The Shepherd’s Song

by Betsy Duffey

  Lou smiled as he thought of two little boys saying the psalm, not having any idea what it meant to dine with an enemy. He touched the back of Frankie’s chair.

  He prepares a table before me in the presence of my enemies.

  Lou stood facing the newly set table. He had carefully set the table piece by piece. Hadn’t God carefully set the table, too, piece by piece—making Lou ready for this time? He looked at the empty chairs.

  God had given Lou Maria to love him and to help him learn how to love. God had given them the girls, three beautiful daughters who had married and moved out, but not before turning his hair gray. They had taught him patience. And God had given him a brother, Frankie. So, what was Lou learning now? Maybe faith. That God had a plan for them. Maybe forgiveness. Someday.

  Lou looked at the large wooden table that had been in their family for generations. Tonight they would all gather around this table. They would drink from the glasses of their great-grandfather. They would look at one another over the bread and wine—symbols of the eternal life they would someday share together.

  They had had years together, simmering like Maria’s tomato sauce, aging like the olive trees. Thousands of meals had been eaten at this very table, and time had done its work on the family, knitting them together, bonding them for good times and bad.

  Maria came and stood beside him.

  “It’s beautiful, Lou.”

  She took his hand, and they stood silently for a moment, looking at the prepared table. Holding Maria’s hand, reflecting on God’s goodness, Lou felt bigger, stronger. He drew in a deep breath and let it out.

  “He prepares a table before me,” Lou said, “in the presence of my enemies.”

  “Yes,” she said. “He does.”

  Lou’s eyes filled with unshed tears. “Whatever he has done, he is still my brother. Whatever happens, we will face it with God and family, together. Okay, Maria. I’ll set a place for Frankie.”

  ZOEY SAT ON THE BUS with all her worldly possessions close by, packed into a red, white, and blue rice bag and her well-worn backpack, a gift from her grandfather when she was in grade school. The threshold of a new life was fast approaching. She clutched her bags as the bus crawled through the narrow, congested streets of Chongqing.

  It was six p.m., and people poured from the office buildings onto the sidewalks. Chongqing was always busy; after all, it was the biggest city in the world, thirty-two million strong. And at this hour it seemed like all thirty-two million were in the streets.

  The man beside her shifted in his seat. She played her favorite game—imagine what people are doing. The man’s eyes moved nervously, and his hands clutched a black bag tightly. Robber. She smiled at her active imagination. Making a getaway . . . on this slow bus? Not a very good robber.

  There was a young woman dressed in a cocktail dress, a black silk wrap draped around her shoulders. She’s meeting a man, Zoey decided. She’s getting engaged tonight. The woman smiled at Zoey, and Zoey lowered her eyes.

  The man across from her, wearing the dusty blue clothes of the village, was probably a farmer. He reminded her of her grandfather, and she knew what he was thinking about. Sheep. At least that’s what her grandfather would be thinking of, always sheep. She felt a pang of pain as she remembered saying good-bye to him. He had been the hardest to leave. Her fingers unconsciously played with the fabric of the backpack he’d given her those many years ago.

  When she was little, she had followed him everywhere, like the sheep he raised. They would sit together in the pastures and look up at the clouds.

  “What is that, YeYe?” she would ask, pointing at a puffy white cloud.

  “Sheep,” he would answer.

  “And that one?”

  “Sheep.”

  She would giggle. He had seemed like a giant. Now, as she’d left him, he’d seemed so small.

  “We are all sheep,” he would say, and she would giggle.

  “We are not sheep,” she would tell him, shaking her tiny finger to scold him. “We are people.”

  “Sheep. People. It’s all the same,” he would say.

  “Where are you going?” the woman beside her asked, looking at her bags.

  “Los Angeles in the United States.”

