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Good evening, little lambs. Tonight's story is called How Do You Know It's There Inspired by the Gospel of Luke twelve thirty nine forty eight. Trusting God doesn't always mean seeing him first. Sometimes it means listening, reaching out, and finding out for yourself that he's really there. That's the lesson waiting for the lambs tonight on Shepherd's Hill, right at the edge of the old well. And the lamb who needed it most was a small, careful one named Nettle, who had decided a long time ago that it was safer not to want anything at all. The old well sat at the edge of the fold, ringed with smooth grey stones, with a wooden crossbar overhead and a coiled rope that disappeared down into the dark. Every evening, when the sun dropped low and turned the grass the color of warm bread, it was someone's turn to lower the bucket and bring up the flock's water for the night. Old Wooly kept the turns written on a flat stick by notches, one notch rubbed smooth for each lamb. Tonight, the smoothest, newest notch was Nettle's. Nettle stood at the edge of the stones and did not move. She could smell the cool, mineral breath that came up from the well's mouth, but she could not see anything down there at all, just black, going down and down. She had leaned over once before a long time ago, and the dark had seemed so deep and so empty that she'd step back and never looked again. It was easier, she had decided, not to need the well at all. If you never asked it for anything, it could never disappoint you. It's just a well, Nettle, said Biskit, trotting up with her golden tuft bouncing. Biskit, who had once startled a laugh out of Nettle with a surprise somersault on the very first night Nettle came to the flock, still hadn't learned to leave a worry alone. I do it every day. You drop the bucket, you pull the rope, water comes up. Easy. How do you know water's really down there? Nettle said quietly. If you can't see it. Biscuit opened her mouth, then closed it. She genuinely didn't know how to answer that. I just know, she said, which wasn't really an answer at all, and she knew it. That was when Jesus came and sat down on the flattest stone, right at the well's edge, the hem of his cloak, brushing the moss. He didn't tell Nettle to hurry up, and he didn't tell her not to be afraid. He picked up a small white pebble from the grass instead. Watch, he said, and dropped it in. Nettle flinched, waiting for nothing, for silence, for the pebble to fall forever into empty dark. Instead, after a count of three, a small clear splash came echoing back up out of the stones. There, said Jesus, you didn't see the water that time either, but you heard it. That splash is real, even in the dark. Trusting God is something like that. We don't always see him, but we can still hear him, still feel him near, and that's enough to go on. Biskit frowned, working it over. But a splash isn't the same as water you can drink, she said. What if it's just an echo, and there's nothing really down there to fill the bucket? Nobody answered her right away. Nettle was still looking at the dark mouth of the well, turning the splash over in her mind. Then slowly she picked up the coiled rope herself. There's one way to find out, she said, and her own voice surprised her. It came out steadier than she felt. She lowered the bucket hand over hand, feeling the rope slide rough against her hooves, listening for the moment it would hit the water. When the splash came closer and louder this time, she grinned before she could stop herself. She pulled the rope back up, arm over arm, the bucket growing heavier and heavier until it broke the surface of the well's mouth, full to the brim and shining with the last orange light of evening. You didn't have to see all the way down, Jesus said, to find out it was really there. Nettle looked into the bucket for a long moment. She had spent so long deciding not to want things, because wanting them and then losing them had always hurt worse than never asking at all. But the water was right there, cool and real, and hers to share, and nobody had taken it away from her for reaching. By the time the whole flock gathered to drink, the stars were coming out over Shepherd's Hill one by one, and somebody, it might have been Biskit, it might have been all of them at once, started humming a little tune that turned into a song about not being afraid, about Wells, about a god who stays close enough to hear. Nettle hummed along quietly at first, and then not so quietly at all. And that's the truth Jesus gave the lambs tonight. You don't have to see everything to trust that God is near. Sometimes you just have to listen for him, reach out anyway, and see what comes up in the bucket. When we trust God like that, fear gets smaller, and joy, real, splashing, overflowing joy, has room to grow. Before you close your eyes tonight, think of something you cannot see, but still trust is there, like the sun after a dark night, or someone who loves you even when they're far away. God is near you too, closer than you know, and he is ready for you to reach out to him. Dear God, thank you for being close to me even when I can't see you. Help me to trust you instead of being afraid, and fill my heart with joy like cool water from a well. Amen. Good night, little lamb. God loves you so much. Sweet dreams.