The Toph-Player’s Tale

Hello, 2026!

We welcome this new year–the 365 days ahead filled with unknowns. And to think what adventure awaits!

Many have made their list of resolutions, while some prefer to call them “goals.” But what about giving rather than merely achieving? Giving rather than receiving?

Maybe we should also have a list which includes all the ways we’re aiming to give back–whether monetarily or with emotional support. And what about simple…

Kindness?

January 6th was Epiphany, the day we consider the gifts offered the Christ Child by the Magi. That means even the twelfth (and final) day of Christmas is over–the holiday hype having settled to a simmer.

But some, like me, still have decorations adorning the nooks and crannies of their homes. There are those who will forego taking down the tree and simply exchange Christmas ornaments for, let’s say, Valentine’s.

(Am I right?)

So, as we step into January, journeying beyond the cusp of a new year, I’m offering a story. We’ve all heard, sung even, the familiar carol “The Little Drummer Boy.” Comical memes remind us–

Why in the world would the newborn Babe want percussion played, not to mention, his weary mother whose desire isn’t a drum roll but, rather, a lullaby?

“Stop that racket,” we can almost hear Mary complain, amidst the dung and dust of a lowly stable. “I finally got Jesus to sleep,” one such comic proclaims, with a befuddled drummer boy just beyond, percussion mallet mid-air.

But what if the story was more. What if this gift truly was all the shepherd boy could offer, giving the One who’d given him everything his… everything?

That’s what this tale is about. I hope you enjoy…

The Toph-Player’s Tale

You’re a good boy, kind and—

“Stupid rat. Get up. Get up, I tell you.”

Jethro stirred, and the dream of his mother’s face faded as the blunt end of his father’s staff poked his backside. Pulling the blanket closer, he yawned.

“Now, I said. You lazy—”

“I’m awake,” Jethro muttered through a second yawn. He rubbed his eyes, sat up and stretched. It was dark, no trace of morning light yet piercing through the stable slats overhead.

After a moment, Jethro stood, the covering his late mother fashioned for him still draped about his shoulders. Picking up his own staff, he stumbled to the firepit, then poked the embers with the wooden stick, stirring life.

Stooping to gather a few remaining cypress branches, Jethro tossed them atop the glowing coals, and a small flame erupted with a crackle, a pop.

“It’s your watch now, boy. Ol’ Benjamin’s waiting for you. Five-hour shift, then breakfast. Don’t be late or you’ll go hungry till supper, hear me?”

“Yes, Abba.”

Jethro gathered several personal items, then pushed open the stable door with a loud creak. Outside, the sky was awash with stars, though no moon could be found. Gazing up, the boy smiled. “Hello, Ima. I see you’re up to your ol’ tricks.”

It had been their game—“Find the Moon”—that is, before an eight-year-old Jethro’s mother died giving birth to Samuel. When the newborn passed two days later, Jethro vowed there was no god, and if there was, he wanted nothing to do with him.

But time heals, softening sadness around its edges. While he missed his mother, not to mention the brother he never knew, the memory of them now brought a smile rather than tears. And besides, “Grown men don’t cry,” Abba hissed more times than Jethro could count.

By the time he’d turned ten, he’d learned to control his emotions, and now, three years beyond his first decade, he’d turned tears off altogether.

“So, where’d ya put it, Ima?” Jethro scanned the sky in search of night’s orb. “Got it tucked up there somewhere, do ya?”

He shook his head. What was he saying? Up there, as if there was anything beyond the moment, beyond the hard ground. Beyond…

“This.”

The single word, unheard by anyone but himself, created a puff in the cold, moonless night air. She was gone, that was all, and he’d never see her, nor his brother, again.

Jethro made his way, following the familiar path to the Judean hillside where he would relieve his partner, then take his place to sit with sheep.

Silly creatures—not intelligent but gentle. Where they lacked common sense, they made up with comfort—with their fleece, yes, but more.

Their soft bleating, their quiet chewing, their trusting nature. That is, if the shepherd spent time with his flock, which he did.

Of course, he had his favorite. Lummy was the black sheep of the bunch in more ways than one. Not only did this ewe have wool dark as pitch, she did her own thing. “Blasted sheep! Bleats to her own drummer’s beat”—that’s what his father recently sneered after Jethro, having searched for hours, discovered her on a rocky cliff, two inches from death. “Not worth a widow’s mite, that one.”

But Jethro knew.

Though a tad obstinate, Lummy was sweet. Besides, she needed him. Like himself, she’d lost her mother. Hers, too, had passed, like Ima. It was a painful birthing—something he’d witnessed, had never forgotten—but unlike Samuel, Lummy lived, only to be an outcast by most everyone. Like Jethro.

Spying Benjamin several yards away, Jethro called out. “Shalom. Peaceful night?” His voice startled the flock, and several complained with low bleating.

“Mundane,” Benjamin replied. “Other than the howl of some hungry enemy. Came to nothin’. Didn’t even have to fight it off.”

The older shepherd stood, brushing himself clean. “Not so, those two.” He pointed toward a tall, thin shepherd named Eli, then another—short, squat Boaz. “Been squabblin’ again. ’Bout an hour ’go, started throwin’ punches. Had to break ‘em up.” He rolled his eyes, tightening the sash around his waist. “Those two. Always somethin’.”