  As she said the words, she felt fear rise. She had never been to the United States, and she only knew one person who had. It was Chan from the lab. He had done a fellowship there. He didn’t talk much about it. He spent more time talking about the flight over and all the air turbulence. She had never flown on an airplane, either, and now she was planning to fly more than fifteen hours across the ocean. She pushed the thought from her mind.

  It was exciting in a way, but scary, too.

  She leaned her forehead against the cool window of the bus and watched the people outside, hurrying along the street with purpose. They all seemed so confident, while she felt anything but confident.

  She was caught between her past and her future.

  Her small dormitory room was empty now, and she was headed to Wang’s apartment where three students from her medical class were meeting for dinner. She would spend the night with her friends Shi and Shu, then tomorrow she was off to her future in the United States. Her friends were rejoicing for her. She shivered at the thought.

  Tonight they would celebrate their last night together. It was Italian night, and Wang would bring the wine. Shu and Shi would make the pasta and marinara sauce. Zoey was to bring the bread and oil. She had the bread and was on her way to pick up the oil.

  She had known Wang since they were children. His father was the cobbler in their village. She could still see Wang in the shop, sitting on a bench beside his father, helping hammer soles onto shoes and pedaling the sewing machine while his father carefully stitched the seams.

  When she was a baby, her father had left to work in the mines. YeYe was more of a father to her. She grew up following him like his sheep. Every fall they would shear the sheep. It was like magic, as they clipped away the dank and dirty wool and the new, soft, pure-white wool became exposed. She would laugh at the thin-boned bodies that emerged from beneath the mounds of dirty wool. The memories made her smile.

  Zoey hopped off the bus with her bags and entered the import store.

  “I’m looking for olive oil,” she said. “It is for a dinner, so I want something special.”

  “This just arrived from Italy.”

  The woman held out a small box for Zoey to see. The bottle was in an individual carton, nestled safely in a bed of wrapping paper. Zoey could see the price. It was not quite as bad as she expected. She thought of her grandfather back in Xichang. He would have been horrified at the thought of fifty yuan for a bottle of oil. They paid half that for two gallons of soy oil, which lasted close to a month. But she was in Chongqing, and that’s what things cost.

  Besides, these friends were like brothers and sisters to her, at least what she thought brothers and sisters might be like. None of them actually had brothers or sisters.

  “Is it good to dip Italian bread in?” Zoey asked.

  “Oh yes. This is Liberatore Olive Oil—the best.” The lady pointed to the gold label. “It comes from Sorrento, Italy, made by a family of generations of olive growers.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  As Zoey handed the lady the money, she thought of all the people back in the village who were sacrificing for her to go to school—not just her grandfather, but their neighbors and the town leaders. They had all contributed to her education. She felt a tightness in her chest. Even today she had contemplated not going. Tomorrow morning, instead of going to the airport, she had imagined herself catching the bus. She could be back with YeYe in just a few hours. She would run through the pasture, past the sheep, straight to him. But everyone in the village would be disappointed. She could not let them down. She wanted them to be proud. She had to go to the United States. She would miss China, and her village, and YeYe, and the sheep, but she couldn’t think about that now. Tonight wa
s a happy night, dinner with her friends.

  It was Shi and Shu’s idea to have Italian night. They were good friends and so full of fun and ideas. They embraced the whole world and were always interested in other countries. It was funny that they were the ones staying in China while she was the one leaving to go so far away.

  Zoey hurried along the busy sidewalk toward Wang’s apartment. She loved the bustle of the city, so different from the village. She loved the village, too. Everything was so clean—the air, the green pastures of sheep. The thought of going back to the village was appealing, but she had been selected through a rigorous process and offered the opportunity to work in a major research university in the United States.

  Would she be like the newly shorn sheep? All her traditions and memories clipped away? She could not even imagine it. She thought again about backing out and catching the bus home. No. Everyone expected her to go to the United States and to do well. She could never let them down after they’d done so much for her.

