The Sheepdog

No matter what,

I am going home today.

Deputy Beival was en route to a nasty domestic call.

He scanned his computer console. It was an ordinary, humid Sunday in mid-July, nothing special had happened.

Power lines had been down, so he’d assisted in that. An elderly woman had been stranded on the side of the road, so he’d taken her home. A new incident had been flashing on his screen.

Something about this call was different. It was dangerous. His wife had just called him, checking in on him and reminding him how much she loved him. Smiling to himself, he knew just how fortunate he was. I protect and defend. The citizens are my sheep. I am the sheepdog. He accelerated, racing to the unfolding scene. His computer was continuously updating him on the situation. A mother and child had been at the house of her boyfriend when things had turned sour. The woman explained to her boyfriend she was moving away and the man snapped. He pulled a firearm, shooting it inside the trailer before threatening the woman’s life. Shortly after, the woman’s mother had arrived after several calls to her phone had gone unanswered. They’d escaped uninjured, but the boyfriend remained uncooperative in his home.

The scene was still as Deputy Beival pulled up, patrol cars lining the street. One car sat, driver’s door open, in front of an old trailer surrounded by trees. He parked down the street and hesitated, reaching for his patrol rifle. No...not today. Something told him the gun would only get in his way. He turned, leaving the gun in his car and hurrying towards the scene, nodding at his lieutenant and noting the other officers strategically placed, all straight-faced and armed with rifles. “You’re a negotiator, do what you can. Use the PA system in the car,” the lieutenant greeted him briskly. “Talk him out.” Deputy Beival nodded, creeping around the car to the driver’s side. The scene was tense, with the suspect inside, and officers lined up on the street. The summer breeze rustled the trees in anticipation. Sweat had already begun to form on his brow, the hot Georgia summer taking its toll as the sun beat down on the scene. Crouching between the patrol car’s open door and floorboard, Deputy Beival smiled to himself. Here he was, curled half in a car and hidden behind the door. This was nothing like those shows where officers stood at the front of police cars with a megaphone. No...this was real. “Sir, this is Deputy Jon Beival with Forsyth County Sheriff ’s Department, I need you to come on out.” Deputy Beival kept his voice steady as he spoke into the radio. No response. “Nothing bad has happened, sir, let’s talk. We just need to find out what’s going on.” Deputy Beival waited, straining his ears for a response. None came. “Sir, please, we just want to talk to you. Everything is going to be okay. You don’t need to be scared.” There was a pause, Deputy Beival heard nothing but the sound of his own breathing. Without warning, gunshots echoed from the worn trailer. Twigs snapped as the bullets blasted through trees. Deputy Beival flinched, ducking behind the dashboard as best he could when bullets began pinging off of the patrol car. The metallic crashes sent chills down his spine. Bullets were flying towards the officers at a rate too fast to count. It should be almost over, thought the deputy, waiting for the gunfire to cease. It didn’t. The shooter’s heavy rifle continued to pump out bullets, riddling the patrol cars with holes. As more bullets smashed into the open door with a metallic clang, the officer cringed, all too aware at how close the bullets were to him. Suddenly, a searing pain stabbed through his legs, an unimaginable burning sensation. Letting out a pained grunt, he clenched his teeth, remaining silent. He looked down, dropping the microphone to the driver’s seat. Blood poured from his right leg, a gruesome mess just below his knee. He battled his instincts, which begged him to scream in pain and instead let his years of training kick in. He reached for a tourniquet on his belt, pulling it out and ripping it open. Blood was dripping from his other leg, also just below his knee. He winced as he moved, trying to force the tourniquet over his boot. With limited maneuverability, he slid from the door jam and crept towards the back of the car, hunching his shoulders as he edged down the side of the car, making himself as small as he could. I’m going to get hit again. There’s no way I won’t. The bullets continued to riddle the patrol car, zinging past him until he rounded the back of the car, unscathed. The pain was blinding as he met the eyes of the officer at the car’s rear. “I’ve been hit in the leg. My tourniquet is out, I got it opened up...help me get it over my boot,” Deputy Beival remained calm, knowing that he could trust the officer to help him. Seconds later, the tourniquet was tied on his right leg and the firing ceased. An eerie silence hung over the street and Deputy Beival took off, sprinting alongside his lieutenant, both racing for a car to get them to safety. Instinctually, Deputy Beival reached for the driver’s door, prepared to drive himself to the hospital. “Get in the back!” the lieutenant demanded, ushering him into the backseat. He promptly obeyed, knowing now was not the time to argue. One, two, three, four, Deputy Beival drew in a steady breath, holding it, and releasing it on the same steady beat. The intense summer sun mixed with the burning in his legs made the heat nearly unbearable. I am a sheepdog. I am a peacekeeper. I am going home. One, two, three four. He made a joke to his lieutenant, hoping to lighten the mood as the blue lights raced towards the hospital. He was going home to his wife that night. Nothing was going to stop him.

Several weeks later, Deputy Beival, back on light duty, was loading groceries in the car with his wife. He’d made it home to her. And he intended to do that every day. His legs had been healing, the sharp, burning pain now a dull ache. They left the store together, chatting about dinner that night. After several moments of silence, she looked at him, a concerned frown on her face. “Do...do you have any depression? After everything?” Her voice was steady but her eyes betrayed worry. Deputy Beival pondered her question, his hand sliding towards the wound. “Actually…” he trailed off, his fingers brushing the indent of the wound, “I do.” He watched her face fall and he grinned. “There is a depression in my leg,” he quickly added, watching her worried expression turn to one of frustration. She reached over and slapped his arm. “That’s not funny!” she snapped, not trying to hide her laugh. Deputy Beival laughed with her, thinking back on the past weeks. To say he’d been supported was an understatement. Fellow officers had surrounded him at the hospital, followed by an astonishing outpouring of gratitude from the Forsyth County citizens. He smiled softly, knowing how fortunate he was to serve and protect the people in Forsyth. I’m not special. I just did my job. That was all. He and his wife had been well taken care of, with his brothers and sisters on the force nothing but a pillar of support. There was an unspoken bond with the other officers, a bond strong enough to be considered family. It was true, the bond was unbreakable. It was a beautiful thing, really, the strength he’d found within himself from the support of his comrades. Deputy Beival knew just how blessed he was. He was glad to be back on the job, never once doubting his return to duty. The events of a seemingly normal day on the job had nearly turned tragic for him. His smile faded. The shooter had not made it out of the scene, taking his own life after a six-hour standoff rather than confronting the police surrounding him. With a sigh, Deputy Beival pushed it aside. He made the choice, not me. I did my job. I did what I could. I made it home. That’s what a sheepdog does. Now I know... every day is Thanksgiving. He looked at his wife as they pulled into their driveway. He reached over and squeezed her hand, remembering the phone call from her just moments before he’d been shot. Yes, he was a sheepdog, but he knew that he had an even greater Shepherd.

For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart.

(Hebrews 4:12 ESV)