Malachi 4:2 But for you who revere my name, the sun of righteousness will rise, with healing in its wings. (LEB)

We are almost to the end of this storybook. And yet it feels like we’re at the beginning. More and more people are returning to Jerusalem from Persia, from Egypt, from all around the world. The family of Jacob is coming together again. And they are trying to build God’s city, a city where everyone is taken care of, where suffering is met with kindness, need with support, and sadness with love.

And it sounds like an amazing place, if only someone could ever actually build it. Will they do it this time? Well, what do you think? As the people built, one builder accidentally tripped over another, and they both got a little hurt, which made them angry, and then one of them let out a curse word, and they both were about to fight when they remembered, “Oh shoot, we are supposed to be righteous. We can’t keep acting like this.”

But guess what. Even though they wanted to be perfect, th…

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Esther 4:14 And who knows if perhaps you have come to the kingdom for such a time as this?” (BSB)

Hadassah lived in a place called Persia. When she was young, her mother and father had died, and so she was raised by her cousin Mordecai. And even though they lived in Persia, they were not actually Persian. They were immigrants. Well, sort of. They had not chosen to come here. Their great-grandparents had been taken out of Jerusalem by an army and plopped here to help build buildings, clean streets, and paint houses. And so while Hadassah and Mordecai lived in Persia and spoke Persian, they were also part of the family of Jacob. And they were called Jews. And while some Jews had returned to rebuild Jerusalem, Hadassah and Mordecai stayed behind. They thought things would be better for them in Persia.

But sometimes Mordecai would talk about their ancestors in Jerusalem and what their life would have been like. He’d tell Hadassah the stories of Ruth, and David, and Moses. But Hadassah didn’t want to look back or care to imagine a world she’d never known. Instead, she looked out the window facing the big, beautiful palace in the center of the city and listened to the giant parties, smelled the huge feasts, heard the loud music, and dreamed of a different life. A better life. A better life for her and for Mordecai. And the best life she could imagine was here in Persia, in that palace.

That’s right, she wanted to be a princess. And who hasn’t imagined being a king or queen, and having a palace with servants? But Hadassah was not just a dreamer. She was a believer. And she trusted that one day she’d get the chance to impress the king, and he’d be so struck by her charm and beauty and wit that he’d fall in love and make her his queen.

And so when the king announced that he was hosting a contest to help him pick his next bride, Hadassah jumped for joy. “It’s going to be me!” she shouted. And people must have thought she was crazy to even try to compete. How could an orphan girl, an immigrant and refugee, become the queen of the most powerful empire in the world? There were lots and lots of perfectly fun, smart, rich, and beautiful Persians who were lined up ahead of her. Why would the king ever pick Hadassah?

Do you remember the princes who refused to eat the Babylonian food or say the Babylonian prayers? That is the opposite of what Hadassah did. She wasn’t going to miss out on her one and only opportunity. She would do anything to win. Hadassah learned to look, smell, dress, eat, and talk like a Persian.

She ate their meat and drank their drinks. She switched her linen and wool clothes for silks and velvet. She did all the fancy baths and beauty treatments. Nothing could stop her. Not naysayers, not poverty, not her ancestry. She’d give up sleep, time, and her own name if she had to. And it turns out she had to. Her name was too… foreign. It wasn’t Persian enough. And so she changed it. She started to call herself Esther, and Mordecai called her Esther, and soon everyone was calling her Esther.

And she learned to walk in high heels, and figured out dresses and colors that complemented her complexion. She practiced applying mascara, foundation, blush, and eyeliner. She learned to tell jokes and laugh loudly but not too loudly, and to eat food without spilling like she was already a princess.

On the day of the competition, as she walked through the doors of the palace, she couldn’t help but gasp. The windows were draped in rich, blue linen tied back with thick silver rings. The floor was made of marble and shells that collected into pictures that told stories all the way down the halls. There was gold and jewels on all the cups and plates, and utensils. It was even more gorgeous than she could have imagined. And she thought, “How could this ever be my home?” And for a moment, she doubted herself. But Mordecai came up behind her and whispered, “You’ve got this,” and that was just what she needed. So Esther took a deep breath and a step forward.

When it was her turn to compete, she walked with confidence. Her hair was thick. Her skin was smooth. Her face was bright. Her clothes were perfect. Her body smelled like jasmine and rose. And as she walked through the palace, she heard the contestants around her whispering together in despair because Esther looked like a queen already. And she smiled, a stunning, radiant smile. She was steps away from a new life. She took a deep breath, then turned down the hallway to see the king.

And the king immediately saw what everyone else had seen already: Esther was going to be the next queen. And so he threw a huge party and put a crown on her head. She had done it. And soon enough, they were married and Esther became a queen, joined a family, and received a country.

It was just like she dreamed. She was given a giant bedroom filled with beautiful things and lots of women to do her hair and draw her baths. Her sheets were made of the most comfortable silk. Her windows were stuffed with flowers. Her dresser was filled with jewels. She had money to spend and influence to wield. This was all even better than she’d imagined.

But in another way, it wasn’t quite what she had hoped. Because living in a palace surrounded by people who take care of you isn’t necessarily the same thing as living in a home with people who care about you. And while the king thought Esther was beautiful, he wasn’t around very much. She was never asked for her opinions about anything important. In fact, she wasn’t even allowed to go and talk to him uninvited. If she came to him with her own ideas, or thoughts, or even just to talk, she’d be kicked out of the palace and maybe even killed.

And so she spent her evenings alone and remembered her time with Mordecai, when he would tell her about life in Jerusalem, and their ancestors, and she felt an emptiness that no throne, or jewel, or wardrobe could fill. And one day, as she was looking out the window, thinking of Mordecai, she saw him. But he wasn’t coming to visit her. He was holding a poster above his head, protesting at the palace gate. Why? Esther sent a servant to find out.

As it turns out, Mordecai had a good reason. The king was planning to drive out the family of Jacob. Even though the Babylonians had taken the family of Jacob from their homes and brought them into their city to do their work, the Persians didn’t want them anymore. There were just too many of them now. They were taking good Persian jobs, joining gangs, and causing crime. They had to get rid of them, one way or another.

Mordecai cried, “You have to stop this!”

Esther swallowed hard. “What can I do about it? I’m Persian now. I’ve changed my clothes and my name, the food I eat, the laws I keep. I don’t belong to the family of Jacob anymore. I never really did.”

“Hadassah,” said Mordecai, “you are still part of the family. You can put on new clothes, change your name, and conquer the whole world, and still you would be part of our family. It’s not something you can get out of. It’s who you are. You did not become queen because you are Persian. You became queen because you’re a Jew. Your strength, your beauty, your determination, those are gifts from your parents. Remember the old story of Ruth, who left her family to take care of her mother-in-law? You are like Ruth to me. Remember David, who was a shepherd boy who became a king? You are like David. And remember Moses, who saved his people even though he didn’t think he could? You are going to need to be like Moses now. Save us.”

And Esther, who had broken every Jewish law, who had worked so hard to become the perfect Persian queen, who had spent months forgetting old habits and learning new manners, decided again to become Hadassah the Jew. She prayed and she fasted. She trusted and hoped. And then she stormed right up to the king and told him who she was. “I am Hadassah, a descendant of Kish, the great-grandson of Benjamin of the family of Jacob. And so if you’re going to get rid of the family of Jacob, I guess you’re going to have to start with me.”

The king was speechless. Esther could hear the servants whispering together. She’d come uninvited. She would be banished for sure, if not killed. But Esther did not die that day. Instead, the king was impressed with her bravery, and the family of Jacob was saved.

And as Esther walked away, she no longer felt lonely or empty or hollow. Instead, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time. She felt home. And she ran out to tell Mordecai the good news. She ran out through the large palace doors. She walked through the crowded streets, past mud-brick buildings, along the open sewage lines, to the neighborhood where she’d grown up, into the home where Mordecai was. And as she entered their old, broken-down apartment, she never felt more like a queen.

