English Sheep Teach Me a Lesson

by Rebecca Balcárcel | Bedford, TX

Starting my Camino Inglés in Reading, England, I quickly discerned that way-finding with my British guidebook wouldn’t always be clear to me. I could grasp “take the second exit on the roundabout,” but I had to decipher that “pavement” meant “sidewalk.”

In the countryside, I hoped the lingo and trail itself might be more obvious. Unfortunately, there were no yellow arrows, and at one point the book directed, “Turn right into a field, cross a second field, and veer left into a third.” Exactly what constituted a field in England? Back home in Texas, a field could be narrow or wide.

I slid through a kissing gate, and an expanse of grass stretched out before me. Was this all one field? Not seeing a marked path, I assumed I should hug its edge and walk through shorter grass, hoping I wasn’t lost.

Soon, I spotted a scattering of sheep. Further along, a whole flock. I found it unnerving that these sheep and I shared the space, no stone wall between us. They wouldn’t see me as a threat, right? These didn’t have horns, and sheep are generally known for their gentle nature, right? Still, they aren’t pets.

I kept walking and consulted my guidebook. “Cross a second field.” Was this the second field? Was there a gate somewhere? I scanned a line of bushes in front of me and there, in the corner, was a gate. I strode confidently toward it. One sheep followed me. As that sheep advanced, a few others stood and followed. Then a great ovine chorus of “Baa!” arose as more sheep in the distance rose and trotted toward me. What started as cute became alarming as the whole flock pressed toward me, crowding against my legs and bleating loudly.

With no farming or shepherding experience and utterly at a loss for what to do, I started talking to them. “Hello, sheep. I see you, sheep. I don’t have anything for you, sheep.” What did they want from me? My only thought was to get to the other side of the gate. A gate I soon discovered was locked, made of heavy metal, quite tall, and seemingly lacking a latch. There was zero chance of me opening, scaling, or passing through it.

I turned around. A sea of sheep met my eyes, the nearest of them stepping on my toes and pressing against my thighs. Panic rose in my chest. I traced the field’s edges with my eyes and spied a backpack disappearing into the uphill corner of the field. Aha! There must be a gate there. I had encountered few pilgrims, so glimpsing this one seemed nearly miraculous. Relief flooded through me.

Now that I knew where to go, I considered the sheep with less alarm. They stood quietly, as if waiting patiently for me to take them… to the barn? To be fed? I had no clue where a flock of sheep might want to go at 11:00 a.m., but I read complete trust in their eyes. And tears suddenly welled in mine. How certain these animals were that I was leading them somewhere good. How eagerly they gave themselves to my plan, whatever it was. To them, at least in this moment, I was a shepherd.

Something simultaneously expanded in me and humbled me. I felt utterly trusted—to use power wisely and do good in this world, to live well and beautifully. Could I do it? Could I be the person the sheep seemed to see?

And what if I could trust God with the same peace and eagerness that I read on those wooly faces surrounding me? I had told myself I would follow the ways of wisdom and love. Had I really been following my Guide (my conscience), and not just the guidebook in my hand? Sheep are often criticized for being docile followers, but standing in that field, I realized they had something profound to teach me. Years on, I’m still learning it.