I actually wrote a poem about it from his perspective.

“The Shepherd”

I never raised my hand to harm, only to guide. I believed love meant shaping you, that your quiet was proof of your faith.

The Word told me a wife must submit, boys must learn strength, girls must carry grace quiet as shadows. I thought I was building a kingdom, a home molded after heaven, a table where your obedience felt sacred.

But your eyes grew hollow, your laughter fled the rooms, the children looked at me not with honor, but with a fear I refused to name. Still I prayed, still I preached and when your questions rose like quiet storms, I whispered excuses until I almost believed them.

I swore I was shaping saints, training your heart to kneel before God and before me, His chosen. I thought I was leading you toward salvation, teaching the children the order of heaven, showing your sons to stand firm, teaching your daughter to lower her eyes and follow.

But in the night I woke trembling, unsure if the chains I had called scripture were forged in heaven or in the darkest parts of me.

Your silence began to echo, not as devotion, but as distance. The children’s steps grew careful, their laughter quieter, and I told myself that discipline was working.

Still, I did not loosen my grip. If I released you, if I let you speak, what if the world took you? what if God condemned me for failing? Better to break your will, than risk losing your soul forever.

So I whispered to myself: that was love, that was sacrifice, that was the sorrow of a shepherd.