  Zoey hurried up the stairs to Wang’s apartment and was soon enveloped in the hugs of her friends. The chatter and happy preparation for the meal took her mind off tomorrow and the flight and the beginning of her new life.

  “Did you get the oil?” Wang asked.

  “Yes.”

  Shi and Shu were boiling water in the kitchen.

  “I got the spaghetti noodles,” Shi said.

  “And I got the marinara sauce,” Shu added.

  The girls were both from Qinghai province but different villages. They were going back to work in a hospital near their villages, so they would be starting their new jobs together. Wang was staying in Chongqing at the hospital they had trained in, so he would know lots of people there. Zoey was the only one venturing out alone. She would be flying to LA—alone. Beginning her residency—alone. Living in a one-room apartment—alone. She had never been so alone before.

  As Zoey pulled the bottle of olive oil from the box, she noticed that one of the papers protecting the bottle looked different. Most of the wrapping was plain white, but this paper had handwriting on it. She pulled it out.

  “What’s that?” Wang asked.

  “A paper, written in English.”

  “Isn’t the oil from Italy?”

  “Yes, but the paper is definitely English.”

  “Read it,” Shu said, stirring the sauce.

  Wang peered over Zoey’s shoulder as she read.

  “Okay. ‘The Shepherd’s Song. Psalm 23. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want . . .’ ”

  Zoey read the entire psalm aloud.

  “That’s from the Christian Bible, I think,” Shi said.

  “Yes,” Shu said. “I’ve heard it before, in my grandmother’s house church.”

  Shi said, “I like the part about the green pastures and still waters. It reminds me of the villages in my province.”

  Shu nodded. “Yes, I am so glad we are returning to Qinghai, to the beautiful green pastures and clean air.” She tossed the noodles into the boiling water.

  Zoey said, “You are so lucky to be going together. I wish someone was going with me to the United States.”

  Wang took the paper and read, “ ‘He anoints my head with oil.’ I wonder what that means.”

  “Oil makes everything better!” Shi said, dipping a piece of bread in the oil and putting it into her mouth.

  Wang also dipped a piece of bread in the oil and placed it in his mouth. He closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure.

  “When I think of oil,” Wang said, “I remember pot stickers! My mother frying pot stickers every night. Hmm, the crispness.”

  “You would think of food!” Zoey said.

  “Also,” said Wang, “I think of stir-fry!”

  “Food again!” Shi rolled her eyes.

  “Of course. I live to eat. You don’t get this by avoiding food.” He grabbed a small roll of fat from his abdomen.

  They laughed.

  Shu said, “When I think of oil, I think of eucalyptus oil. For hundreds of years my ancestors used it for healing. When I go home, I am going to discover its secrets and become a famous doctor. Everyone will admire me, and I will be on the cover of many magazines. I might even win the Nobel Prize for medicine.” She took a bow, and they all laughed.

  “When I was a girl,” Shi began, “I wanted beautiful hair, like this very popular girl in my village. Every night my mother would caress my hair with palm oil scented with lavender. I can still smell the oil.” Shi stopped, her eyes filled with tears.

  They were all silent for a minute.

  “I’ll brush your hair,” Shu said. They laughed and hugged each other.

  Wang pulled out his phone and clicked on his dictionary. He said, “ ‘Anoint’ means ‘to apply oil.’ ”

  “When I think of applying oil,” Zoey said, “I remember my yeye. He took such good care of his sheep. He poured oil over their heads, rubbing it around their noses and eyes to protect them from the flies and gnats.”

  Zoey thought about how gentle his hands were as he rubbed the oil into the soft wool and on the black noses.

  Wang nodded. “Your grandfather had healthy sheep; I remember they were the best-looking sheep around. Not like Mr. Chang’s sheep.”

  Zoey thought of Mr. Chang’s sheep in the next pasture with their infected skin and dripping noses. Some of them had gone crazy from insects laying eggs in the soft black membranes of their noses. The ewes had stopped giving milk, and the lambs had stopped growing.

