Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep. ––Luke 15: 4-7, NIV
The shepherd quickly rounded up each sheep inside one of his biggest pens. He counted every remaining sheep, checking there were ninety-nine in the pen, nothing more, and nothing less. After checking twice or thrice, the shepherd took his staff and dashed through the valley, shouting for the sheep that must have hidden near the barren wasteland or the valley of the dry bones. The will along his path turned into floss. There came the source of his frustration, so close to finding it, yet so far. If only the shepherd had the luxury to find the sheep before the wolves came hunting down on the animals of the valley, or the vultures would feast on its flesh!
But lo––there he was, the sheep! The sheep was bleating miserably to the sun, its voice carrying in the wind. Every shout made the sheep’s bleating sound much hoarser than the last. The sheep was close to green pastures and shallow waters, to a place where even the shepherd himself would lay his guard down for a swim. But night was fast approaching, with all its surrounding dangers! He dashed through the sunset into the bleating sheep, gently taking away the sheep’s hoofs and returning before the river’s might flowed between their bodies. Because of this, both living beings finally saw how the river flooded the valley from a distance.
For an hour, the shepherd walked with his sheep, cold, hungry, and bleating, but thankful because the lost has finally been found.