beyond telling, and that when the words won't come on their own, the Holy Spirit is right there to give them, not a moment too soon and not a moment too late. And so tonight we are back on Shepherd's Hill, on a bigger night than usual, with a quiet lamb named Matt, who has never once liked being looked at. Matt had a worry, and it had followed him the whole afternoon. Every evening after supper, the flock gathered around the fire for what they called the telling. Old Wooly would lift a smooth, pale willow branch and lay it across two flat stones in the firelight, and whoever it pointed toward would say one true thing from their day nothing grand, just something good or honest or real. Most nights only a handful of lambs spoke, the bold ones, the ones who liked to turn. But the flock had grown since muddy, hesitant sorrel had come to stay after her home, meadow flooded, and old Wooly had decided that tonight, with so many gathered, every single lamb would get the branch. Nobody would be skipped. Matt had always managed to sit just far back enough, or mumble just quietly enough, that nobody minded. Tonight there would be nowhere to sit that far back. The fire popped and threw orange light up into the darkening sky, and the smell of wood smoke drifted out over the grass. Biskit went first, bouncing in place before she'd even sat down. I found the one patch of clover that still had dew on it at noon, and I didn't eat it all myself. I saved half for clover. Clover went next, quieter, her fingers worrying the fringe of her blue scarf. I was scared crossing the log bridge today. I asked Jesus to come with me, and I still felt scared, but I wasn't alone in it. Then the branch came to sorrel, and she looked at it for a long moment before she spoke. I still don't know if this hill is my home or if my old meadow is, she said softly. But today Boulder shared his water trough with me without my asking, and for a minute it felt like maybe it could be both. Biskot, who could never quite leave a question alone, turned to Jesus. But what happens if somebody doesn't have anything ready? What if their mind goes empty, like a trough that's been tipped all the way out? Jesus didn't answer right away. He looked around the circle, warm and unhurried, and said only You'll see. Then old Woolly lifted the branch and laid it down in front of Matt. Every face turned. Matt felt his mind go exactly as empty as Biscuit had said, tipped right out, nothing left in it at all. He thought of Clover's steady words, and Biskit's bouncing ones, and felt smaller than ever, sure that whatever he was supposed to say had to be something like theirs, and he didn't have it. The fire cracked. Nobody rushed him. Old Wooly shifted an inch closer on the stone beside him, not to speak for him, just to be near. Across the flames Jesus simply waited, patient as the evening itself. And then, without deciding to, Matt spoke. Today I got a long bramble thorn stuck deep in my hoof, and it hurt too much to keep walking, so I sat down right where I was. Jesus came and sat with me the whole time old Wooly worked it loose. It took a long while. He didn't say much, he just didn't leave. The circle was quiet. Jesus looked at Matt for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice carried no surprise at all, only gladness. That's it, Matt. That's exactly it. You told the truth about me, and that is always enough. Biskit's eyes went wide. The trough wasn't empty, she said slowly, working it out loud as she said it. It just hadn't been tipped yet. Matt sat very still by the fire, the warmth of it finally reaching his dark wool. He still wasn't sure he'd have anything ready if the branch came to him again tomorrow. But he was starting to understand that he didn't need to have it ready. He only needed to tip toward Jesus when his turn came, and somehow every single time there would be something true waiting to pour out. And so tonight, little lambs, remember this, you never have to search far ahead for grand or perfect words to say about Jesus. When your moment comes to tell someone something true and good about him, even something small, even in a whisper, he delights in it more than you know. And if you're ever afraid the words won't come, don't worry. The Holy Spirit is already waiting, ready to fill you up the very instant you need it, not one moment before and never one moment too late. Dear Jesus, when I feel shy or scared to talk about you, help me remember that you are glad for even my smallest, truest words. Send your Holy Spirit to help me find what to say right when I need it. Thank you for sitting beside me today and every day. Amen. Good night, little lamb. God loves you so much. Sweet dreams, my