Letter No. 4: Refuge

I went to the rodeo recently.

The grandstands were full. Children waved cowboy hats. Announcers boomed through loudspeakers. Horses thundered around the arena. Bulls did what bulls have always done. By the end of the evening, a fine layer of dust had settled over everything.

Like everyone else, I watched the competition.

Then I found myself watching something else.

One of the events featured young riders climbing onto sheep that looked only mildly interested in participating.

The gate opened.

The sheep bolted.

A few seconds later, gravity usually won.

As soon as each ride ended, adults hurried into the arena. Some children were laughing before their boots hit the ground. Others were crying. A few looked angry that they hadn’t stayed on longer.

The outcome almost didn’t seem to matter. Someone always came.

While most of the crowd watched the children, I couldn’t stop watching the sheep.

The first one wandered around the arena as though it had no idea where it was.

Then another ride ended.

Another sheep wandered.

For a few moments they moved in different directions, seemingly unaware of one another.

Until…they looked up.

The instant they saw each other, they ran.

Not cautiously.

Not curiously.

They ran as though they had just found the only familiar thing in an unfamiliar world.

Each successive sheep did exactly the same thing. By the end of the event, a small flock stood shoulder to shoulder in the middle of that enormous arena.

Then one final ride changed everything for me.

The gate opened, and the sheep burst into the arena carrying a little cowgirl who somehow managed to stay on.

I expected the sheep to buck.

It never did.

Instead, it lowered its head and ran straight toward the flock.

The little girl clung to its wool with everything she had while the sheep crashed its way into the very middle of the herd.

Only then did the cowboys ride in and gently lift her to safety.

I don’t know why that moment followed me home.

Of all the things I watched that night…

it was one frightened sheep running toward the flock that stayed with me.

Not because it found the others.

Because it never seemed to question where it belonged.

In all the noise…

In all the confusion…

It knew exactly where to run.

I’ve thought about that more than I expected.

Not everyone grows up with a place like that. For some people, the very place they should instinctively run toward becomes the place they spend years trying to escape.

Perhaps that’s why the sheep stayed with me.

It reminded me that there is something profoundly formative about having a refuge.

Not a perfect place.

Not a painless place.

Just a place where fear begins to lose its grip because you know you don’t have to face it alone.

I’ve started wondering how much of our lives are shaped by whatever we instinctively run toward when life becomes uncertain.

Maybe that’s why we work so hard to build homes that feel safe. Maybe that’s why grandparents become sanctuaries, why faithful friends are never forgotten, and why the best teachers somehow make a classroom feel less intimidating than the hallway outside.

Perhaps we’re all trying to find—or become—the place we wished existed when we needed it most.

I still don’t know much about sheep.

But I know this.

That little flock in the middle of the arena reminded me that every living creature longs for the same thing.

Not simply a place to belong.

A place to run.

Maybe that’s why I couldn’t stop thinking about the sheep.

Not because they found the flock.

Because they never had to wonder if the flock wanted them.

Until next Sunday,

George

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