Each year, The Catholic Church celebrates Christ the Good Shepherd. A common Gospel reading for that Sunday Liturgy is the Gospel of John, in which Jesus Christ calls himself “the good Shepherd.” (John 10: 14) and says that his sheep “hear my voice.” (John 10:27)

What do I hear?

The tweets, cackles, cries, and crescendos of the backyard songbirds. The distant drone of traffic on the thruway. The last drops of coffee pouring from the coffee-maker.

Mom, screaming my name in the middle of the night, as Dad shouts and curses her—years ago.

At work, a team-teacher’s insults. Another team-teacher’s shouting. A student’s snide mockery. A principal’s cold, analytical dissection of a lesson she found wanting.

Where is the voice of the Shepherd?

In the small, still voice that whispers within each tweet, scream, curse, insult, shout, mockery, and dissection. A whisper I’ll hear only when I let it all go.

breaking dawn
an empty pill container
on the table

photo by Virginie Laune