Whispers

 Come, let us bow down in worship, let us kneel before the Lord our Maker; for he is our God and we are the people of his pasture, the flock under his care. ~Psalm 95:6-7

Now that I've completed organizing my vast collection of printed photos, I'm finally, finally tackling all the memorabilia we retrieve from my mother's house when she passes away.  I've only scratched the surface when this photo in the header abruptly grabs my attention, evoking precious memories sweeter than the fragrance of new-mown hay.

Yes, that's me perched in the pony cart next to my cousin, John, who is confidently guiding Queenie, the gentle Shetland pony, as she dutifully pulls her load.  Seated on the stone wall is my Uncle Harris, John's father, who is married to my dad's only sister, Mary Jane.  Visits with them at their farm every summer when our family makes our annual pilgrimage back to Massachusetts to reunite with relatives, are always enchanting adventures.

Although the term wouldn't be coined until years later, Uncle Harris meets the dictionary definition of a horse whisperer.  My brother, Bill, and I along with John, love to accompany him when he would walk down to the pasture gate to bring the horses into the ancient red barn for the evening.

Cautioning us to stand well to the side of the dirt path at a safe distance from straying hooves, Harris opens the gate; its subtle creaking is enough to alert the horses in the field.  Their heads fly up from where they are grazing and swivel, ears high and alert, toward the sound.  The moment they catch sight of Harris, they trot headlong in this direction, snorting and whinnying their greetings long before reaching him.  Once through the pasture gate, each horse heads obediently toward the barn and enters its respective stall to wait patiently for their master to feed them their nightly grain.

Uncle Harris never has to call or whistle to get the horses' attention.  As he feeds them, he gently strokes each one and speaks in a voice so soft and low, I can't understand the words he says.  But I am certain that these powerful, free-spirited creatures, so docile in his presence, understand every word he utters.  They know where they belong and to whom they belong; they are the horses of his pasture, the herd utter his care.

So, imagine this with me for a moment:  Jesus is standing at the pasture gate.  Does He have to whoop and holler to get your attention?  Or, are you already running toward Him with gladness, thankful to be in His care?

It shouldn't take more than a whisper from Jesus to convince us to follow Him.

Amen!