It was true.

Though he didn’t know the argument’s origin, it had to do with one’s father owing the other’s money. Something about a dowry, a betrothal. He chuckled. “What else is new?”

With a nod, Benjamin turned, then plodded off, leaving Jethro alone with several sheep—the others, not to mention the shepherds, at a fifty-yard distance.

Jethro spread his beloved blanket on the ground, then sat, knees pulled tight to his chest. Should he eat the meager meal he’d packed the evening prior, anticipating his five-hour shift? Just some dried meat, a bit of feta, two wrinkled figs—not much but would suffice.

Or perhaps I’ll play.

Jethro kept the toph with him always, a small wooden frame, topped with rawhide stretched taut. Hanging from a tether under his tunic, it was the only gift Abba ever gave him.

“Here.” He’d shoved it toward Jethro on his tenth birthday. “To play. Calms the lambs.” And in a jeering tone, “May even draw a woman one day.” Then, under his breath, “Though I doubt it. Not with the likes of you.”

Jethro didn’t understand Abba’s seeming distain for him. Thus, the toph was a treasured possession.

He pulled the instrument through the opening of his outer garment and struck the drumhead with a quick thump. Thump. Rumpity-thump.

The rhythmic sound calmed Jethro too, and he closed his eyes until something nudged his arm. Startled, he jumped.

It was Lummy. She bleated low and long.

“You scared me, girl.” Jethro reached to scratch her wooly head, and it was her turn to close her eyes when—

The sky erupted with light. Jethro shielded his face from the abrupt brightness, and again, Lummy bleated. Fumbling to his feet, the shepherd tried to decipher the source, but couldn’t see past his fingers.

Suddenly, a voice as brilliant as the light proclaimed, “Don’t be afraid! I bring you good news of great joy for all people. The Savior—yes, Messiah, the Lord—has been born today in Bethlehem!  You will recognize him by this sign: You will find a baby wrapped snugly in strips of cloth, lying in a manger.”

As the stranger spoke, Jethro saw him—an angelic being so beautiful he couldn’t help but suck in his breath. Finally, he exhaled, his heart pounding like a thump on the toph still slung across his chest.

And with a blink, the angel was joined by others, too many to count, and the choir sang, “Glory to God in highest heaven. Peace on earth to those with whom God is pleased.”

Then, just like that, they were gone, and the bleating of sheep was the only sound echoing through the hills.

“Did… did you see what… what I saw?” It was Eli.

“Did… did you hear what I…. what I heard?” It was Boaz.

Both shepherds stood close to him now, gawking at the sky. Jethro managed a weak nod, his thoughts swirling. What had the stranger said? And… and could it be? Was it true? An… an angel?

But he didn’t believe in such nonsense. Didn’t believe in God. Didn’t believe in what couldn’t be explained with tangibles. Earth. Water. Fire and—

His questioning was interrupted by Boaz. “He… he said we could find him, a baby, in Bethlehem. He’s our—”

“Savior,” Eli interrupted.

The two feuding shepherds stood shoulder to shoulder. Words from the prophet Isaiah, ones Ima taught him when he was a tot, rang in Jethro’s mind, settling the tangle of thoughts with which, only seconds earlier, he’d wrestled. Wonderful Counselor, mighty God, everlasting Father…

“Our Prince of peace,” Boaz whispered.

The irony wasn’t lost to Jethro. Like a staccato, he beckoned, “Come.”

And so it was.

The trio hurried to Bethlehem and found it just as the angel had promised—a baby wrapped in linens, lying in a feeding trough, mother and father close by.

In the dim light of the stable, Jethro stepped toward the little one. His eyes shifted from the newborn to his mother, then back to the baby. In that moment, it was Ima he saw, and the baby? Samuel.

A holy hush hung in that space. It seemed sacred, though, mysteriously, with only the normalcies he knew—that which was common in the life of a shepherd. The sweetness of hay. The aroma of animal dung.

Jethro couldn’t explain the juxtaposition—that which felt like heaven come to earth. All he knew was, an hour earlier, he didn’t believe. And now…

But in what?

Perhaps there was something more, something beyond that which one could see, hear, and smell. Maybe Ima—maybe she is alive… somewhere. Samuel too.

And right then, with that thought, an unexpected tear fell from Jethro’s eye, which he swiped away. But it was no use. More welled, then spilled over, blurring the scene, though it was beautiful, beautiful beyond words.

He was overcome with the desire to offer a gift—a gift for this baby who’d helped him believe. But… what? What could he give him, impoverished as he was.

Just then, the infant, too, cried out, and, in that moment, a wee lamb nudged Jethro’s leg, bumping him with its woolen head. Jethro knew.

“May… may I play for him?” His question wasn’t more than a whisper, but the mother nodded.

Thump. Thump. Rumpity-thump.

A gift from his father, the toph was played to offer a gift for their son. And an echo came from Abba once more—

Calms the lambs.

And it did.

*(Scriptures paraphrased from NLT—Isaiah 9:5; Luke 2:8-20.)

*****

So, dear fellow sojourners–

What will you give Him, poor as you are?

Remember–Jesus came to give us everything. All He asks is that we give Him our…

Hearts.

And may it be so.