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Nehemiah 2:18 And they said, ‘Let us rise up and build.’ So they strengthened their hands for the good work.

This story starts in Babylon. And the family of Jacob is trying to continue, to remember who they are, and who they were, and what they were supposed to be. And so they liked to tell stories about their history, their ancestors, Jerusalem, and God. But sometimes the stories made them sad. Because they were telling themselves stories about Moses delivering their family from Pharaoh, and yet they were captive in Babylon. And they were telling stories about David and his city, Jerusalem, and yet they had no leader, and Jerusalem was in ruins.

And they pictured God speaking like he was talking to a friend, then guiding the family of Jacob by firelight through the wilderness. They imagined their ancestors laughing and dancing and feasting together during holidays. They remember all the grand stories, the epic sagas, the important events of the last two thousand years. And they thought…

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Daniel 3:17-18 If this be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of your hand, O king. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the golden image that you have set up.

The destruction of Jerusalem happened slowly at first, and then all at once. It started with intimidation. The Babylonian army marched all through the city of Jerusalem and waved their glinting swords, and pounded their hard shields, saying, “We are strong! You are weak!” After that, they took the family of Jacob’s money, collecting tributes and taxes. Then they forced the people to speak the Babylonian language and to practice the Babylonian religion. “You are conquered,” they said, “Now you must learn to do things our way.”

And the family of Jacob didn’t like this. They knew that if they stopped speaking their own language and telling their own stories and practicing their own religion, they’d soon forget all about Abraham, Moses, Rebekah, Rachel, and the others. They’d forget they were ever slaves in Egypt or how God delivered them. They’d forget about Adam and Eve, Noah and the rainbow. They’d forget about the angel that came for Ishmael or the promise given to Isaac. They’d forget about how their family was split apart and came back together. They’d forget about water coming out of rocks and manna in the wilderness.

And so the family of Jacob told their children, “We are going to have a rebellion. We’re going to fight back.” This was a very hard decision because Babylon had the most powerful army in the world. And fighting against Babylon meant certain death. But there was something that scared them more than death: extinction.

The parents told their children, “If we die, you will have to carry on without us. You will become the memory keepers. The family of Jacob will live on in you. Our city might be destroyed, but we will continue as long as you keep speaking our language, practicing our religion, and telling our stories.”

And then the parents did something really brave and really dangerous. They took their swords and yelled, “Babylon, we aren’t going to do what you say any longer.”

And the Babylonian army came and beat down the rebellion. The temple was toppled. And the leaders retreated to the palace. But the palace was destroyed, all the leaders were killed, and their children, the princes of Jerusalem, were gathered and tied with ropes, and dragged across the wilderness, over mountains, and back to Babylon.

As they traveled, the children imagined all the terrible things that would happen to them when they arrived in Babylon. Maybe they’d be put into cages or tortured or forced to fight each other or who knows what else. And so they cried and prayed and struggled to sleep, and cried and prayed some more.

But when they arrived in Babylon, they were not thrown into a damp prison or spat on or laughed at. Instead, they were given nice rooms, lots of food, and interesting books to read. And tutors to help them learn the new language. There were playgrounds, friends, pools, and so much to do. They couldn’t believe their luck. This was turning out better than they could have hoped.

But it was not as lucky as it seemed. You see, the Babylonians were trying to distract the children so that they’d forget all about their life in Jerusalem and their families and their language and their traditions. Because although the army had destroyed the city of Jerusalem, Babylon still needed to stamp out the idea of Jerusalem. Until the memory was gone, the city would continue to exist. And as long as it existed, it continued to be a threat. Just the memory of Jerusalem was enough to cause another revolution.

So they gave the princes new Babylonian names. And they fed them Babylonian food and didn’t let them pray to their God, celebrate their holidays, practice their religion, sing their old songs, or tell their stories. And they hoped this would be enough to make the children forget.

But the children did not forget. They remembered their fathers and mothers. Their parents had died to preserve Jerusalem. And now the children carried that memory. They knew that the city, the culture, and the whole family of Jacob were on the brink of extinction. And they were not going to let it go so easily.

And so the children refused to eat the Babylonian food, worship the Babylonian god, or practice the Babylonian traditions. They sang their own songs, celebrated their own holidays, told their own stories, and prayed to their own God. And when the king asked them why they were not fitting into their new life, they said, “Our parents would not approve. We are the memory keepers.”

The king laughed and said, “This is ridiculous. I could have thrown you in prison or had you killed. But instead, I brought you into my own palace and am offering you my own food. I’ve given you books to read, teachers to teach you, and nannies to care for you. I’ve done more for you than your parents ever could. So why worry about what your parents would think? They’re gone. They can’t help you now. But I’m helping you. So show some gratitude.”

But the princes just said, “We are grateful that you didn’t kill us and that you’ve treated us so nicely. But if we don’t honor our parents, live our traditions, tell our stories, and worship our God, we will forget where we came from. And whenever any of us forget, there is one less person keeping it alive.

“You have changed our names, but you cannot change who we are. We are princes of Jerusalem. And we will always be who we were born to be. We did not choose our family, but they are ours, and nothing can replace them. And we cannot deny our beliefs. They are part of us, even if they are not cool or convenient.”

But this only made the king angrier. “You come from a weak family and a silly religion,” he shouted as he tore down some curtains. “Your family couldn’t save itself against my army. None of my soldiers were struck by lightning when they tore your temple down or took your gold. If your God had any power, if he cared at all about your family, he would have stopped my soldiers. But he didn’t. He abandoned your family, and your family abandoned you when they decided to die fighting me. And so here I am trying to raise you to be so much better than them. You are Babylonian now. We are your family, I am your king, and this is your people.” The king gestured wildly out the window.

“My palace is your palace,” he shouted, thumping his fist on the table, “and my god is your god. And this should be really good news for you, because I have a much bigger, better, stronger, longer-lasting tradition than you ever had. So join us, and forget about your silly, backwards upbringing. You’re much better off as a child of Babylon.”

But the princes shook their heads. And this made the king even more furious. So he called in the soldiers, “We can’t keep people around who refuse to be a part of us. We can’t allow other ideas and other loyalties. That’s how rebellions start. That’s how nations fall. The memory of Jerusalem must be killed one way or another. And if you won’t let it die, then we will have to kill you. If that’s what you want, then I’ll throw you in this fire and turn you into ash.”

The soldiers seized the princes as the princes replied, “You might be right. Our God did not save our city. Our family lost the battle. Our people have fallen, our temple is destroyed, our kingdom is in shambles. But we are who we are, and we believe what we believe, and we know what we know. And we remember our parents who died for this memory, and we have the names they gave us. And we believe that our God will save us from the furnace. But if not, we cannot be anyone else but who we are. And we are princes of Jerusalem.”

The king had had enough. He told the soldiers to throw three of the princes into the furnace. And the princes closed their eyes, and prepared to feel their bodies burn up from beneath them. But instead, they felt pleasantly warm. God had come for them. He came for them like he hadn’t come for Jerusalem or their parents or their people. And he saved their lives.

And when the fire didn’t work, the king threw one of the princes into a lion’s den, but the same thing happened. God came for the boy and protected him too. And the king learned that he could not simply replace their families or their names or their faith. And their God was not silly or weak or stupid. Their God was powerful. And their lineage was noble. And while their city was gone, and their people were scattered, and their homes burned, the memory remained strong and clear and bright. And memory is a powerful thing. And with their memory, the family of Jacob continued.

They’d persisted through slavery in Egypt, they’d passed over oceans and deserts, and now through lion’s dens and into a fiery furnace. And somehow, they were a people that kept existing. And the king came to know that this scattered group of people would continue for a thousand thousand years. They’d outlive him and his kingdom. And other kingdoms. They’d become more powerful than any tyrant or dictator. They’d take over the world someday. Not with soldiers, but like a stone rolling down a mountain that hits another stone and another stone and another stone until a landslide cascades and covers the valley below. Or like a forest grows over a mountain, or like snow covers the land with a billion tiny miracles.

