It happened when the Judean sky just outside Bethlehem was awash with stars, dotting an indigo canvas.

My father and I were minding our business, simply tending our flock of sheep. In truth, I’d fallen asleep, something Papa often allows, especially when the night is as peaceful as this one happened to be.

The last thing I remember before everything changed was hearing him hum.

“A melody Mama used to sing,” Papa’s told me too many times to count.

Then suddenly, the blanket overhead was peeled back and an angel appeared with a burst of light. Papa grabbed me, then wrapped me in his arms.

“Stay silent, girl,” he whispered in my ear.

And I did, though I could hear his heartbeat, felt Papa’s fear with each pounding thump.

As Levitical shepherds, fear and sadness aren’t unfamiliar. My first experience with both, though I don’t remember—only know what Papa has shared—was when Mama passed.

Before I could feel her breath upon my infant cheek, she was gone. He always says—

“She was the fragrance of springtime, my Rose of Sharon.”

But alas, I’m left to imagine.

Still, I try to see her face when I inhale the dancing lilies of the field. Papa says I have her eyes, with a touch of green around each hazel edge.

“Like summer,” he sighs.

He’s told me it’s her laughter he hears when tickling my toes. Thus, I try and laugh often.

Days prior to my birth, Papa says Mama chose my name, something quite out of the ordinary in our culture. But he said she had her reasons and he trusted her.

“Our daughter will be Itiya, which means ‘God is with me.’ And so, that was that.”

Papa can smile now when he recollects, though it took much time. Pretending to be Mama, he sends his hands flying, though his voice resembles a mountain goat, and I giggle.

Our sheep are more to me than simply our livelihood. Each has a name, and they come when they are called.

Yedida is my favorite, and her name means “friend,” which she is. We hope she’ll birth healthy babies, and Papa proclaimed only yesterday—

“There’s something special about this ewe, Itiya. Mark my words. She’ll one day give us a spotless lamb, and that’s a promise.”

But honestly, discovering spotless lambs is the most difficult part—though I know it’s what this life is about, our livelihood here in the fields near the Tower of the Flock.

We tend the sheep, praying Yahweh-Jireh will provide a perfect one just as He did for Abraham.

You know the story—how our forefather’s son Isaac was spared when a sacrificial substitute appeared, and out of nowhere. And we always know Yahweh-Jireh will do the same for us…

But when He does?

Unlike babies born with imperfections—even the smallest speckle or spot, those who skip and frolic from birth—the spotless males are bound from the beginning.

Each is held captive in the Midgal Eder manger, kept from bumps and bruises. It seems unfair, and they bleat their displeasure, which hurts my tender heart.

“Itiya, they know nothing else,” Papa reminds me. “Indeed, they’re blessed, having come for a greater purpose—to be sacrificed, to offer freedom.”

And though I’m young, not yet a dozen years, I see a paradox—this bondage which sets free. Still, thinking about it too much makes my head spin, like staring long at a fire. For a moment, a dancing picture, but then poof…

It vanishes.

So, too, gazing at the night sky, discovering pictures in the stars, creating my own constellations.

That’s what I was doing when the angel appeared. He proclaimed—

“Fear not! I’ve come to bring you good news of great joy, which is for all people.”

The angel continued, telling how a baby was born in Bethlehem, wrapped in cloth and placed in a manger. Then, a brilliant choir of angels sang—

“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace—yes, goodwill toward men.”

Can you imagine?

Yet, as suddenly as all this happened, in an instant, it was over, and we stood rubbing our eyes, scratching our heads.

Was it real or merely some mysterious dream?

Leave it to Yedida to shake me from my stupor. She nudged me, then bleated, and I knew.

“Papa, the stable for the sacrificial lambs, at the base of the Tower of the Flock. Why, it must be. After all, haven’t you always said the prophet Micah himself foretold it?”

And so, we hurried to Bethlehem, and found him just as the angel promised.

A baby, wrapped in the same soft cloth with which we’d swaddled a lamb only days prior—a perfect lamb that was, no doubt, to be sacrificed.

But now, any lingering sorrow has turned to joy and I do a little dance before kneeling at the stone manger, warmed by the baby.

“Immanuel,” Papa whispers.

“Just as the prophet Isaiah promised,” I whisper back. “And… and Mama—”

“Yes, she knew, and this—no, he—was her reason for giving you your name. God is with you, Itiya. And with me. With us—God made flesh.”

“He’s the perfect lamb.” Tears fall as I squeeze Papa’s hand. “He’s… he’s our friend.”

“Our friend,” Papa echoes. And he is.

Indeed, Jesus is.

(Scriptures—Luke 2, Micah 4, and Isaiah 7.)

**(Photot credits—Beth Brown Photography for the night sky picture. The one of the lamb was taken by me, a sheep from our flock.)**