The Shepherd’s Song

by Betsy Duffey

  Along the way he was overwhelmed with the unexpected generosity that seemed to follow him. A man with a bread truck gave him a ride. Another shared a sandwich. An elderly woman paid his way on the ferry. He knew he did not deserve it. He had been taking things by force for so long that he had forgotten about the goodness that could come from people.

  Days passed. Patrick prayed as he walked. It wasn’t the formal prayers of the church, just conversations with his shepherd, thoughts that came to him but seemed to emanate from somewhere outside of himself.

  Patrick thought of all the things he had done since those days when he was a child with his father, things that brought him shame, and he listed them one by one, confessing as he prayed. Then peace came.

  When another stranger picked him up outside Dublin, Patrick was grateful. As they rode across the countryside toward home, he stared out the window and watched the stone walls go by. The hills leading into Cork were green, even greener than he had remembered.

  Patrick rubbed his hand over his unshaven face, then smoothed his dirty shirt, wishing he didn’t look quite so disheveled and worn. He had no choice. He had to go just as he was.

  His anxiety grew as he covered the remaining miles. Over and over he rehearsed in his mind what he would say to his father. He thought again about the news in the letter and how it would change his life forever.

  His ride let him off on the north side of town, only a few miles from his father’s farm. The walk would give him time to build his courage.

  Patrick continued along the narrow road lined with a low stone wall. The fields around him were dotted with sheep, and Patrick thought again about the psalm. He leads me in paths of righteousness.

  The desire to return home grew stronger. He even longed for the endless chores that he had once dreaded. And he longed to be in the fields once again with the sheep —those dumb, stupid, idiotic sheep. But the most overwhelming desire was the uniting of father and son. Yes, that’s what he wanted.

  Patrick picked up his pace and began running down the lane. It was the longest mile of the whole trip, but his legs felt strong and his heart felt free. He was at last running toward something, not away. The small stone cottage came into view, and he could see the smoke from the chimney and the light in the windows.

  As he reached the house, he paused, seized with sudden doubt.

  “Knock,” the voice said.

  He knocked softly and pushed the door open. Sitting by the fireplace, his father looked up, his face older than Patrick remembered. His father stared at him, mouth open.

  Patrick tried to begin the words he had rehearsed so many times. Nothing came.

  His father stood weakly, tears in his eyes, and held out his arms.

  “Paddy, you’re finally home.”

  They embraced—father and son reunited.

  “I have so much to tell you,” Patrick said. “I’m so sorry for—”

  “Later,” his father said.

  Patrick pulled away and followed his father’s eyes to the corner of the room where a small cradle stood by the window. Slowly Patrick crossed the room. He gazed down at the small life in front of him. His son. His own flesh and blood. So beautiful, so perfect. Patrick felt completely amazed.

  The words of the letter came back.

  You are needed here. You have a son now, and he needs a father.

  Patrick reached down and picked up his son, drawing the baby to his chest.

  “God wants you goin’ down the right path,” Patrick whispered into his son’s soft ear. “I’ll be with you to show you how.” He felt the warmth of the baby’s breath against his unshaven cheek.

  He held the boy back, gazed into his face, and was warmed by the look of guileless acceptance and trust in the baby’s eyes. He knew he would never leave again.

  There was nothing like the relationship of a father and a son. Patrick wanted to be the kind of father to his son that his father was to him, always loving him and ready to accept him home despite all that he had done. Whatever he needed to do, he would do. Whatever he needed to learn, he would learn. The shepherd had promised to lead him, and at last he was willing to follow.

  “Well done.” The thought came, affirming and comforting. The running had stopped. Patrick was home.

  WHAT’S THE BEST WAY to kill myself?

  The question loomed large in front of Jake. The walls of his seedy London hotel room seemed like a tomb, like he was already dead. He took off his glasses, ran his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair, rubbed his unshaven chin. How should he do it?

  Gun? Too complicated. He had never owned a weapon. He couldn’t imagine buying one now.

  Jump off a bridge? Too dramatic. And what if he lived?

  Knife? Too messy. All that blood.

  Two weeks ago he seemed to have it all. Perfect wife. Perfect job. Perfect life . . . on the outside. What would his wife, June, think if she could see him now? It didn’t matter. All he had left of her was the note she had left behind. She would likely file for divorce soon. And his job—two weeks ago he was a man of reputation, a man realizing his ambitions. Now it was all gone. He was about as low as a man could go. Jake wanted relief from the disappointment, the feelings of rejection and emptiness.

  Pills? Yes, pills would be perfect. Going quietly. And he had plenty of those with him. His doctor had prescribed the pills to help him sleep. He looked at the small bottle in his hand. These pills would not fix the deep pit that his life had become unless he took all of them.

  The hotel room was dreary. Jake lay back on the lumpy bed and tried not to think. He didn’t want to die in this depressing room. He hated the thought of June hearing that he went like this. He wanted to be outside, somewhere beautiful, at the end. But where? He saw a pile of tourist brochures on the desk. He reached over and picked up the first one.

