Diary of A Yellow Sheep: Memoir Trauma, Truth, and The Shepherd's Healing

Bright Little Sheep You were not made to follow, not made to blend, to move when the flock moves, to stop when they end, to graze in the fences and call it your fate, to live a small life behind somebody's gate. The black sheep gets spoken of low, at the table, a name kept in whispers, a wound and a fable- the one who won't fit, who was never quite right, cast out for the difference, sent off from the light. The white sheep grows lost in the press of the same, the black sheep grows tired worn down by the blame, but the yellow sheep shines like the sun overhead- never forsaken, but loved, and set apart instead. Not rejected, not hidden, not lost in the crowd, not silenced to whisper what once rang too loud- you were never the black, or the white, or the wrong, you were yellow all along, and your color was strong. Don't run for the white, and don't carry the shame of a stain that was placed there, but never your name. Look back at the pasture, see where you were led- you were never alone; you had simply not read the sign in the wool, that the Shepherd had known, the color He gave you before you were grown. Neither did I, till I looked back and saw the blood that He gave me, the gentlest law- it washes, it covers, it leaves but one trace, the yellow-gold mark of His mercy and grace. So find it, that color, still woven in deep- you are not a black sheep, you are not asleep. Shine bright, little sheep, you are loved, you are known, you were never meant to blend-you were always your own.