No One Can Snatch Me

No One Can Snatch Me

(John 10:22–30)

I never had a dad.

Not one who stayed.

The care home clock ticked—

a cold taskmaster—

counting down the days

until I was no longer their problem.

Foster doors slammed.

Beds turned to cages.

My name?

Forgotten,

or filed away in a drawer

no one opens.

So when that preacher lad

read from John—

about sheep

and shepherds

and hands that hold—

I wanted to believe.

But my laugh caught in my throat

like gravel.

My sheep hear my voice,

he said.

I’ve heard voices.

Most of them shout.

Some whisper lies.

A few arrive with fists.

But a voice that knows me?

That doesn’t flinch

at my suffering,

my silence,

my scars?

No one can snatch them from my hand,

he said.

Mate,

I’ve been snatched.

From mums,

from rooms,

from meaning.

Snatched by fear,

by rage,

by addiction.

But today—

just for a moment—

I wondered

if maybe,

just maybe,

there’s a hand

older than pain,

firmer than shame,

gentler than memory.

A hand that doesn’t let go

when I kick,

curse,

or fall apart.

I and the Father are one,

he said.

I never had a father.

But if the Son bears scars

and still says I’m His—

then maybe there’s space

for me too

in the fold—

beneath the weight of glory

and the dust of sheep.

So I lit a cig,

held it like a prayer,

and whispered:

If you know my name,

call it again.

Call it loud.

Call it gentle.

Call it through the storm.

I’m a sheep who wanders,

a prodigal lost in the far country—

but love,

kind and holy,

may still be calling my name.

If you are the Good Shepherd,

then lead me by quiet waters.

Prepare a table before me.

Let me dwell in your house

forever.

I’m still listening.

And I want to be held

by the hand

that will not

let me go.

- Rev’d Jon Swales, 2025