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Good evening, little lambs. Tonight's story is called Keeping the Lamp Alive, inspired by the Gospel of Luke twelve thirty five thirty eight. What do you do while you wait for someone you love to come home? Jesus says the answer matters more than we think. Tonight he teaches the lambs that staying ready, lamp lit, hands busy, hearts glad instead of grumbling, isn't about guessing the exact hour someone arrives. It's about being so ready and so happy to wait that when he finally comes through the gate, worn out from a hard night's work, he's the one who ends up taking care of us. And so tonight we're back on Shepherd's Hill on an evening when Jesus had to go away, and nobody, not even old Woolly, knew exactly when he'd be back. The sky over the hill had turned the deep purple of a ripe plum, and the first few stars were only just working up the courage to show themselves when Jesus stood at the gate with his cloak already slung over one shoulder. A lamb from beyond the ridge has gotten herself tangled in a bramble thicket down by the old stone bridge, he told them. It will take careful hands and most of the night to untangle her safely, without tearing her wool or frightening her worse. I don't know if I'll be home before the moon is overhead, or if it will be long after, deep in the dark hours when even the owls have gone quiet. But I am coming home. Keep the gate lamp burning so I can find my way up the path, and look after each other while you wait. Then he was gone down the hill, his cloak catching the last of the light. The gate lamp was nothing fancy, just a shallow clay dish, a puddle of oil, and a floating wick that needed topping up and trimming every so often, or it would gutter down to nothing within a couple of hours. But we don't even know when he's coming, said Cedar, turning the problem over the careful, practical way he turned over everything. What if he's back by moonrise and we've wasted half our oil keeping that thing burning for nothing? Or what if he's not back till the rooster crows, and we run dry right when he needs it most? Either way, somebody's wasting something. Nobody had an answer right away. It was Pip who finally spoke, small and grey, easy to miss in a cluster of bigger lambs, the kind of lamb who often wasn't sure anyone would notice whether she said something or didn't. Her voice came out so quietly that old Wooly had to lean in to hear her. It isn't about knowing when, she said. If we only light it the moment we hear him coming, that means he already found the dark path by himself, before we even knew he needed us to. The whole reason to keep it burning now is so he never has to. Old Wooly's ears turned toward her, pleased. That's it exactly, little one, he said. Go on then. Keep it burning. So Pip did. Biskit, who promised to stay awake the entire night, made it exactly as far as the third star coming out, then fell asleep, sitting bolt upright, like a lamb shaped question mark. Clover spent the early hours fetching a second blanket for Wattle, who always felt the cold once the fire burned low, and sat with her until the shivering stopped. Even Cedar, still muttering about wasted oil, carried an extra bowl of water up from the stream and set it down by the gate, just in case he said, though he wouldn't say in case of what? The moon rose, it crossed most of the sky. One by one the lamb's eyes grew too heavy to hold open, and they curled down into the fire warmed grass, until only Pip was left, kneeling by the little clay dish, feeding it oil a few drops at a time, and nosing the blackened tip of the wick straight whenever the flame began to gutter and dip. Her own eyes burned with tiredness. More than once she wondered whether anyone would even notice if the lamp went out for just one minute. Surely one minute wouldn't matter. But she kept it burning anyway. It was very late, later than any watch she had a name for, when she heard hooves on the path below, slow and careful, and saw a shape coming up out of the dark. Jesus, his cloak torn at the hem, bramble scratches along one arm, moving like someone who had worked with his whole body for half the night, and had nothing left over. He saw the lamp first, then he saw Pip, still awake beside it. He didn't ask her to fetch anything. He didn't ask the sleeping lambs to wake and tend to him, tired as he clearly was. Instead he knelt right there by the gate, pulled his own torn cloak from his shoulders, and wrapped it around Pip, who was shivering without having noticed she was cold. You stayed ready, he said. Now let me take care of you. He woke the others gently, one at a time, and before he let any of them lift a hoof to help him, he brought warm milk to each one himself, ladling it from the little pot old Woolly kept simmering for just this purpose. Cedar got his own bowl of water handed right back to him, with a quiet thank you for thinking of me, that made Cedar's ears go pink. And Pip, wrapped in a cloak far too big for her, finally understood something she had wondered about all night, whether her small, ordinary job of keeping a flame alive really mattered to anyone at all. Now she knew it had mattered to him every single minute. Jesus wants us to wait for him the way Pip waited, not watching the clock, not keeping score of wasted oil, but staying ready and kind and glad, trusting that he is coming, no matter how late it gets. And when he finally arrives, he doesn't want to be served first. He wants to scoop us up and take care of us, just like that. Dear Jesus, help me stay ready for you, not scared, just glad. Help me do kind things while I wait, even when I'm tired or I don't know how long it will be. Thank you for always coming home to me and for loving me enough to take care of me first. Amen. Good night, little lamb. God loves you so much. Sweet dreams.