Wait. I take that back. Perhaps they've gone a little astray. Over the years we've found them under the rocking chair, we've found them strolling across the piano, we've found them buried in the nativity straw, and we've found them mingling with LEGO mini-figs. But they've always been found, and they've always been placed back where they belong, with muzzles pointed quietly, hopefully toward the Baby.
I've been thinking about this belonging-ness, this re-direction, ever since I found the painting. It's hanging in the living room, not far from the sheep. The subject -- a little girl of about six -- peers demurely from under a hat. This month she's peeking at me from behind the Christmas tree, and I can almost hear her little voice asking if she can tell me a secret or show me her new doll.
Last month she was still living in the home of a dear family friend. An estate sale brought me to the house I hadn't visited in years, but when I saw the painting, my heart leapt and I knew she wanted to come home with me. I wasn't sure if the longing had to do with a faint remembrance from my childhood or just an appreciation of the art itself, but I obeyed the impulse and gratefully gave her a new home.
As I often do following a bit of thrift shopping, I decided to do some research on the painting. I was curious about the artist and didn't know the name of the piece, but a quick google search gave me the information I needed. And then some. I clicked on the link and was astounded. So that's why she wanted to come home with me! The name of the demure, 18th century little girl? Miss Juliana Willoughby. (My exclamations were intense and frequent and my family is still afraid that I might shriek without warning.)
A few days later, our pastor was preaching from Luke 10. As he prepared to retell the story of The Good Samaritan in his thoughtful, relevant, and engaging way, he first landed on the staggering truth of verse 20: "Rejoice that your names are recorded in heaven." He reminded us that there is no greater joy than this. I marveled. Here it was again: my name. My name that was shared with Miss Willoughby, my name that I shared with a stranger last week who kept exclaiming again and again, "What a beautiful name!" My name that was shared with another stranger the other day . . . whose eyebrows shot up as she said, "That's my name, too!" (We both realized the rarity of it.)
It's as though the Lord really, really wanted to make it clear to me this month: your name is written! It is sealed for eternity! You are loved, and no matter how you stray -- no matter how small and tippy you feel -- whether you land under the rocking chair or bury yourself in the straw, no matter what occurs, I will find you. (And He sounds even better than Nathaniel Hawkeye when He says it.) I will not lose you, but I will gather you in my arms and gently carry you, placing you once again among my dearly beloved sheep, pointing your little face toward My manger, toward My Truth.
Reader, I want to make it clear to you, too. You are loved. The Lord knows your name, and He longs to record it in His Book of Life for all time. As Miss Willoughby peers from behind the Christmas tree, longing to tell me her secret, I too want to peer from beyond the hustle and bustle of this week to tell you a secret: Look to the manger. "For my eyes are toward Thee, O God, The Lord." (Psalm 141:8) Look to the manger and thank the Lord for knowing you, for loving you. Ask Him to scoop you up from under the rocking chair, to brush the straw from your backside, to point your precious face once again toward His Light. Because you know what? He's longing to do it. In fact, that's exactly why He came.