A Feast for the Found

Based on Luke 15:1-10 – The Lost Sheep and the celebration for finding it.

The hills were quiet that morning, except for the soft jingle of bells as the shepherd climbed over rocks and through patches of wild thyme. He had been searching since sunrise, calling out the name of his lost sheep with a mix of worry and hope that made his voice hoarse. Each step was measured, careful, yet eager, for he knew this one had wandered far from the familiar paths.

Finally, near a hidden hollow where the grass grew thick and sweet, he spotted it—white against the green, a little lost, perhaps a bit muddied, but unmistakably his. Relief rolled through him in a rush, almost knocking the wind from his lungs. He crouched, murmuring a gentle greeting, letting the sheep feel the warmth of his joy. Its ears twitched, and in a way only a shepherd and sheep understand, it nuzzled back.

The journey home was slow and deliberate. The shepherd walked beside the sheep, occasionally letting it graze, occasionally calling softly. His mind wandered, imagining the celebration he would prepare—a feast, a gathering, a joy that could be shared. He thought of the neighbours, the children, the women who always had a smile and a rolling pin at the ready. The thought made him grin; a little mischief of anticipation danced in his chest.

By midday, he arrived at the butcher’s shop,

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A Feast for the Found

Based on Luke 15:1-10 – The Lost Sheep and the celebration for finding it.

The hills were quiet that morning, except for the soft jingle of bells as the shepherd climbed over rocks and through patches of wild thyme. He had been searching since sunrise, calling out the name of his lost sheep with a mix of worry and hope that made his voice hoarse. Each step was measured, careful, yet eager, for he knew this one had wandered far from the familiar paths.

Finally, near a hidden hollow where the grass grew thick and sweet, he spotted it—white against the green, a little lost, perhaps a bit muddied, but unmistakably his. Relief rolled through him in a rush, almost knocking the wind from his lungs. He crouched, murmuring a gentle greeting, letting the sheep feel the warmth of his joy. Its ears twitched, and in a way only a shepherd and sheep understand, it nuzzled back.

The journey home was slow and deliberate. The shepherd walked beside the sheep, occasionally letting it graze, occasionally calling softly. His mind wandered, imagining the celebration he would prepare—a feast, a gathering, a joy that could be shared. He thought of the neighbours, the children, the women who always had a smile and a rolling pin at the ready. The thought made him grin; a little mischief of anticipation danced in his chest.

By midday, he arrived at the butcher’s shop, the bells of the village church faintly ringing in the distance. Inside, the air was rich with the scent of spices, cured meats, and the faint tang of iron. He rubbed his hands together. “I’m planning a feast,” he said, his voice low but brimming with delight. “One for the whole community. I need a few lamb chops, a leg of lamb, maybe a cooked head, and enough for stew that will fill the bellies and hearts alike.”

The butcher raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask too many questions. He knew the shepherd’s ways—he always had a reason for such exuberance, a story that would warm the heart once told. Cuts were chosen carefully: tender chops for grilling, a leg for roasting, the head for its rich, comforting meat, marrow bones for soup, and smaller pieces for stews that would simmer until the aroma drifted to every doorway. Offal and fat were set aside for traditional recipes, ensuring nothing went to waste. The shepherd chuckled, running a finger along the display, imagining the feast laid out: plates heavy with food, laughter heavier still.

As the butcher worked, the shepherd’s mind wandered back to the hills, to the one he had found. In quiet moments, he whispered the story of the lost sheep: how it had strayed, how he had searched high and low, the panic that had briefly filled him, and then the sheer joy of finally seeing it safe. His voice took on the cadence of a tale told to children around a hearth, light with humour, soft with relief. Every detail mattered: the moment the sheep’s ear twitched at his call, the way it darted toward him, the relief in its small, warm eyes. The story itself became a feast for imagination, a celebration in its telling.

When the preparations were complete, the shepherd called the neighbours. Long tables were set under the shade of olive trees, benches scraped against cobbles, and the aroma of roasting meat curled through the village streets. Laughter bubbled before the first morsel was tasted; children chased one another, waving small plates, while elders exchanged knowing smiles. The leg of lamb glistened, the head arranged with care, and the chops sizzled on the grill, filling the air with a melody of anticipation. Stews bubbled, fragrant and rich, marrow bones simmering for a depth of flavour that would draw everyone close to the table.

Before anyone touched a bite, the shepherd stood and recounted the tale again. He told of searching, calling, longing, and finding. He spoke of the joy that filled him when the lost sheep returned, of the relief and gratitude that made his heart nearly burst. Neighbours leaned forward, some chuckling at his flourishes, some nodding at the shared sense of discovery. In every eye, there was a spark of understanding: the joy of what had been lost and was now found.

As the feast began, hands reached for plates and cups, and conversation flowed like the wine poured carefully into each goblet. The children squealed over simple desserts, laughter spilling into the evening sky. Stories were shared, songs hummed, and the warmth of the fire mingled with the warmth of hearts. Somewhere in the midst of it all, the shepherd’s story lingered, the memory of the lost sheep alive in every chuckle, every bite, every raised glass.

No live sheep remained after the butcher’s work was done, yet in the retelling, the one that had wandered and returned remained vivid, its presence felt in the joy, in the celebration, in the community’s shared gratitude. The feast was more than food; it was a dance of relief and delight, a gentle acknowledgement that sometimes, what is lost returns, and that return deserves not only recognition but a gathering, a festival, a moment when hearts come together.

The sun dipped low, painting the village in golden light. The shepherd, content and full of quiet pride, watched as neighbours lingered, plates empty but spirits brimming. He knew that the memory of the lost sheep—the one that had prompted all this joy—would live on in stories, in laughter, in the lingering scent of roasted lamb that would follow them home. The celebration, though complete, would echo in hearts long after the last morsel had been eaten.