One Day in the Life of a Shepherd

I wonder if, in later years, the sheep herders went back to the very spot where they’d seen the angel. Did they argue over the details?
“No. His eyes were blue!”
“I say green!
“They weren’t a color at all! They were…..ALIVE…is what they were.”

Did they try to one-up each other?
“I couldn’t speak. He was looking straight at me.”
“I couldn’t breathe or speak. And he was looking at me!”

Did they keep to themselves their real feelings of utter despair as they looked at that creature that was all light and strength and beauty? Did they feel like Isaiah? Undone. A man of unclean, no -not just lips, but of unclean everything.

I imagine one man whose day began like this:

He hated going into town. The people, the noise, buildings crammed in every inch of space, the hawkers selling their wares, the beggars, some moaning, demanding; others silent, resigned, putting in their day’s work.

But he’d had to go today. His wife had apologized; that’s all she ever did anymore. Apologize and cry. Cry and apologize. He couldn’t stand it, or her, anymore. “Give her time,” they’d all said. “Another child will come along.”

Fat chance of that. He hadn’t been able to touch her in months. He no longer even tried to feel sorry for her, or guilty over his impatience. At least he hadn’t slapped her, though the urge was getting stronger. They were still young; they could try again. But she was growing old before his eyes, and he was finding it hard to even remember her with eyes full of light and albeit shy desire.

He left without a word, stopping to check on the ewe sick with milk fever. If she died, her death would be just another in a long line of setbacks. He worked harder and longer for less and less. Imagining dropping her dead body on the desk of that pompous tax collector pleased him. He despised men who hid behind desks and titles and fancy robes; give them five minutes faced with a mountain lion and they’d cry like babies.