Because they knew who they were. They were the family of Jacob, the city of Jerusalem. And that family and its city could never really be destroyed, because it was not built with mortar and stone, but was composed in the sacred places of their hearts. And they carried it with them, tucked beneath their ribs. And they passed it down from parent to child, parent to child.

And it has been passed to you. You may not have chosen this family or this faith. But it is often those things you do not choose that hold onto you when you are cold, that keep you going when you are lonely, and come for you when you are lost. Kings die, and lions are tamed. People’s minds go wild, their bodies give out, and their wealth dries up. But our names remain. And our people and our stories continue. And you are part of that story. You are princes and princesses of Jerusalem. You are memory keepers. The city lives in you. And someday, when there are enough of us, we will bring it back to the earth, and we will pluck it out of our hearts, and place it on the ground. And our memory will cease to be a memory, because it will be the city we live in.

To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com

To access the complete audiobook of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, become a Friend of Faith Matters by subscribing at FaithMatters.org/subscribe.

Job 42:5 I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear: but now mine eye seeth thee. (KJV)

As the family of Jacob sat and wept by the waters of Babylon, they thought about all the terrible things they had seen happen. The city of Jerusalem in flames. Families torn apart. People killed. Children traumatized. And as they thought, they started to ask questions like, “Why had everything gone so wrong?” and “Why had the world fallen apart so completely?” and “Why did God let this happen?” But no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t make it make sense. And as they were struggling to make sense of everything, the family of Jacob remembered an old story about a man named Job. It goes like this:

Job was very rich because everything in his life was precious to him. Every single one of his cows and sheep and camels and fields of grain was numbered and cared for and loved. He loved his children. He loved his home. He loved his wife. He loved God like a friend. And Job was kind, and good, and …

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Ezekiel 34:11-12 For the Lord GOD says this: “Behold, I Myself will search for My sheep and look after them. As a shepherd cares for his flock … so I will care for My sheep and will rescue them. (NASB)

Ezekiel was a man on a mission. And his mission was to get a job working in the temple. He had spent fifteen years studying to become a temple priest, which is longer than all the years of elementary, middle, and high school combined. He was so close to finishing his education and was just about to start his new career the moment he turned thirty. But before he came of age, the Babylonians arrived and everything changed.

It was sort of like leaving one school in the middle of the year and starting all over at another one. Only it was worse, a lot worse. Because Ezekiel wasn’t just switching schools or moving with his family to a new town to start a new job. He was taken away from his home by an actual army that bound his arms and made him walk hundreds of miles.

And what he saw along the road to Babylon gave him nightmares. The soldiers were not only strong but also cruel. He’d seen them let women and children starve to death. They threw rocks to hurt people and spat on them, and called them names. And so by the time Ezekiel arrived in Babylon, he already hated it.

But Ezekiel wasn’t just angry with Babylon. He was angry with his own people, too. He thought the family of Jacob had brought this tragedy upon themselves. There were warnings, so many warnings. There were prophets, so many prophets. All they had to do was listen and be better, and this would never have happened. But they didn’t listen, and they weren’t better. The family of Jacob fought and lied and cheated and oppressed the poor and worshiped idols and broke God’s commandments over and over again.

And so it was no wonder that God had not protected them from Babylon. Why would he? They were not wonderful. They were not even special. They were just normal, rotten, selfish people, like everyone else.

And so one day in Babylon, while Ezekiel was feeling particularly sad about everything, he went for a walk, sat against a tree by the side of a river, and cried. You see, he was sad because it was his thirtieth birthday, and no one was there to give him a cake or light candles. And as he cried, he imagined what he would be doing if he were back home.

He’d be preparing for his first day as a priest at the temple. It would have been the culmination of all his work, study, and effort. And people would come to see him perform the rituals. And they’d clap and maybe talk about what it all means and how it points to God.

But now, he’d never present anything for anybody. Now, he was a stranger in a strange land with no ritual to perform and no temple to perform it in. And as he was crying and feeling sad, that sadness seeped into his body, and he must have fallen asleep because he started to dream. And in his dream God spoke to him.

And even though it was just a dream, it felt real, so real. More real than any dream he’d ever had. Ezekiel felt warm, bright, powerful, and loved, just like you feel on your birthday when your family gathers round to sing you a song. And when Ezekiel woke up, he thought that it must have been sort of close to an approximation of what it might kind of have felt like to have been a priest at the temple, basking in the warmth of God’s presence.

And Ezekiel woke from that dream with a new hope for the future and a new vision for himself. Maybe he would never be a priest at the temple, but that didn’t mean he’d never perform for a crowd. So that night, Ezekiel began to pray to God for inspiration, and God inspired him to write plays — small one-man performances he could do on a street corner. And people came to see this new, first-of-its-kind entertainment.

Ezekiel started with something simple. He began by building a miniature set of Jerusalem, and then just as he finished the model, he tore it apart. It was dramatic and shocking, and the message was straightforward. The people clapped and talked together about the symbolism. And for a moment, Ezekiel smiled.

Inspired by his success, he tried something more daring. It was a long-form public art performance. It went like this: Ezekiel lay on his side, ate food cooked over dried dung, and kept doing this for weeks and weeks. The commitment to his art brought new crowds who came to see just how long he could keep doing this. But as the performance dragged on, as the weeks stretched into months, the audience dwindled.

So Ezekiel returned to a more traditional length while incorporating the personal commitment that had become the hallmark of his art. He was his own canvas, his own puppet, his own prop. This time, he shaved the hair off his head and then cut that hair into little pieces, and threw the pieces in the wind. Everyone watched as the hair dispersed into a million shards over Babylon. And the people wondered at how quickly it all disappeared. And then they thought about how they were like that hair, scattered over the earth. Whatever it all meant, they enjoyed how it made them think.

Then, Ezekiel decided to try a surprise performance. Just as the sun was setting, he broke out of the side of his home and ran away into the night. It was a hit. The people cheered and talked for a long time about what it might have meant. “I guess we will never know,” they said. But to Ezekiel, the art communicated a clear message, so he came back and told them what the play had symbolized.

And in all his performances, Ezekiel reminded the people about Jerusalem. He wanted them to remember where they had come from, because he had dreams of going back someday and rebuilding the city: the homes, the streets, and of course the temple. Except in his dreams, it was all newer and bigger and prettier than it had ever been. And the people were better, too, better than the family of Jacob had ever been.

And in his dream city, Ezekiel saw a river coming out of the temple. And the river spread across the world. And as it spread, the water healed oceans and brought trees, and fish, and life wherever it went. And the river was growing ever wider and deeper. First to the ankles, then to the knees, then hips, then chest, and finally too deep to do anything but swim.

And Ezekiel called his dream city, “The Lord is There,” because that’s what he hoped for more than anything. He wanted to feel it again. That feeling he had beside the river, on his thirtieth birthday. Even if it was just sort of close to an approximation of what it might kind of be like to be with God, it was enough.

And I wonder if maybe, just maybe, Ezekiel did not just dream God was with him on his birthday when he was sad and all alone. Maybe it really was God. Maybe it was more than an approximation of sort of what it might kind of have been like at the temple in Jerusalem. Maybe God followed the family of Jacob out of the temple, through Jerusalem, and all the way to Babylon.

Maybe God wasn’t trapped in a past golden age or some future paradise. Maybe God was not just the God of beautifully perfect people. Maybe he didn’t just care about the most righteous and most deserving. Maybe he even cared about the people who were only just approaching an estimation of being kind of close to good enough. Maybe even dried bones were not beyond his reach. Maybe he was coming for the family of Jacob. Maybe he already had. Maybe he was there now, weeping with them by the rivers of Babylon.

To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com

To access the complete audiobook of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, become a Friend of Faith Matters by subscribing at FaithMatters.org/subscribe.

Jeremiah 29:11 For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end. (KJV)

This is a story about a man named Jeremiah who lived through the end of the world. Jeremiah was a happy boy born in a little town. And while he was still very young, God spoke to him.

