Feed My Sheep

I’ve been praying the kind of prayers that don’t come with a bow on them. The kind that spill out tired and honest, asking God to sort what belongs in my hands and what needs to be set back down at His feet.

What is mine to carry, Lord?

And what have I been gripping out of fear, guilt, or habit?

Last night, as sleep crept in and my thoughts softened, I asked Him again—What are You calling me to do? What do You want from me in this season? And there, in that quiet place between consciousness and rest, a phrase settled into my spirit like it had been waiting on me all along:

Feed my sheep.

I remember thinking, That’s Scripture.

I remember thinking, That’s weighty.

I remember thinking, Lord… what does that even mean?

Morning came the way it always does—too fast and full of small responsibilities. I opened my Bible anyway, still hungry for clarity, still hoping for a loud voice or a neon sign or at least a sentence that would underline itself.

I prayed again.

Speak clearly, Lord. I’m listening.

And almot instantly, He did—little toes came padding across the living room floor. My son climbed up beside me, still sleepy, still unguarded in the way only children can be before the world teaches them to filter themselves.

He looked at me and asked,

“Do you love me?”

Without looking up from the page I was camped out on in Joshua, I smiled.

“Yes, baby. I love you.”

He asked it again.

“Do you love me?”

“Yes,” I said, still reading. “I love you.”

Then—without a pause, without a grin, without any sense of ceremony—he said,

“Feed my sheep.”

I stopped reading.

I turned and looked at him like someone had just spoken my private prayer out loud.

“Why did you just say that?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

I pressed again, my voice softer now.

“Darlin’… why did you say that to me?”

“I don’t know,” he said again—already reaching for the remote, already moving on with his morning like nothing holy had just passed between us.

But I didn’t move.

I sat there, Bible open, heart pounding, realizing God had answered me—not with thunder, not with explanation, but with confirmation. Through a nine-year-old who had no idea what he’d just echoed.

Scripture tells us God sometimes speaks through the mouths we least expect. It turns out He still does. And sometimes the loudest answers come wrapped in the smallest voices.

My heart felt full and undone all at once.

Because here’s the thing—I still don’t have a tidy definition. I don’t have a five-step plan or a job description or a checklist labeled How to Feed Sheep Without Getting Tired.

I just have the knowing.

That God was listening.

That God was speaking.

That God was entrusting something sacred.

Maybe feed my sheep doesn’t begin with crowds or platforms or answers… but with obedience in the quiet. With tending what’s already in front of me.

With listening long enough to learn the difference between what He’s asking me to carry—and what He never was.

So here I am, still asking.

Still listening.

Still holding the question like bread not yet broken:

Lord… show me how….