The Lamb Who Kept Calling

When we call out to Jesus , even in a small whisper , he always stops, always hears, and always asks us what we need.

Tonight's story is inspired by Mark 10:46-52, the Gospel reading for May 28, 2026.

About Baa Baa Bible: Bible-inspired bedtime stories for children ages 3-10. In every story, Jesus is the gentle Good Shepherd, teaching us the lessons of today's Bible reading. All the other characters are lambs and sheep, a warm reminder that we are all part of his flock. 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Good evening, little lambs. Tonight's story is called The Lamb Who Kept Calling, inspired by the Gospel of Mark ten, verses forty-six through fifty-two. There is something the gospel wants us to know tonight, that when we cry out to Jesus, even when it feels like no one is listening, even when everything around us seems too loud and too busy and too much, he stops. He always stops. He hears every voice, no matter how small. And he asks us the most wonderful question, What do you want me to do for you? And so tonight we're back on Shepherd's Hill with Clover and the little flock, who are about to learn exactly this. The night before Matt had won the Shepherd's Cup, and the story of how he had won it was still warm in everyone's hearts, how he had stopped for bramble, walked beside Fig, and not once tried to be first. But by morning the flock had scattered to different corners of the hill, and it was the kind of quiet, scattered day where each lamb had something of their own to carry. Clover had been carrying hers since breakfast. It was a worry, and it had a name. Somewhere in the lower meadow, tucked behind the hazel thicket, there was a little lamb named Nettle. Nettle had come to the hill only a few days ago. Dusty brown wool, one flopped ear, eyes that had the careful look of a lamb who had stopped wanting things because wanting them hurt too much. She had laughed her surprised little laugh on the night of the festival, and she had curled up against Pip to sleep. But this morning she had slipped away early, and no one seemed to know where she had gone. She was there at supper, said Biscuit, tuft bouncing. I saw her. She was at breakfast, too, said Fig quietly. But then she went. Clover's clover sprig drooped a little against her ear. She had been trying to follow the usual morning things, the dew on the grass, the smell of the bread old woolly warmed at the fire. But her heart kept pulling back toward that question. Where is Nettle? Is she all right? She thought about going to look, but the thicket was tangled and the meadow was wide, and the more she thought about it, the more it seemed too big a thing for one small lamb to do alone. So she decided to do the only other thing she knew. She called out, not loudly at first, just a quiet. Jesus? The hill didn't answer. The breeze moved through the grass. Biscuit glanced at her. Do you think he hears? Right now, I mean, when it's not evening and there's no gathering? Clover's sprig drooped a little more. I don't know, she admitted, but I'm going to try again. So she tried again. Jesus, I don't know where Nettle is, and I'm worried about her. And then, from somewhere further down the slope, she heard footsteps. Unhurried, warm. Jesus came around the side of the big gray rock with his shepherd's cloak, brushing the tall grass. He looked at Clover the way he always did, like she was the only lamb on the whole hill, and like there was nowhere else in the world he would rather be. Clover, he said, sitting down in the grass beside her. I heard you. She blinked. Even the first time? When it was quiet? Every time, he said simply. She felt something unknought inside her chest. Nettle is gone, she said. She only just began to feel like she belonged, and now I can't find her, and I she stopped. Then she said, very honestly, I don't know what to ask for. I just know I'm worried. Jesus looked at her with that warm, unhurried look. Then he said, and it was the kindest thing, the most careful thing. What do you want me to do for you? Clover opened her mouth, and something about the question, the way it took her seriously, the way it waited, made the answer come clearly, like a shape through clearing fog. I want her to be found, she said. I want her to know she hasn't been forgotten, even on a scattered, quiet, ordinary day. Jesus smiled. Then let's go. They found Nettle around the long bend of the hazel thicket, sitting very still in the shade of bent old Rowan tree. She had one leg curled under her. She wasn't crying. She was doing something more silent than crying. She was just sitting with a small, careful kind of sadness, the sadness of someone who has not quite decided yet whether to let anyone in. She looked up when she heard footsteps, when she saw it was Clover and Jesus, her one flopped ear twitched. I thought you'd be at the fire, she said. We were looking for you, said Clover. Nettle looked down at the grass. You don't need to do that. Jesus sat down in the shade beside her, unhurried as always. He didn't say anything right away. He just sat there the way old Wooly sometimes did, like sitting beside someone was itself a kind of answer. Then he said very quietly, I heard Clover call for you. She couldn't stop thinking about you. Nettle's ears moved. She called? For me? She did, said Jesus. And I heard it, and now here we are. He looked at her gently. What do you want me to do for you, Nettle? The little lamb was very still for a moment. She looked at the Rowan tree. She looked at her hooves. Then she looked up, and her voice was very small, but it was honest. I want to stop being afraid that I'll slip back to the outside. Jesus put his hand on her small dusty head very gently. You are known, he said, on the quiet days, on the scattered days, on the days when the hill feels too wide and too busy, and nobody is looking. You are always known. That does not change. Nettle was very still. Then slowly something in her face softened, like snow beginning to melt at the edges, like a lamb, remembering that wanting things doesn't always have to hurt. She looked at Clover. You really called? I really called, said Clover. Nettle did her small, surprised laugh, the one that sounded as if she had forgotten she knew how, and the three of them sat in the shade of the bent Rowan tree for a little while while the light moved through the leaves, and the hill went quietly about its morning. When they came back up to the fire, the whole flock was there, Biscuit and Pip, and Matt and Fig and Old Wooly and Bramble, all of them in the warm gold light. And Nettle walked right into the middle of them, a little uncertain, but walking. Old Woolly's silver head turned toward her with a look of quiet welcome. He moved just enough to make a space at his side, the way he always did, without making a fuss of it. And Nettle, dusty and small, sat down in the space. Clover watched her settle and felt the warm, quiet thing in her chest again. The thing that had started when she had called out, and Jesus had heard. She thought, I didn't shout. I wasn't even very sure. But he stopped for me. He stops every time. And she knew, the way you know things in your bones, that it was always true. Not just on the evenings with fire and gatherings, on the scattered ordinary days too. On the days when the worry was small and the question was barely spoken. He heard every word, every single time. Tonight's gospel reminds us of something wonderful and simple. Jesus is never too busy for your voice. Whether you call out with a big brave shout or a tiny uncertain whisper, he stops, he hears, and he asks you the most caring question in the world. What do you want me to do for you? That question is for you. Just like it was for Clover. Just like it was for Nettle. Just like it was for Bartimaeus on the road long ago. You can always call. Dear Jesus, thank you for hearing me. Every word, every worry, every whisper. Tonight, I call out to you. Help me. Love me. Be near me. I trust you. Amen. Good night, little lamb. God loves you so much. Sweet dreams.