“Jeremiah!” God said, “I have a plan for you. It’s time that you become my prophet. Now go to the city of Jerusalem, and I will tell you what to say.”

“But I’m just a child!” Jeremiah cried.

“You don’t remember me,” God said, “but I’ve known you since before you were born, and I have loved you from the beginning of time. So don’t worry about being a child or young, or inexperienced. You are older than you can imagine. And I know what you’re capable of.”

Jeremiah felt honored. Not everyone gets such a personal and powerful compliment straight from God. And that filled Jeremiah with a lot of confidence. And so he packed a bag and strapped on his sandals, and walk…

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Isaiah 35:10 And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads: they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away. (KJV)

Isaiah was a prophet who foresaw that in just a few generations, Babylon would come to destroy Jerusalem and topple the temple. And, in truth, Isaiah felt it was about time. The temple had been opened and closed and robbed and humiliated. The rich people were taking advantage of the poor people and then showing up to the temple to be forgiven instead of making things right.

And so maybe it was a good thing that the city was going to be destroyed and the temple was going to be torn down. Because in a way, it already was. To Isaiah, the temple was a pile of rubble long before the Babylonian army would ever arrive. It was no longer the palace of justice or an anchor of humility or a pillar of community that it had once been.

But as he was taking one last look and getting ready to say goodbye, he noticed a small light. There was still something, a remaining beauty. Like the embers of a fire. And Isaiah wanted to grab the ember, to feel if it was hot, to understand how it remained after all this time and through all this wickedness. As he looked at it, it seemed to burn brighter and hotter. Brighter than he could have ever believed possible.

And then he understood. The corruption, the selfishness, and pride, everything that is ugly and vile and bad about people, only made the goodness of God burn brighter, like night uncovering the stars. The worse the people became, the more marvelous God’s generosity shone. And Isaiah understood that while the building was doomed to become a rubble pile, that didn’t mean the temple would be totally destroyed. God had existed here all this time, through all their mistakes and selfishness, and he’d continue to exist after Babylon.

And so Isaiah took the charcoal and opened a notebook, and used the charcoal like a pencil to write about the amazing persistence of God. He wrote about his charity and grace and forgiveness that burned brighter and brighter, even as the people became worse and worse. He wrote about God’s commitment and promises. And he wrote about a future day when Jerusalem would return.

Because Jerusalem was not just a city they called home. It was supposed to be the City of God, which was more than a city. It was a piece of heaven on earth. A place where people lived together in love and mercy and justice. Where there was no crime and no reason for crime. Where people who became poor were raised out of poverty. Where women who lost their husbands were cared for. Where people who got sick were healed. Where children were loved and cherished. Where people didn’t fight, or steal, or hate. Where people worked and laughed and lived together in a community that really was a community.

It was a big idea. Maybe an impossibly big idea. But Isaiah still believed in it. Because it was also more than an idea. It was a mission, given to them from God. It was the project of making a place where God and his people could be together. And at the center of the city was the temple, the place where heaven and earth touched. And God could come down and live with them there. And they would be his people, and he would be their God.

And Isaiah wrote about God’s temple, his kindness, his persistence, and everything else he could think of. And he wrote as beautifully and powerfully as he could, filling his pages with poetry and promises and descriptions of God. And some people read his writings, and the words were so beautiful that the people began to cry.

And they thought, “Maybe Isaiah is right. Maybe the city and the temple were about to be destroyed. But maybe that didn’t have to be the end. Maybe,” they thought, “God can stay even after everything is burnt and ruined and destroyed. Even when we don’t have a tent or a temple, maybe God can still live in our stories. Maybe we can keep a sliver of God with us the same way we keep a flower, pressed between the pages of a book.”

And so before the Babylonians came, Isaiah’s readers gathered all his writings and all the other prophets’ sermons and the family histories. They called it Project Emmanuel, which means “God with us.” And they put all the sermons and stories together in a book, and they left blank pages at the end for more. And when the Babylonians came and destroyed the city, when they toppled the temple and carried the people away into new towns and new civilizations, the people took the book with them.

And they would read the stories together at night. And the characters created constellations in their minds so that wherever they traveled, they could know where they were and who they were and whose they were. And this is how they carried God with them. They heard echoes of God in their stories. And they learned from their stories how to be God’s people.

When they were hungry, they read about manna. When they were thirsty, they read about Rebekah at the well. When they were angry, they read about Jacob and Esau. When they were lonely and thought God had forgotten all about them, they read about Hagar. When they were weak and insecure, they read about Moses and Aaron. And whatever they read, they read about God.

And this is how they persisted. This is how their embers continued to burn. This is how they remained a people and maintained their mission.

And the mission was a new Jerusalem. Someday they would return. They’d rebuild the city and its temple, and God could come out from the pages of their stories and live in his temple once more. And the people would try again to create the City of God. But they’d do it better this time, armed with experience and everything they had learned from the book.

And when they had done it, when they finally created a city where everyone was free, and kind, and cared for, and happy, the people would call the city Zion. Because Zion is the city where God lives. And it’s always under renovation. A new neighborhood here, a new road there. It is growing, expanding, reaching outwards towards the entire world. And one day, the oceans will be its highways, and all ports will be its entrances, and every person everywhere will live and thrive in the city Zion. And on that day, earth and heaven will come together. And God will walk out from his temple and breathe the fresh air. And his breath will bless the flowers and bushes and cheeks of the people. And his shoulders will hold up parliaments. And his feet will walk the streets.

Which is to say, the temple will no longer be on Zion or in Zion. But Zion will be the temple. And on that day, the stars will be its vaulted ceilings and the forests and the mountains its rooms. And angels and people will sing new songs. And everyone, everywhere, angels, people, and even God, will call it home.

To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com

To access the complete audiobook of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, become a Friend of Faith Matters by subscribing at FaithMatters.org/subscribe.

2 Kings 19:15–19 Incline your ear, O Lord, and hear… save us, please. (ESV)

Hezekiah was the son of the king and the prince of Jerusalem. So you might think he was lucky, and that he lived a simple, spoiled, cozy life. But you should know that while he was born into a royal family, he was also born into trouble.

Just like the prophets had predicted, armies were coming, and they were going to destroy Israel and Jerusalem and kill their kings and princes. The wars had already begun, and the end was in sight, and the prophets were just about ready to say, “I told you so.” And that is precisely when Hezekiah was born.

Hezekiah’s father saw the writing on the wall. It was over. He’d be captured and killed any day now. And so rather than building higher walls, or defensive structures, or raising an army, he tried another strategy. If he couldn’t beat the enemy, he’d join them instead. Rather than picking a fight, he’d make a friend.

And so he closed the temple and built new churches, and he sta…

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Hosea 2:19-20 And I will take you for my wife for ever; I will take you for my wife in righteousness and in justice, in steadfast love, and in mercy. I will take you for my wife in faithfulness; and you shall know the LORD. (NRSV)

Once there was a woman named Gomer and a man named Hosea. And while we don’t know how they met, I imagine it went something like this.

Hosea was a serious young man who spent his time studying the scriptures. And then studying what smart people had said about the scriptures. And then studying what smart people had said about what smart people had said about the scriptures. He was not going to be just another priest. He was going to be a great priest. He was going to be the head priest. Who knows, maybe even a prophet.

But then one day, Hosea met a girl named Gomer. She was different. Gomer didn’t sit around reading or think too much about what was the right thing to do. Instead, she did whatever seemed right in the moment. When Gomer saw the man at the fruit stand throw away apples with small bruises, Gomer stole them and gave them to a few homeless women on the corner. When there was bad traffic and someone swerved right in front of her, Gomer swore. Loudly. And she didn’t even feel bad about it.

So in a way, Gomer and Hosea couldn’t have been more different. Hosea was careful and deliberate, while Gomer was impulsive and passionate. But sometimes opposites attract. And when Gomer and Hosea met, they fell in love. And while Hosea worried about Gomer’s impulsive behaviors and unpredictability, that was also what he liked about her. She was beautiful like a flower is beautiful because it only lasts a moment. It was here and now and precious because it would be gone later.

