Emma, Biscuit, and the Lost Sheep

Page 1

Golden afternoon light spilled through the trees of Maplewood Park. Emma jogged along the gravel path, laughing, while Biscuit bounded ahead. Then the big German Shepherd mix skidded to a stop. His ears swung forward. His nose twitched. From the rhododendron bushes by the duck pond came a sound so small that Emma almost missed it: a thin, shaky whimper. Biscuit looked back and nudged her hand, as if to say, “Come on. Someone needs us.”

Page 2

Emma pushed the tangled branches aside and stepped over damp moss and twisted roots. There, curled up under an old upturned bench, was a tiny, scruffy puppy. His white paws were caked in mud, and his dark eyes were wide with fright. When Biscuit leaned in for a friendly sniff, the puppy gave a startled yip and pressed himself farther back. Emma knelt slowly in the leaves and held out an open hand, perfectly still.

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“It’s okay, little one,” Emma whispered. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.” Inch by inch, the puppy crept forward until his chin rested in her palm. Emma lifted him gently and tucked his shivering body against her chest. Around his neck was a faded blue ribbon, frayed at the edges, but no tag, no name and no phone number. Biscuit pressed close beside them like a guard. Emma looked out across the enormous park. Where did this little one belong?

Page 4

Emma carried the puppy along the main path, asking everyone she passed. A gardener raking leaves by the rose garden shook his head kindly. The bulletin board by the pavilion had flyers for bake sales and lost keys, but not one for a scruffy little dog. Slowly the sun slid behind the tall pines, and long shadows stretched across the grass. One by one, people went home. Emma’s shoulders sank. What if nobody was looking for him at all?

Page 5

Emma sat down on a grassy knoll with the puppy curled in her lap and Biscuit’s warm head resting on her sneakers. How could anyone find one small puppy in a whole big town? She closed her eyes and took a slow, steady breath. And in the quiet, a story came back to her, one she had heard many times before. It carried her far away, to the sunlit hills of Galilee, where a gentle Teacher once spoke to a listening crowd.

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In her mind, Emma could see Him: Jesus, standing among the wildflowers and the silver olive trees, with the afternoon sun warm on the people gathered around Him. He told them about a shepherd who had one hundred sheep and knew every single one by name. One evening the shepherd counted them as they came into the fold. Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. His heart sank. One little lamb was missing, somewhere out in the wilderness, all alone.

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Night was coming, and the hills were steep and dark. The shepherd could have shrugged and said, “Ninety-nine is enough.” But he didn’t. He left the flock safe in the pasture and went out into the wild country, over sharp stones and through thorny bushes, calling into the wind. He searched every ravine and every rocky ledge. He would not rest, and he would not turn back, because every single sheep mattered to him.

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And then, there it was: a tired little lamb, trembling on a ledge. The shepherd didn’t scold it. He scooped it up, lifted it onto his shoulders and carried it all the way home, smiling the whole way. Jesus looked out at the crowd and told them that God loves us just like that. No one is too small, too hidden or too far away for God to come looking, and there is great joy in heaven when the lost are found.

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Emma opened her eyes. The golden park came back around her, and the heavy knot in her stomach loosened. She stroked the puppy’s soft ears and looked at Biscuit, who was already watching her. “The shepherd didn’t give up, Biscuit,” she whispered. “So neither will we. Somebody out there loves this puppy, and we’re going to find them.” Biscuit gave a determined little chuff and sprang to his feet, his tail already wagging.

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Biscuit lifted his nose to the wind and caught a scent. Sniffing hard, he trotted down a narrow trail toward the north picnic meadow. By a wooden fence post, he nosed at something in the clover: a worn red tennis ball. Emma hurried after him, holding the puppy close. Just past the trees, a small blue leash hung from the edge of an empty picnic table. Someone had been here. Someone had been searching too.

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They came around the bend into the north meadow. By the playground swings stood a young boy and his mother. The boy was crouched by the slide, peering underneath, his voice cracking as he called, “Barnaby! Barnaby, where are you?” His mother held a photograph and searched the darkening field with worried eyes. Biscuit gave one clear, friendly bark. Emma stepped out onto the open lawn and held the scruffy little puppy up high.

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“Barnaby!” the boy cried. He raced across the grass, dropped to his knees and wrapped the wriggling puppy in the biggest hug Emma had ever seen. Barnaby covered his cheeks in frantic puppy kisses. The boy’s mother hurried over with tears in her eyes and rested a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “We’ve been searching for hours,” she said softly. “Thank you for not giving up on him.” Emma smiled. Now she knew exactly how the shepherd had felt.

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That night, warm lamplight filled Emma’s bedroom. Biscuit lay curled on the rug, his tail giving one sleepy thump against the floor. Emma sat cross-legged beside him and looked out the window at the stars. “Thank You, God,” she whispered, “for helping us bring Barnaby home.” And she thought about the Good Shepherd, who never stops searching for the lost, because every single one of us is precious to Him.