  YeYe’s protection had kept his sheep healthy and well. If only he could do the same for her—anoint her with oil to bring protection as she traveled to the United States, as she met new people and learned new customs.

  How happy YeYe’s sheep were after the anointing. They would press so close to him, their shepherd, knowing that he would provide what they needed and protect them. Who would protect her?

  “I like the idea of protection,” Wang said. “In a city as big as Chongqing, I need protection.”

  “I want protection from crashing airplanes,” Zoey said.

  They laughed.

  “One time,” Shu said, “at my grandmother’s home church, they used oil in a kind of ceremony. They dipped a finger into the oil and then touched the forehead of a man; then they said, ‘God be with you, amen.’ He was going to be a minister.”

  Wang was already typing on his phone.

  “ ‘Amen’ means ‘it is so,’ ” he said.

  “ ‘God be with you; it is so,’ ” Zoey said. “Amen.” Zoey repeated the foreign-sounding word. She thought about the anointing of the man at the church service and how comforting it would be to have God with her: on that plane, in LA . . . at her job.

  The table was soon filled with the familiar laughter of the friends as they shared stories and memories of their time together. After the meal they sat together one last time.

  The excitement of going to new places faded, and sadness set in as they thought about no longer seeing one another.

  They looked at the paper lying in the middle of the table beside the oil.

  “Do you think God would go with us? And protect us?” Zoey asked. She thought about the house church and this idea of a God who anoints his followers, like YeYe anointed the sheep.

  They were quiet for a minute, each pondering the future.

  Then Shu said, “Here.” She dipped her finger in the oil. She leaned forward and pressed her finger to Zoey’s forehead. The oil was warm, the touch gentle. Zoey closed her eyes and imagined YeYe’s finger touching her . . . or was it the finger of God?

  She was strangely filled with peace and even a certainty that God was with her.

  She dipped her finger in the oil and touched Wang’s forehead.

  “Remember this night,” she said. “God go with you.”

  Wang smiled. He touched the oil and then pressed his finger first on Shi’s forehead, then Shu’s.

  The candles glowed. The silence wrapped around them like a
blanket, and a comfortable peace settled on them as they sat together.

  Finally Zoey broke the silence in a voice that was more of a whisper. “He anoints my head with oil.”

  The four responded together: “Amen.”

  * * *

  MORNING CAME. Zoey sat in the terminal, waiting for her flight. Her bags were checked; she had passed through security and had an hour to wait before boarding. She looked around at all the people traveling and wondered about each one. The man beside her was perfectly dressed and carefully groomed. He must be on his way to meet the president, she thought, and smiled.

  An older woman sat with her hands folded. Around her were several bags and packages. She’s definitely one of those cool American CIA agents, Zoey thought, covering her smile. She’s in disguise for a secret mission.

  And what would they think, she wondered, if they looked at her? A young girl alone—but she was not alone.

  She pulled the psalm out of her bag and reread the words. You anoint my head with oil. Memories of the dinner came back and the great time she had had with her friends. She touched her forehead where Shu had anointed her with the oil.

  YeYe would not be taking care of her now, or possibly ever again. But she had a different shepherd. One who would protect and feed her and comfort her.

  “Flight 234, now boarding for Los Angeles.”

  She gathered her things quickly and made her way to the gate. Left on the seat was the psalm, forgotten in her excitement to board. But the words were a part of her now, giving her confidence and speaking to her heart of a very real God, who even cared for her.

  She paused for a moment to look outside the big glass windows at the plane that would take her to her future. The sky was bright blue; white puffy clouds floated above.

  “Sheep,” she could almost hear YeYe saying. “Sheep. People. We are all the same.”

  “Now boarding, flight 234 to Los Angeles.”

  Zoey smiled and turned toward the plane. YeYe could not go with her, but her shepherd God could go anywhere. And He would protect her, too. After all, that’s what it promised in the psalm.