But the story of Hosea and Gomer is not about their romance. It’s about their marriage falling apart. And we don’t know much about how it happened, but here’s what I imagine. Gomer was Gomer. She was too busy going here and there to stop and make dinners, or do dishes, or clean her own clothes. And Hosea was Hosea. And so he worked and earned money, and then made food, and did dishes, and then laundry.

Gomer’s choices created a lot of problems for Hosea. Sometimes she’d show up happy and silly and flirty, and Hosea would feel swept off his feet. But other times she wouldn’t show up at all. And Hosea would eat the dinner he’d made all by himself, only to find out that Gomer was out gambling or smoking or worse.

And as time passed, Gomer showed up less and less. And Hosea ate, cleaned, worked by himself, and felt alone, abandoned, and betrayed. And he started to hate Gomer. And when she was around, she no longer looked beautiful to him at all. In fact, he thought she looked plain and a little ugly. Her nose had a weird shape. And she had bad breath and did annoying things like chewing ice. He didn’t know what he’d ever seen in her.

And Gomer was also disappointed. Hosea was totally predictable. She wanted something new, someone willing to put down his books and climb a mountain. Someone who could say something unexpected and make her laugh. She was stuck in her marriage and wanted out. There was nothing new to learn, nothing new to do, nothing for them to even talk about.

And that’s how I imagine the marriage came to the brink of destruction. Hosea wanted a divorce, and Gomer was acting as if she were divorced already. And that’s what this story is really about. It’s about a marriage that was almost over, and what happened next.

Hosea prayed to God and apologized for his shortsightedness. He should never have married someone so inconsistent, unpredictable, and selfish. He’d been bewitched by her beauty and spontaneity, but he should have known better. Beauty was so temporary. Spontaneity had big downsides. He should have married someone else, someone better.

Hosea asked God what to do about his silly, stupid mistake. Should he get a divorce? And he thought he knew what God would say: “Of course! You should never have married Gomer. Find someone else who will be truer and better. Don’t look for beauty, look for goodness and agreeability. Don’t look for romance, look for righteousness.”

But that’s not what happened. Instead, God related with Hosea. “I have been there,” God said. “And it’s hard. It hurts. It’s embarrassing and heartbreaking and tiring. And because of that, you think your love is over, you think it’s dead or dying, or never really existed in the first place. But that’s not true. It wasn’t a mirage. It was real. And though it seems dead, it is just sleeping.”

And then God made Hosea a promise. “Don’t despair because what used to feel new can feel new again, but not in the same way. You cannot get back what you had. And that’s not what you’d want anyway. You’ve already experienced love that is young. Now you have a chance to know a love that is old. Gomer is seeking a new love, but you must show her a love that can age. Not the excitement of what could be, but the reality of what is.

“Some marriages will end, but yours is not over. You can still choose each other. So go back to her. Tell her you have a surprise for her. Tell her you love her now and you will love her always. And tell her that she can travel the world if she must. But when she is ready, tell her to come home. And you will be waiting for her. You will have a warm meal cooked, the candle lit, and the table set. And when she comes, you will eat together and start a new adventure. One that never ends. One that grows older and older without dying. One that is both now and forever. A beauty that does not dim, a love that gets stronger and stronger until not even death can separate it. A love, like an arrow, that you shoot in the sky and never comes down, but goes on and on and on, until it reaches heaven.

“And I know it is possible,” God said, “because that is how I have been loving you and all of my children all along. I am here waiting. The meal is prepared, the meat is tender, and the table is set. All that is missing is you. So, when you are ready, come home. Come to me. And we will sit and eat.”

To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com

To access the complete audiobook of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, become a Friend of Faith Matters by subscribing at FaithMatters.org/subscribe.

Micah 6:8 He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God? (ESV)

Jonah was not the only prophet walking around telling people to repent. There were Amos and Isaiah, Micah, Joel, and several others. And they were also telling people to repent. “Repent, repent, repent,” they said. But their stories are quite different from Jonah’s. We don’t know much about who they were or what they did. Instead, we only know what they said.

And what they said was this: they were not happy. Not happy at all. They were not happy with Jerusalem. They were not happy with Israel. They were not happy with Edom, or Nineveh, or the Assyrians, or the family of Jacob, or really anyone.

Because everywhere they went, they saw the same thing. They’d pass big homes with pools and fountains and multiple garages and gardens and clubhouses and golf courses. And then, a mile later, they’d come across homeless children, or …

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Jonah 4:10-11 Then the LORD said, “You are concerned about the bush, for which you did not labor and which you did not grow; it came into being in a night and perished in a night. And should I not be concerned about Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons? (NRSV)

The kingdom of Israel was at war with the Assyrian empire — and they were losing. The empire would raid their cities and take their gold, treasures, and people. And if someone tried to stop them, they would not listen to their arguments or consider their point of view. Instead, they would kidnap them, or torture them, or kill them in gruesome, terrible, painful ways so that everyone would know what happens to anyone who tried to stop the empire.

As the Assyrians took over, Jonah saw his friends disappear in the middle of the night. Children were stolen. He saw loved ones suffer, he saw neighbors in the streets bleeding, he witnessed family members dying. And after the terrible things he saw, after the people he lost, he really didn’t know if he could go on living. His world was bleak, and his future felt meaningless. He was floating in a black ocean of misery and didn’t know if he would ever be happy again.

But then Jonah had an idea, an idea that became a mission, a mission that became a purpose, a purpose that captivated his mind and occupied his thoughts all day, every day: he was going to end the empire. And he knew how to do it, too. He had heard stories about Elijah and Elisha defeating armies and standing up to kings and priests. If they could do that, so could he. And so Jonah would become a prophet.

Jonah worked very hard. He prayed, fasted, hoped, and believed that his prayers would be answered. He listened, he strained, he contemplated, he waited to hear God’s voice. He would get a revelation, somehow, someway, he’d do it. He’d learn to call down fire from heaven and fight for his people. To save them from the empire. But day after day, as he prayed and listened, he just heard the birds outside, or the wind, or the people passing by. No voice from heaven.

But Jonah did not give up. Instead, he went to Prophet School and studied under the great prophet Amos. He graduated top of his class and opened an office and printed business cards saying, “For visionary, accurate prophecies, call Jonah.” And then one day, he got the call he wanted. It was from the king of Israel himself. The king was fighting the Assyrians, and he wanted to know who would win. And Jonah prayed to God and felt deep in his heart that Israel was going to win, and so he ran to the king and exclaimed: “You will win! Israel is going to win!”

But his teacher, Amos, gave the king a different prophecy. “You will lose,” Amos said. And the battle raged on, and in the end, Amos was right. Israel lost. And Jonah was confused and a little embarrassed. But still, he did not give up. And he prayed and prayed and prayed and fasted and prayed and fasted some more and prayed some more until finally, he heard something. It was soft, hard to make out, mumblings in the distance, and then all at once, it was clear as day, like God was whispering in Jonah’s ear.

“Jonah,” God said. “Together we are going to topple the empire.”

Jonah almost jumped with excitement. But he had to keep listening. He was not going to miss a word. This was everything he’d hoped for. And God continued.

“I need you to go to Assyria, to the very heart of the empire, and tell them to repent. Tell them to stop torturing and killing and doing all these terribly wicked things. Just stop it. Stop it right away, or else I am going to destroy them. But if they repent, I will bless them.”

And then the voice was gone. Jonah fell to the ground. This was nothing like what he’d expected. It made no sense. Had the empire not tortured and killed and plundered enough already? Had his friend and family members’ suffering meant nothing to God? And what about the children? What about the children stolen from their families? Was that a mere trifle? Something God could simply overlook?

