feed my sheep...

“They took a picture of my belly and I got to see it!”

“You did!” I exclaimed, mostly genuine.

I peeled off his filthy socks and lifted up his baggy, stained shirt to mash on his belly.

“That doesn’t hurt me. I’m being a big boy.”

“I know you are. You’re very smart and handsome too.”

I said that for me then, just as I say it again now, in hopes that live, hot, breath will make it so.

They had found him locked in his bedroom, tiny and dirty. So hungry that he’d actually taken to eating the drywall in his room, just to fill up his belly.

I tried to remember all the little things he said to me. I wanted them to mean something or to be funny. I wanted to appreciate him from my good and caring place, instead of pitying him like I did anyway.

He smiled at me and patted his bloated, broken, belly. “You think I got a baby in there?” he asked seriously.

“No way, kiddo. Your belly is just tired and needs some rest. We’ll get you fixed up!”

“Did you know they gave me TWO stickers? I didn’t even ask for none, and they gave me two.”

He sighed and curled up onto his side, as best he could with his swollen middle. No blanket. No socks. Clutching his stickers in one hand.

Being a big boy, I guess.
6 year med/Dr D

Feed my sheep. Not just for my pastor or yours but for each of us. We each have a circle of influence. Those we have been given to encourage, love and somehow, be a part of their lives. To know and grow. To share and grieve with. Whether family, friends or one hit wonders, no one in our lives is there by chance and there is Something about each one that is unique. Not to lord over but to lead. To direct and redirect. To show them where to get a fresh drink of water or how to look at the stars and be amazed. To face what is or to what Someday will be. Each of us are pastors, like it or not