Having suffered the recent loss of beautiful, cinnamon shaded retriever puppy, I was anxious to fill the void when an acquaintance directed me to a neighbor's house where I found Melissa.

Utilizing all of my powers of persuasion, I convinced Danny that this little bitty, wire haired bundle of energy would be the perfect complement to our little home.

Melissa, who would soon become "Missy," went everywhere with us. Eventually, we relinquished her to the care of Danny's sister, where she lived for more than 17 years.

But she was still our very own when we embarked on our ill-fated sojourn in Wichita, Kan.

One day, while in Wichita, Missy disappeared. Released to attend to her morning toilette, she failed to return. I searched high. I searched low.

I peeked through fence rows and forced myself to look up and down the busy thoroughfare just yards from our door. When Danny got home from work, he searched high. He searched low.

He peeked through fence rows and forced himself to look up and down the busy thoroughfare just yards from our door.

She was gone. We didn't know where else to look, who to call or what else to do. And so we waited. I missed her warm fur, tickling my nose as she snuggled up close to sleep at night. I missed her happy go-lucky leap for the car seat when it was time to go for a drive. I missed her deep brown consoling eyes, staring into mine when sadness overwhelmed me, as it often did in Wichita.

Weeks had gone by with no sign of her and I was just beginning to learn to live without her when I heard it.

Faint at first, the volume soon increased. Cautioning my heart not to hope too much, I gingerly pulled the curtain back and dared to peek out. There she was -- in all her bouncing glory, on the wrong side of the fence, yipping for all she was worth. Quick as anything, I sped around the lots, and soon enough held Missy tight to my chest, believing I would never let her out of my sight again.

The lost was found. The wanderer had returned. The sheep that had left the pen was restored. She was quite a bit thinner than when she disappeared but she steadfastly refused to explain herself. We could only imagine what kind of an adventure she had endured. It didn't involve steak scraps or an abundance of kibble, that much we could discern without too much mental strain.

It was enough that she was back. It was enough that somehow she had been kept safe during her journey and had somehow managed to find her way home.

We all have a tendency to wander. I wandered far and wide as a youngster, through books, discovering worlds I had never imagined, peopled by personalities far different then the ones that made up my family unit. That wandering continued into my young adult years, helping to explain, if not justify, the journeys to Wichita, Iowa and Nevada.

And even though I had given my life and my meager faith to Jesus when I was scarcely more than a child, at each of my wanderings -- whether physical or spiritual -- he, ever the Good Shepherd, would pursue me anew. Sometimes the pursuit was long and treacherous, the brambles and the canyons taking their toll both on my physical being and on my heart, but he continued the pursuit, determined to restore his little lost lamb to the safety of the pen.

We imagine that Missy fell into the hands of someone who coveted owning arguably the ugliest dog in the free world and once captured, she waited only for the opportune time to make good her escape, returning as quickly as she could to the last place she had known as home, though we hadn't lived there long.

I look back on my wanderings and imagine my Jesus, patiently pursuing, gently calling, drawing closer and closer, even as I grew more and more weary of running, earning more and more scars from the brambles, finally submitting myself to whatever fate he intended. And each time I've wandered, he has faithfully pursued and then nursed me back to health, pouring balm on the sores, preparing a feast for my hungry soul. Today I am content to be one of the little sheep that stays safe on his hill, waiting patiently with the other 98 while he searches diligently for another wandering lamb.

Little lost sheep need not fear the shepherd. Little lost sheep need only to quiet themselves enough to hear his voice, gently calling.

"'What do you think? If a man owns a hundred sheep, and one of them wanders away, will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills and go to look for the one that wandered off? And if he finds it, I tell you the truth, he is happier about that one sheep than about the ninety-nine that did not wander off. In the same way your Father in heaven is not willing that any of these little ones should be lost." Matthew 18:12-14 (NIV)

Things you won't see in heaven: Sheep pens