Jonah was not going to be used this way. He had become a prophet to save Israel, not to save the empire. He hated the empire. His body shook, his chest grew cold, his heart beat fast. His hate for the empire was deeper than his love for his own people. Deeper than his love for God. Deeper than his love for himself. He’d willingly give his own life if it meant ending the empire. And so if Jonah was the empire’s last hope, then he’d go as far from Assyria as possible. If he couldn’t destroy them, at least he wasn’t going to help save them.

And so Jonah packed a bag and ran away. He ran all the way to the sea. But the sea wasn’t far enough. And so he boarded a ship and set sail. He didn’t care where he was going. He didn’t care if he could find a job or make a living or even survive. Whatever he did, he was not going to save the empire.

And as the ship sailed, Jonah’s anger turned to rage. And the rage filled his soul, and his mind caught fire. And his memories burned and shriveled, turning into ash. The soldiers in the street, the empire’s flag, the Assyrians’ songs pulsed in his mind. He hated them, every bit of them. He hated the king, the soldiers, and the armies of Israel who had fallen and failed to stop the empire. He hated the people in the streets who were too weak to fight back, the people like himself who survived and just continued living as if they could just move on. But most of all, he hated God who had let it all happen.

His mind was a storm with lightning, thunder, swells, wind, and torrents. But then a salty wave hit him in the face. The storm wasn’t in his mind at all. It was real. And the waves were getting bigger, the wind faster, and the thunder louder. This was the end. And Jonah understood: God was accepting his resignation. God had come to end his life.

“This is my fault,” Jonah told the sailors. “God is punishing me. Throw me overboard, and you will see. The storm will stop.”

So the sailors threw Jonah over, and right away, the storm stopped. And Jonah was once again floating in an ocean of desperation. He was ready to die. He stared at the sky and waited to sink down into the water where the waves and fish would claim him. But he did not die. Instead, a whale came and swallowed him whole, and carried him back to land where it spit him out on the beach, completely and entirely alive. And when Jonah woke up, he knew exactly what he had to do. God had come for Jonah — not to punish him, but to save him, and to put him to work.

And Jonah knew he didn’t deserve it. And if he didn’t deserve it, neither did the Assyrians. God was not saving them because they were good or because they hadn’t done bad things. They had done terrible things. But he was still saving them. He was saving them for the same reason he had saved Jonah. Because they were his, and they were in trouble. They were lost in the middle of the ocean. And he wouldn’t just abandon them.

And while Jonah didn’t understand it, he found the strength to try. He walked straight to the center of the empire, and he did what God had sent him to do. He told the Assyrians to repent, and he taught them about the God of his ancestors, who was powerful but compassionate, just but forgiving. And who hadn’t given up on the people of Assyria. It took everything Jonah had. All his strength. All his generosity. All his self-control. And he preached as hard as he’d ever prayed.

And when he was done, he left the city and went onto a hill to watch. And Jonah hoped he had failed, that the Assyrians would ignore his message, and maybe send an army to find Jonah and kill him like they had done to so many other people from the family of Jacob. Jonah wouldn’t even run. He’d be glad to die now, knowing the empire was about to be destroyed. Because if they didn’t repent, God would finally send a storm, or lightning, or a meteor to finish them off. And Jonah would have fulfilled his life’s goal.

And so Jonah fell asleep, exhausted by his preaching and anger and hope and desperation. And God saw Jonah sleeping, and he was proud of Jonah. Because for just a moment, Jonah managed to push down his hate. He’d preached a message of hope and forgiveness to his enemies. He’d worked hard. And now, he was sound asleep, the sun beating against his face, causing it to burn. So God grew a small bush to give Jonah shade.

And when Jonah woke, he sat in the shade and watched as his dream fell apart: the Assyrians were repenting. Was it possible? They were not going to kill or torture or sin anymore. And God was going to bless them for their decision to be good. And Jonah watched, not realizing he’d done it. He’d toppled the empire from within. Not with armies or lightning, but with forgiveness and redemption. But Jonah couldn’t see the miracle. He felt no joy or sense of accomplishment.

The bush covering Jonah withered and died, and he was left in the harsh sunlight. So he yelled at God, “How could you? How dare you take that shade away from me!” But God knew Jonah was saying a lot more than that. He wasn’t talking about a bush. He was asking some really big, hard-to-answer questions like, “How could you forgive the Assyrians after what they’ve done to my people? If you were going to save them, why did it have to be through me?” And Jonah wept, not understanding.

He was just floating on the surface of God’s big plan. His imagination could not stretch as big or as wide as God’s imagination. And his love was not as big or as strong as God’s love. And his forgiveness was not as deep or as pure as God’s forgiveness. Jonah was no whale. He could not live in the ocean or plumb the mysterious depths. If anything, he was a temporary bush that provided shade for a moment and then was gone.

And perhaps that is all any of us can be. But don’t forget that while a bush is no whale, it was also a gift from God. And so, if you can, even for just a moment, be a bush. Be like Jonah. Give shade when you can, as long as you can. And if you get lost, or feel yourself treading the infinite depths and fear you might sink, please know that God is sending a whale to save you. And it is big enough to swallow you whole.

To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com

To access the complete audiobook of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, become a Friend of Faith Matters by subscribing at FaithMatters.org/subscribe.

2 Kings 6:16 And he answered, Fear not: for they that be with us are more than they that be with them. (KJV)

This is a story about war. And there are many wars in the Bible. And a lot of them are described very simply. The righteous versus the wicked. The people that follow God versus the people that don’t. Good guys versus bad guys. And when the good guys win, it’s because they are good, and when they lose, it’s because they are being bad. But not every war is actually like that. Not every war in the Bible is like that. And this is the story of a war that was not like that at all.

It starts out like the others, with bad guys attacking the part of the family of Jacob in a place called Israel. So the family of Jacob gathered an army to defend itself. And every time the enemy was going to attack, the family of Jacob would ask the prophet Elisha to pray to God. And God would tell him the enemy’s plans, and Elisha would tell the king. And the king would send his army to the right place at t…

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2 Kings 5:3 She said to her mistress, “If only my master would present himself to the prophet in Samaria! He would cure him of his leprosy.” (NAB)

Living where the family of Jacob lived was not easy. There were different countries and people, different armies and empires. And one of the empires was Syria. And one of the Syrian captains was a man named Naaman. And his army attacked the family of Jacob many times, and during one of their raids, they kidnapped a little girl. And they carried her away from her mother and father as she screamed, “I don’t want to go! Leave me here! Don’t take me!”

She kicked and yelled and thrashed, but no matter what she did, they didn’t listen. And Naaman made her his slave. We don’t know very much about her. We don’t know her name or how old she was when she was taken. We don’t know if she had brothers or sisters. We don’t know if her parents were also kidnapped or if they sobbed over her empty bed for years and years after she was gone.

All we know is that what she endured would shatter anyone’s heart. She knew the depth of human cruelty. And she had to sleep without a sense of safety or control. And even thinking about this is so terrible that it’s hard to continue telling you her story. But I will continue because she had to continue. And she had to learn to clench her jaw so she wouldn’t cry, and put herself to sleep even when she was scared, and give herself a hug when she was lonely.

That was her life. And Naaman was responsible. And knowing what Naaman had done to her, you might be hoping that something terrible is about to happen to him. And something terrible is about to happen. You see, she hadn’t lived in Naaman’s house very long before she noticed something. When she was cleaning his bathroom, she found so many bottles of ointment. When she was washing his laundry, she found bloody clothes. When she was doing his dishes, she heard the doctor’s diagnosis. Naaman had a disease called leprosy.

Leprosy is a sickness that would turn your skin scaly like a fish until it fell off, but it was worse than that. Nobody knew how to cure it. And so it would eventually kill you. And you’d probably die alone because it was contagious, so everyone else was afraid of catching it. And so Naaman tried all the special baths and skin creams. He wore long sleeves so no one could see his bare arms. He hid and tried desperately to find a cure.

Naaman might have been a big, strong, powerful military commander. He might have had hundreds of soldiers and slaves who would do whatever he told them to do whenever he told them to do it. But while Naaman could conquer cities and topple walls, he couldn’t beat this disease. And he felt like a little child who was scared, vulnerable, and all alone.

