The rain covered everything last night, promising that today's path would be slippery, slimy and soggy—like many other days caring for smelly sheep in the Peruvian Altaplano. I pulled the old alpaca blanket over my head and prayed the night would never end.

Morning came anyway, and with it the responsibilities of caring for the 52 village sheep, many of whom are freshly delivered mothers learning to nose their lambikins up the trails to the best grass. All my life I've followed sheep—keeping them from hungry pumas, chasing them away from passing trucks, guiding them into places where I like to rest. The calmest places are usually best for people and for sheep. They eat, eat, belch and smile as they eat some more. I lean on my staff and watch, sometimes talking with my daughter, but usually just talking with myself and God.

I have many questions for God—like, "Why I am standing in the mud while the tourists splash by with cameras poking out the windows of their fancy cars?" I've thought about that while watching the lambs play around their mamas, and God finally gave me an answer.

I am the lucky one! I have cool streams on hot days, boiled choclo to eat when the sheep are resting, legs strong enough to walk the mountains, pure air to breathe, and a daughter who likes sheep. What more could a mama want? Some help with the sick ewe!

This ewe's lame and too heavy to carry, and I'm dreading going up the dirt shortcut before we get home to the sheep pens. I've been digging my fingers into her matted wool and lifting her hindquarters every time she's fallen, but my arms are too tired to do that all the way up the hill. What's a shepherd to do?

I reached down to the ewe, knowing my strength was gone but praying for a burst of divine energy.

God's answer came in the form of a tall foreign tourist, a woman dressed in black from hair to shoe, asking questions in sign language. Her arms reached out toward the ewe, but she didn't look like a woman who knew much about sheep-lifting, so I just muttered something about the "Old Girl" being lame and sick, and leaned down to get her going. Then I felt her hands, strong hands, raising the Old Girl's left side as I raised the right. Together we carried her up the hill till we were all exhausted.

I looked at her, told her thanks and almost expected to hear God's voice in response. Instead, I heard the kindest voice ever to send words to this old woman's ears—a woman softly thanking me for the privilege of helping carry my sheep.

My tears flowed, and then I felt her lift her side of the Old Girl again. Together we struggled to the crown of the hill. Two of God's women, children, carrying a tired mama who bleated and blatted in painful thanksgiving every tug of the way.

It is as if God Himself has come to share my life. What more could a shepherd want!

Dick Duerksen is the official "storyteller" for Maranatha Volunteers International. Readers may contact the author at dduerksen@maranatha.org.