The Landscape and Solitude
The hills of Bethlehem stretched wide, their slopes breathing with grass that bent and straightened in the evening wind. The air held the warmth of the day, still carrying the dust of trampled earth, mingled with the sharper scents of crushed thyme and wild mint beneath my sandals. A flock grazed lazily across the ridge, wool brushing against stone, hooves clicking on hidden pebbles. Their bleats rose and fell like a chorus without rhythm, punctuated by the low grunt of a ram calling them back to order.
Above, the sky shifted from the blue of afternoon into the burnished hues of dusk. Bands of gold and scarlet lingered on the horizon, as if reluctant to yield to the coming night. I watched the shadows stretch, long and fingerlike, until they tangled with the folds of the land. From somewhere far off, a jackal cried—a hollow sound that made the sheep press closer together.
I leaned against my staff, letting the rough wood bite into my palm, and breathed deeply. The taste of the air was dry, tinged with the sweetness of grass and the faint musk of animals. My skin was tacky with sweat, and a thin layer of dust clung to my arms, but I was used to that now. The fields clung to you, marking you as their own.
Here, in this solitude, every sound mattered. The rustle of a lizard in the grass, the sudden flap of wings as a quail startled from its nest, the steady rhythm of sheep tearing at clumps of clover. Even the silence spoke, settling into my chest like a weight I could not name. It was not the silence of emptiness. No—this silence was alive, filled with a presence I could never explain but always felt.
And in that stillness, I sang. My harp rested against a flat stone, its strings catching the last light of the sun. When my fingers touched them, the notes carried on the wind, thin but clear, as though the hills themselves leaned in to listen. I sang to drive away the loneliness, but also because I believed Someone was listening. And when the stars began to bloom above me, I felt it—an unseen gaze, steady and kind, as real as the staff in my hand.
The Youngest Son
My father calls me the keeper of sheep. My brothers call me little one. They stand tall in his house, their shoulders broad with pride, their names spoken with respect. I am the boy they send to the hills.
Sometimes I wonder if they even see me at all. Eliab, the eldest, laughs at the dust on my clothes. Abinadab and Shammah speak of swords and spears, of the king’s battles and victories, while I sit quiet, listening, unnoticed at the edge of their talk. When the guests come, they see my brothers first—always my brothers.
Yet I have learned that God does not always choose as men do. When I watch over the flock, I feel it—an unseen strength that stirs within me, as if the Lord Himself walks the ridges with me. I am not great like my brothers, not tall, not strong in their way. But I have been given other things. A steady hand. A sharp eye. A heart that listens when the hills grow silent.
Perhaps that is enough.
Songs in the Night
When the sun slipped behind the hills and shadows swallowed the land, the fields changed. The sheep huddled closer together, their bleats softer, more anxious, as if they too felt the weight of the dark. A chill came with the wind, carrying the scent of dew settling on the grass.
That was when I reached for my harp. Its wood was worn smooth beneath my fingers, the strings cool and taut. I played not for men—there was no one here to applaud me. I played for the God who listened in silence.
The notes drifted into the night, fragile and small at first, then steady, filling the emptiness with song. I sang of the stars that burned like watchful eyes. I sang of rivers cutting paths through the land. I sang of a shepherd who guides his flock, never sleeping, never leaving them to wolves.
And as the words left my lips, peace settled over me. Fear of the dark, fear of being the smallest in my father’s house, fear of being forgotten—all of it slipped away like mist before the morning sun.
In those moments, I knew I was not alone. The same God who shaped the mountains bent low to hear a shepherd boy sing.
The Lion
It was not always quiet in the fields. Danger came when the sheep least expected it—when even I least expected it.
One evening, as twilight deepened and the flock gathered near the rocks, a sound pricked my ears. Low, guttural, too heavy to be the cry of jackals. My heart thudded. I gripped my staff tighter, listening. Then I saw it—eyes glinting in the dim light, fixed on the smallest lamb that had wandered from the group. A lion, muscles rippling beneath its tawny coat, crouched low in the grass.
The sheep scattered in terror, their bleats piercing the stillness. My body froze, yet something stronger than fear moved me forward. My fingers closed around a stone, smooth and cool, and I set it in my sling.
The lion sprang.
I swung, faster than I thought my arms could move, and the stone flew. A crack split the air as it struck the beast. It stumbled, growled, and turned toward me with fury in its eyes. Every part of me screamed to run, but I stood my ground. I shouted the Lord’s name as I rushed forward, staff raised.
When it fell still, the lamb bleated again—alive, unharmed, trembling at my feet. My own breath shook as I dropped to my knees. My strength was not my own. I knew it then: the God who kept me in the silence of the fields was also the God who gave me courage when claws and teeth came against me.
The Bear
The lion had not been the last.
It was later, on a morning thick with mist, when another danger came. The flock moved slow, their wool damp, their hooves sinking into softened earth. My eyes scanned the hills as they always did, but the fog swallowed sight, and sound carried strangely.
Then I heard it—the low, rumbling grunt of something massive. The sheep bleated in panic before I even saw it. A bear, dark and broad as a boulder, lumbered out of the haze. Its breath steamed, its claws tore the ground as it charged, scattering the flock like leaves before the wind.
My knees trembled, but I could not stand still. One lamb had fallen behind, trapped against the rocks, its cries sharp and desperate. The bear lowered its head toward it, hunger burning in its eyes.
I set a stone in my sling and let it fly. It struck the beast’s shoulder with a dull thud, but the bear only roared and wheeled toward me. The ground shook beneath its weight as it charged.
I gripped my staff, every muscle alive with fear, and shouted the name of the Lord. At the last instant, I swung the staff hard across its muzzle. The crack of wood against bone echoed, and the beast reeled back, stunned. I struck again, and again, until at last it staggered and collapsed into the earth, silent.
I stood gasping, sweat and fog clinging to my skin, my hands raw from gripping the staff. Around me, the flock slowly gathered again, as if they knew the danger had passed.
That day I learned something I would never forget: when the battle is greater, the strength of God is greater still.
Closing Reflection – Lessons of the Field
When the flock settled once more, their bleats soft and content, I sat upon a stone and let the staff rest across my knees. My arms ached from the struggle, my chest still heaved with the memory of fear, but within me there was something else—something stronger than the trembling of my body.
The fields had tested me. Not once, but twice, and I knew there would be more trials still. Yet I was not alone in them. Each time danger came, courage came too, like a fire not born of my own strength.
I am the youngest of Jesse’s sons. I am the boy they send to the hills, the one left behind when men speak of war and crowns. But out here, in the silence, in the danger, in the songs whispered to the night sky, I have learned what my brothers have not. I have learned that the Lord delivers—not only from lion and bear, but from every foe that dares to rise against His people.
The hills are my school, the sheep my charge, the wilds my proving ground. Perhaps men will never see it, but God sees. And He is preparing me for battles I cannot yet imagine.