And the little girl understood how he felt because Naaman had made her feel that way, too. But his suffering did not make her feel happy or like shouting “Taste your own medicine!” Instead, in spite of everything, she felt sorry for the man. And she realized she had two options.

She could watch as Naaman’s body slowly rotted from beneath him. Watch his family fall apart. Watch his wife become a widow. Watch the doctors come with soldiers to carry him away so he wouldn’t make other people sick. Or, she could talk to Naaman’s wife. She could tell her about Elisha, who performed miracles. She could stop one more family from being shattered.

And even though the girl had been hurt and oppressed and had suffered so much because of Naaman and his armies, she also knew that another person’s suffering did not make her suffer any less. It did not make things right. It would not bring back her home or undo months and years of terror. And so, remarkably, the girl decided to help.

She spoke to Naaman’s wife. “Excuse me,” she said, “I know how your husband can be cured. Tell him to go back to my hometown. There is a prophet there who can cure leprosy.”

And while Naaman was excited to learn that there might be a cure, it was also a little complicated, because Naaman had fought battles against the family of Jacob. So even if the prophet could help him, he probably wouldn’t want to. But Naaman was desperate. If he didn’t find a cure soon, it would be too late. And so he left his home to look for the faraway prophet. He brought chariots heaped with gold and treasure, beautiful horses, and trails of servants following behind. He would give it all to Elisha to be clean again.

And when Naaman arrived at Elisha’s door, he called into the home. “Hello there! I have come here to purchase a cure.”

A small, bald little man came out. “Hello,” he said. “I am the prophet’s apprentice. He has told me to tell you to go wash in the Jordan River seven times, and you will be cured. That is all.” And the man disappeared back into the house.

Naaman blinked. That couldn’t be it. The cure was so ridiculous, so obviously a prank. The prophet hadn’t even talked to him or taken any payment. Naaman pounded on the door again, but no one came out. Was this the family of Jacob’s way of making him a fool? Of course it was, they hated him for what he’d done. They were never going to help him. Why would they? He never should have come.

And so Naaman turned around and started the long journey home. That was it, his last chance. He was done for. His servants saw how sad he was, and they tried to comfort him. They tried to give him some hope. “Maybe,” one of them said, “just maybe it’s not a prank. It’s worth a shot. Go and wash in the river. What do you have to lose?”

And Naaman knew the man was right. So what if it was a trick? So what if he looked foolish? So what if he had to undress and show his scaly, ugly, diseased skin to his enemies? It didn’t change anything. He was going to die. He was as humiliated as he ever could be.

Naaman glowered. He sniffed. He took a deep breath and nodded. And then he walked towards the river, taking off his clothes defiantly, showing everyone how hideous and diseased he’d become. Maybe they’d laugh, maybe they’d gasp, maybe they’d cover their eyes, but he didn’t care. He walked into the river and washed. And as he came out of the water, to his surprise, the scales fell off. He was clean again, his skin stiff and rosy like a little child.

And he rushed to thank Elisha. He tried to give the prophet all the gold and horses, but Elisha wouldn’t take them. So Naaman promised to worship God forevermore. And he ran home like a child after school. He laughed as he came through the gates. He was home. He was safe. No one would take him away. And he embraced his wife and cheered, “We are saved!”

And that’s how this story ends. We don’t know if he spoke to the servant girl. We don’t know if he ever realized the remarkable thing she had done for him. We don’t know if he freed her, or thanked her, or if he even ever learned her name. And today, we still don’t know her name. But if we did, we would remember it like we remember Sarah, or Rachel, or Mary. We’d remember the girl whose life was not good, but who did good anyway. The child who showed kindness even when the world was not kind to her. The person who saved her oppressor.

And because of her, we know that people can be gentle, compassionate, and loving even in the most terrible situations. And we can hope that Naaman was true to his word and worshiped God. Because then he’d have learned to see the people around him as equals. Not slaves or foreigners or enemies. And if he was able to do that, then maybe this girl’s kindness was reflected back.

But the fate of the girl does not rely on Naaman’s word or his wealth or his devotion or anyone else. Because the world turns on. More people die of leprosy. More wars are fought. More children are snatched from their homes. More families are shattered. Suffering continues throughout the earth. And despite it, the oppressed write their own stories. They make their own choices, live their own lives, and find their own freedom. And sometimes, they choose to end the cycles of violence. Sometimes, instead of revenge, they choose mercy. They show love instead of hate. They find a way to be gentle and meek. And because of them, there is so much less suffering in this world than there otherwise might have been. And though that might not cure leprosy, it is the greater miracle.

To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com

To access the complete audiobook of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, become a Friend of Faith Matters by subscribing at FaithMatters.org/subscribe.

2 Kings 2:9-10 Elijah said to Elisha, “Stay here; the Lord has sent me to Bethel.” But Elisha said, “As surely as the Lord lives and as you live, I will not leave you.” So they went down to Bethel. (NIV)

In the last story, I told you about Elijah, who became a powerful prophet. This story is about someone different who also became a prophet. Unfortunately, the two men had very similar names, and so for the rest of history, people have struggled to remember who was who. And we are always confusing the one with the other. But while they have similar names, they were very different people.

Elijah, you already know about. He was a brave and powerful prophet who corrected Ahab, started a famine, was saved by a widow, and raised a child from the dead. And after that, he did more and more miracles and became famous. People would recognize him when he was coming. He was easy to spot because he always wore a red scarf. And when he walked by, people would point and whisper, “There goes Elijah, th…

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1 Kings 17:14 For thus says the Lord, the God of Israel, “The jar of flour shall not be spent, and the jug of oil shall not be empty, until the day that the Lord sends rain upon the earth.” (KJV)

Solomon was dead and buried, and his son Rehoboam was king. The people came to Rehoboam and said, “Your father made us pay so much in taxes, and he turned some of us into slaves. Please, we don’t have any money left to feed our children or buy them shoes. Reduce the taxes! Free the slaves!”

But Rehoboam said, “No! My father was wiser than any one of you. That’s why you need a king, because you’re not very smart or clever or educated. So just trust your king to know what’s best.” And to teach the people a lesson about questioning royalty, Rehoboam doubled the taxes. But the people didn’t like being called stupid, and they didn’t like paying high taxes, and so they drove the king out of his golden palace and chased him all the way out of town. And they said, “Anyone who wants to follow that terrible king, you can leave too. Don’t let the gate hit you on the way out.”

Even though it doesn’t make very much sense, a lot of people followed King Rehoboam. And everyone else stayed and picked a different king. And the family of Jacob split in two, which was already sad enough. But things were only going to get worse, because neither king was very good. They made bad decisions and thought they were better, knew more, and were more important than other people. And they passed these ideas to their children, who became kings. And these ideas grew stronger and stronger and became worse and worse until a king named Ahab took the throne.

If you told Ahab he was doing something bad, he’d laugh in your face and say, “Guards, throw this person in prison.” And you’d be locked up, and then he’d probably kill you. And so Ahab did whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. And one day, he decided that the God they’d been following all these years had never done a very good job. He starved them and had them live in deserts, and then gave them a Promised Land that was already occupied.

“If this God of ours was as powerful as he says, things should be a lot easier for us. Why would we have wars or famines at all? So we’re going to worship a new god who is a little better at his job.” And Ahab found another god, and he built statues and temples fit for his new, powerful, mighty, warrior god. And he proclaimed, “This god will take care of us.”

And so God went looking for someone who would be brave enough to stand up to Ahab. And he found the man living on a small farm where he grew olives and kept sheep. His name was Elijah. And God said, “Elijah, go and tell Ahab he’s doing everything wrong. Tell him that there is no other God but me, because I am the only God. His imaginary god can’t protect him or provide rain or grow crops or really anything because he is not real. I am the creator of the earth. And so no one can tell my world what to do besides me. To prove it, I will start a famine, and his god won’t be able to stop it.”

