By Andrea Lingle

"Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions, and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. "Be dressed for action and have your lamps lit; be like those who are waiting for their master to return from the wedding banquet, so that they may open the door for him as soon as he comes and knocks. Blessed are those slaves whom the master finds alert when he comes; truly I tell you, he will fasten his belt and have them sit down to eat, and he will come and serve them. If he comes during the middle of the night, or near dawn, and finds them so, blessed are those slaves. "But know this: if the owner of the house had known at what hour the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into. You also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour." Luke 12:32–40

Here are the things I need to be ready:

• Boots that fit

• Socks that give the boots a little room for error

• A stout stick

• Pants that resist briars, stains, puddles, and tears

• A shirt that keeps the sun off my back

• A broad-brimmed hat

• Water

• A bag with lots of pockets

• A crisp apple

• Walnuts

These things will get me a long way. I can pick up my bag and be walking at the first shout. I have been sitting here on this stool through the march of the shadows six times. I am to be the first to hear the “Hello, the house!” Three times I have jumped to my feet, brushed the time off my clothes, grabbed the handle of the gate, and peered through the tiny window in the wide planks. 

The first time, there was a herd of sheep.

It wouldn’t have been the first time the master had shown up with animals in tow. He was always finding something along the way that needed to be scooped up and returned to health, but this time, it wasn’t him. As I peered through the window at the bumping mass of begrimed wool, I saw, running so hard there was a trail of dust rising behind him, a raw boned boy, staff waving wildly, face blazing with indignation, feet churning.

When we had finally rounded up the last sheep, my water tasted like fine wine. We laughed as we retold how the little one had tried to break for the rocks and the old one had stood, unimpressed, chewing and blinking while two boys and thirty–seven sheep surged around her.

The second time, I was sure the confident knock must be my master’s. I carefully brushed my shirt, rearranged my bag and stick so as to assure myself that I was, indeed, ready. I brushed my fingers through my hair, and hastily flicked an afternoon of dust off my shirt.

This time there was a small girl. Her face did not welcome questions, so I did not ask any. I opened the door, directed her to the house of the master’s gardener in response to her request, and stood aside. If I smiled quietly at her serious little ways, I did not let her see.

The third time I knew it wasn’t the master. I could hear the shouts of the field hands returning from their sweaty labor long before I could see them. I had seven water jars filled before they knocked. I called each by name, and the evening was made jolly by their homecoming.

The master will come, and when he does, I will be here. Ready.