  El Camino de Santiago. “The Way of St. James.” One hundred kilometers of trails through France and Spain, hiked by millions of people for hundreds of years.

  Medieval pilgrims had made the journey for spiritual reasons, but it would not be a spiritual journey for Jake. He didn’t need that. For him it was an escape, and, more important, it was the perfect place for his last good-bye on earth. Tomorrow he would travel to France to begin.

  Jake felt a sense of purpose. He began to pack his few belongings. As he reached down to gather the dirty clothes on the floor, something under the bed caught his eye. It was a wallet. He pulled it out. It was empty except for a couple of photos and a folded piece of paper. He opened the paper and saw the words of the twenty-third psalm. His eyes fell on the line, Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. He clenched his fist and shook it at the ceiling.

  “Don’t even try,” he said to God. “Don’t even try!” Someone in the room next door pounded on the wall, and Jake realized that he had been yelling.

  He crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it out the window. He looked out in time to see it fall into the unsuspecting hands of a young man with a Mohawk haircut.

  Good, Jake thought. Maybe it’ll mean something to that guy.

  He slammed the window shut. He was finished with God and Bible verses and trying to do right. Where had it gotten him but here?

  Tomorrow he would walk.

  There was a relief in that—the idea of just walking. He didn’t have to figure out how to do life. He didn’t have to talk to anyone. He didn’t have to help anyone. He didn’t have to organize anyone. He didn’t even have to look at anyone. One foot in front of the other. That was all he had to do, and soon he could stop walking for good.

  In the morning Jake traveled to France. He purchased a backpack, bedroll, walking stick, and water bottle at a small store that catered to pilgrims, those making the walk to Santiago de Compostela. He slipped the bottle of pills into the side pocket of the backpack. He was ready. With the help of the store owner he found the start of the Camino trail.

  Somehow he expected it to be better marked, but there it was�
��only a small wooden sign with a seashell, the Camino symbol, pointing in the direction of the path. He took his walking stick and left the road.

  A light rain fell, and Jake put on his hat as he started up the path. The dreariness of the rain seemed proper and right. His feet crunched on the gravel. His pack felt good against his back, not too heavy.

  Up ahead he saw other pilgrims. When he saw them, he slowed his place. He did not want to know anything about them. Their stooped shoulders made them look so vulnerable. If he met them, they would begin to pour out their pain on him, and it would be too much. Jake had heard enough sad stories in his life. When he thought of it, his shoulders hurt. He stopped to rub each shoulder. He had his own pain to deal with.

  He remembered his last day of work.

  “We need to talk,” Arthur had said.

  Jake had been intrigued. What could Arthur want? He respected Arthur and knew Arthur respected him. Perhaps Arthur was giving him more responsibility. Jake had given the secretary the thumbs-up sign as he’d gone into Arthur’s office. Later he remembered the sad look on her face. She had not returned the sign.

  “We’re going to have to let you go,” Arthur had said.

  “Where?” Jake had asked, and then the awful truth had dawned on him. He was not being sent on a trip; he was being fired. All the extra hours. All the weekends. All the missed vacations and holidays. All for nothing.

  “It’s not you,” Arthur continued. “It’s budget cuts . . . the economy.”

  Jake had not seen it coming. He had even told June they couldn’t go on vacation this year, that he had to work. He remembered with a sinking feeling that he had actually said to her, “Don’t you understand, my job is my life?”

  That night Jake had walked the city streets until late, then he had gone home like nothing had happened. He couldn’t tell June. There was no one in his world he could tell. All his support had been at work. All his friends were there. All his value had come from there.

  The rain stopped, and the sun emerged. He climbed steadily upward on the steep path. No one traveled with him today, yet he had the constant feeling of being followed. Was he becoming paranoid? He concentrated on the path, watching his feet.

  The sun was hot, and he found himself stopping often to drink water and look at the map. He seemed to be making almost no progress, and it was becoming an effort to keep going. Several times he looked back, but there was nothing there for him.

  The first day ended as Jake walked to one of the stations. There were beds, and for dinner, a stew. When he fell into the bed, he thought about the day and decided he was sorry he had started the whole thing. It was harder than he’d thought, and his feet ached.

  Jake lay awake, wide-eyed. He couldn’t sleep with crowds of people sharing the room, coughing and snoring. He longed for morning to come, and when it finally arrived, he got up early, only to find a long line for the bathroom. After he packed his things, he took the bread and cheese that was offered to him and left. A small group of pilgrims had gathered outside to sing a hymn. He walked around them without stopping.

  His muscles ached from the miles he had walked the day before, and his shoulders hurt from carrying his load. Regardless of the problems, he was determined to keep going. As usual, it was his determination that would move him forward.

  “I will walk today. I will put one foot in front of the other. I will not think. I will not feel. I will just walk.”

  The sound of the singing pilgrims took him back to the beginning of his journey of faith. It had been everything to him. He was a young student at summer camp when he had discovered Jesus and given his life to Him. The moment was clear, and in the middle of many teenage memories that were incomplete or blurred with time, this one was etched in his mind as if it had happened just yesterday.

