The crazy thing about the whole night of Karla’s birthing was that we had guests. And the guests were my best friend from college, Karla, and her daughter, Grace. My sheep Karla was named for my friend Karla, and Karla my friend had already named the lambs just born after two of her children, Lily Hope and Gabriel. How could we let any of them die? And this last one, if it was a girl, would be named for Gracie, the child now kneeling in the dark and chilly barn witnessing the rather gruesome births of her siblings’ namesakes. Sort of a sick and quite a high-pressure situation.

Now to the remaining lamb. My sheep farmer friend, Hilary, who I’d called for help, now had her arm nearly up to the elbow inside of Karla, but could feel only the birth sac. No baby. How could this be? Apparently, the uterus of a sheep is more or less rectangular, but according to Hilary, sometimes extends up toward the front of the sheep in two “horns.” This is where our little lamb was hiding. All that was left to do was wait.

So we did. We passed the time busy with keeping the birthed lambs warm. The first weak lamb was still struggling to gain temperature and remained frighteningly cold while wrapped with dry towels and heated from above with a lamp and below with a heating pad. Karla the friend continually rubbed and talked to her, while the second lamb kept escaping from the towels and the box. Finally we put him by Karla the sheep and let her take over. He seemed strong enough, although she wouldn’t stand to be nursed. I milked a tiny bit of sticky thick colostrum out of her and rubbed it into both of their mouths.

Finally Hilary felt the baby. She had me reach into the uterus so that she could talk me through what an assisted delivery should be like. The presentation of the baby was fine, a head and two feet were coming first. So I waited for Karla to contract and I drew the last lamb out by the legs. Alive! What relief. A little girl, cold and stressed, but alive. Into the hot box Grace went, next to her sister Lily.

Grace was very cold but refused to stay in the box. What a little fighter! So we dried her thoroughly and left her with her mama, but aimed a heat lamp at them. Lily, on the other hand, was quiet and still and too too cold. A lamb under 97 degrees can’t even digest, so we couldn’t even get milk in her until she warmed up. Then the rain and hail started. We bundled Lily up and ran her to the house, giving our blessing to the rest as we left.

Her box, still heated from below with a pad, went in front of the fire. If this didn’t work, nothing would. But there was no way to give up. Once you’ve pulled the baby out, dried it off, coaxed breath from it and held it in your warm arms, there is no going back. This is where all those comparisons of Jesus to a shepherd really connect with me. Sheep are pretty self-sufficient generally, but the shepherd has the important job of getting them to pasture where they can thrive and of rescuing them from wandering off and into danger. The acceptance of the shepherd role also compels him to go all-out to save the sick and weak; a compunction that comes from a place of love and compassion born of the position somehow. I get this.

A changing guard of children manned the woodstove hospital, checking the lamb’s temperature every few minutes. When she was warm enough to eat, we’d definitely know it. And finally she was. But she was too weak to suck, so I gently fed a tiny little soft rubber tube down her throat and forced about an ounce of milk directly into her tummy. I hate doing this, and she made a small squeak of discomfort, which broke my heart. I was determined to get her on the bottle for the next feeding, no matter how limp and awkward she seemed. And sometime early in the morning she did weakly gum the nipple. By daybreak she was standing and “ma-a-a-ing” for more food.