  Out under the trees and stars one splendid night, the youth pastor had talked about God and his love for everyone. Jake was overwhelmed with the feeling of love, and in that moment his life changed. He had been so sure of what God wanted from him. “I surrender all,” he had sung, and he’d meant every word.

  He climbed steadily upward on the steep path. No one else was walking nearby, yet once again he had the feeling of being followed. Was he losing his mind? He needed to concentrate on the path and stop thinking.

  A young couple passed him, laughing and holding hands. Meeting June had been one of the great moments of his life. June was there the year he found God, and they fell in love that summer. It all seemed perfectly planned. She was beautiful, with her curly brown hair and the flowered dresses she always wore. He had fallen fast and hard. They’d seemed to have it all. How could he have lost her?

  The walk continued through a strand of trees. Jake stopped a moment in the shade. When the job had come open in the town of Brownstone, it seemed that God was leading him and providing for his family. He put his life into his job. Isn’t that what God wanted? Hard work. Every choice seemed to be divinely directed—marriage, job, success. Choice by choice he had built his life.

  The day stretched on. He walked alone.

  Jake continued going higher. Again he had the feeling of being followed. He stopped several times to look behind him, but no one was there.

  In the quiet he realized there were things that he had missed the days before. The smell of pine needles, the call of birds. He heard one bird that he recognized from growing up in Lancaster, a jay of some kind. Another call from a small, brown bird that peeked at him from a berry bush.

  A sparrow, he thought. He watched the sparrow pick a berry and fly higher to eat. He wished that he could be a sparrow. Something about the simplicity of the bird’s life appealed to him. Birds lived with other birds, but they lived in harmony, not dependence, just living together. Why couldn’t the world be like that?

  “Even a sparrow has found a home.” He remembered the scripture but put it out of his mind. No more Bible verses. He was done with God and all that Bible stuff.

  He passed two older women, who walked slowly, leaning on their walking sticks. He nodded. They nodded back, and it felt okay to have them nearby, but silent.

  That night in the small pension, Jake was alone. He wrapped himself in his bedroll and looked out the small window at the slice of moon in the sky. Finally he slept. A few hours later he woke. Again he felt that prickling sensation that he was not alone. Perhaps someone else had come in during the night.

  “Anyone there?” he called out.

  No answer.

  He could not get back to sleep.

  Morning came, and he started out again.

  He walked on the path, his mind empty. He saw a woman with a large cross hanging around her neck stopped on the path ahead.

  The woman did not look at Jake. She simply pointed ahead. “A valley of cairns.”

  Jake stared out at the valley filled with stones, thousands and thousands of them. Some standing alone; many stacked into small towers.

  “The stones represent the pain,” she said. “People leave them behind. It is the end of pain and the beginning of life.”

  And for me, Jake thought, it will be the end of both.

  “Did you bring a stone?” the woman asked. “Everyone leaves something behind here.”

  Jake shook his head. He watched as the woman walked forward and placed a small white stone on top of one of the piles, then she continued on the path.

  He sat under a large tree and rested his back on the rough bark. There were stones everywhere stacked on top of one another. Sometimes two, sometimes many, balanced and stable. Man’s need to make his mark. Jake thought. Or perhaps it’s man’s need to reach up to God. He thought of his own strivings, of his attempts to be noticed and to gain recognition—always the need for significance. What had it come to? Nothing.

  He watched a young woman balancing a small stone atop a large flat stone. He saw an older couple walk by and add two turquoise stones to a pile. They paused in silence, or maybe in prayer, then continued on.

  He ima
gined that the stones were from all over the world. Thousands of pains left behind. Burdens that seemed so heavy, overwhelming.

  Darkness came, and Jake closed his eyes. Tonight he would spend the night outside under the stars. At dawn he would do it—end his life.

  Later that night Jake again felt a presence. He ignored it and stared at the sky. The stars were incredible. Bright and vast. The heavens declare the glory of God, Jake thought, before he could stop himself.

  “Leave me alone!” he cried to the night and the stars. “Leave me alone.”

  He rose and stared at the sky. Silence and the overwhelming beauty of the stars pierced his heart.

  Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

  Jake remembered the words of the psalm that he had read in the hotel room.

  “Here I am in the valley!” he shouted. “Are you with me? Are you with me now? Do you even care?!”

  Moonlight lit the path, and, exhausted, Jake dropped to his knees and wept.

  “Why, God? Why weren’t you with me? How could you do this to me?”

  There was no answer except the stars and the moonlight and the piles of rocks reaching up and the words in his mind.

  Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

  “You let me down! You deserted me!”

  He yelled the words into the emptiness around him.

  The silence made the anger worse. “Won’t you even answer me?” he yelled at the sky.

  Silence. Only the gleaming stars. Suddenly he felt so small. A tiny human man dwarfed by the universe.

  The millions of stars, galaxies, and the universe spoke of the hugeness of God. Jake’s smallness mirrored the smallness of his own understanding.

  And the memory came back to him of the night he first believed. God had met him in the words of the youth pastor, and God’s love had been so real. The stars had shone above him just like this night.