This scared Elijah. Not only was God talking to him, God was telling him to go and correct Ahab, who was known for killing people who corrected him. But Elijah was brave and trusted God. Maybe Ahab was mean and powerful, but God was God. So off Elijah went.

When he arrived at Ahab’s castle, Elijah introduced himself and said, “Ahab, I have come to tell you that your god is not real. Our God, the God of the family of Jacob, has told me that there’s a famine just around the corner, and your pretend god won’t be able to stop it. You’ll see.”

And then Elijah did what any sensible person would do: he ran for his life. He ran out of the throne room and the palace, beyond the walls, through the city, over the bridge, and into the wilderness. He ran and ran and ran and did not stop until he couldn’t breathe anymore. And after catching his breath, he ran some more. And God directed Elijah into the wilderness, up a hill, through rocks, and over ridges until he came to a small stream.

And that’s where Elijah camped, hiding from Ahab and Ahab’s soldiers. He didn’t know how long he could survive here with nothing but a little stream to keep him alive, no olives or meat or food of any kind. But then a crow came with a mouse in its claws and gave it to Elijah. And Elijah made a fire, cooked the mouse, and ate it for dinner. And while that might sound disgusting, to Elijah it tasted delicious. It was better than any meat he’d ever eaten. Each day, the crow would come back and feed Elijah like he was one of its own baby chicks.

Days and months passed, and the famine came. And while the people in the city grew hungrier and hungrier and thirstier and thirstier, Elijah was safe and fed because he was in the nest of God’s protection, eating from God’s own hand. But as the famine continued, the stream went dry, and Elijah was left with food but no water. And while you can go weeks without food, you can only live a couple of days without water.

Elijah kicked the ground. He’d assumed that God would just keep taking care of him day after day. This whole time, he could have been taking steps to care for himself. He could have planted crops, found some sheep, built traps, or dug a well. But he’d just sat here, taking advantage of God’s kindness.

“God’s goodness was big and long but not forever,” he thought. Even he must grow impatient. Even he must have limits. Even his miracles must expire. And so Elijah prayed and told God he was sorry. And God spoke again to Elijah and told him not to worry, he would still take care of him. All Elijah had to do was go back into the city.

So Elijah followed God out of the wilderness and back into Ahab’s city. And God led Elijah to a widow and said, “She will take care of you.” The woman was thin, her eyes were dry, and her lips parched. She walked slowly to save energy because she was starving. Elijah stepped back and shook his head. “Surely not her, God,” he thought. The woman’s life was already desperate. How could he possibly ask her for help? It would be wrong, cruel, humiliating.

This was going to be even harder than correcting Ahab. But God was God. And God had told him to ask this woman for food. And so even though Elijah could hardly look at the widow’s eyes, he did just that.

At first, the woman wanted to yell at the man. Didn’t he know that everyone was hungry? Didn’t he know that she was starving because she was giving most of her food to her son, who was also starving? And if she fed this man, that meant she would have nothing left for her boy? Wasn’t it obvious? Wasn’t his request preposterous?

But then she thought again. This was the end of her life either way. She only had enough food left for one person, one meal. She was going to die. Her son was going to die. And while this famine would take their lives, she was not going to let it take their dignity. They would remain kind to the very end. They would share even if they didn’t have enough to share. If they were going to die, they would die living like they deserved to live.

And that is the most remarkable part of this whole story: The widow fed Elijah. She was willing to die to save a stranger. But she did not die, because God made another miracle happen. As she scooped flour for Elijah, more flour appeared. And as she poured oil, more oil appeared. And she kept feeding Elijah day after day, and there was always food left for her and her son.

And she watched her son grow strong, and smile, and laugh, and run in the streets. And she wept in relief, her fears and sorrows spilling from her in a great cataract of joy. Her boy would live. The love of her heart, the reason for her struggle, the purpose of her life was going to live. Somehow, they were going to survive this famine. Somehow, they’d make it.

But then her son began to cough. And the next night, he grew sick and started to shake. She felt his head and it was as hot as an iron. Sweat poured down his face, and she held him against her chest, pleading with God. “Why did you give us food if you were going to take him anyway? Why did you raise our hopes only to dash them? You should have just let us die! It would have been less cruel.”

But then she realized that maybe God wasn’t being mean or cruel. Maybe he had other concerns or priorities. Maybe her family had reached their miracle quota. Maybe he’d done all he could and more than she deserved. And while she wept, her son grew limp and cold in her arms. And in the morning, he was gone. The window sat in silence, her tears spent, her emotions drained, her hope depleted. God’s miracles were over.

But then Elijah was in the doorway. He lifted the boy out of her arms, and he prayed. And then she felt it, a whispering in the room, a draft of air, a prickling in her bones. God was there. And so was her boy. He was stepping back into his body, now blinking, now breathing, now standing beside her, wiping a tear from her eye. And there he was, her boy, very much alive.

The widow cried, and Elijah sighed. And once again, God’s miracles continued. And Elijah and the widow learned together that God’s miracles don’t run out. Rivers dry up, life ends, crows fall from the sky. But God’s goodness continues forever and ever and ever. It is a stream that runs cool and clear through the desert. A jar of oil that cannot be emptied. A still small voice that pierces through winds, earthquakes, and fires. A kindness that persists through hunger and suffering. A drought cannot dry it. Death cannot kill it. Because the miracles of God are the fruits of his love. And his love fills the earth like weeds. And weeds will always find spots to grow. In crevices, on mountains, under shade, and in the sun. And if it ever feels like a miracle has stopped, another is about to begin.

To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com

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Ecclesiastes 12:13 When all has been heard, the conclusion of the matter is this: Fear God and keep His commandments, because this is the whole duty of man. (BSB)

After David became old and died, his son Solomon became the next king. He was young and inexperienced, and very nervous. He really wanted to be a good king because his father had been a great one. But being a king was not easy. People would stand all day in long lines to ask his advice. Their problems felt really complicated, and Solomon wasn’t sure what to say. So he decided to ask God for help. “God,” he said, “I really need a blessing!”

And God came to Solomon in his dream. “Child,” God said, “I hear you. What do you want?”

“God, I am so young,” said Solomon. “I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. I’m trying to be a good king like my father was, but it’s hard. There are so many people. And being their king is not straightforward. Please help me to be wise.”

And God smiled. “Of all the things you could have as…

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1 Samuel 7:18 Then King David went in and sat before the Lord and said, ‘Who am I, O Lord God, and what is my house, that you have brought me thus far?

Saul, who had brought David into his own home just to be nice, was now trying to kill him. And David was on the run. He ran up mountains and down valleys. He hid his tracks by forging rivers and camping in caves. And when David was hungry, there were no five-course meals for him to eat. He had to hunt, and pick tubers and leaves, and sometimes even eat grasshoppers.

Living in the desert, sleeping in caves, eating grasshoppers, these were not things David imagined doing when he was raised as a prince in Saul’s palace. And at first, David was very miserable. He was sunburned and thirsty. He could never find a very comfortable position to rest, let alone sleep. And the crunch and ooze of the grasshoppers made him gag. But as the days passed, he started to like the simple, nourishing bug. And sometimes he’d find a date tree, and the sweetness was the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten.

And in a cave, David learned to be a king. He realized that a person can be the king of the whole world and yet a servant to himself. Saul had let jealousy dethrone him. He thought killing David would bring his kingdom back. But he was wrong. And David, who had learned from Saul how to fight and how to act like a king, was now learning from Saul how to fall like a tyrant.

And on the run, in the cave, through the desert, all alone, David found a new teacher. Because God was there. And he was teaching David how to be a king, not just of other people, but of his own self. And David learned many things. He learned the silence of the night was not emptiness. And in the silence, he could hear the small brush of his shoulder against the stone. The ruffle of cloth against his neck. Joints bend, muscles stretch and relax, breathe in, breathe out. He was alive again in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since those star-filled evenings when he had watched his father’s sheep.

And when there was wind and storms, he felt a power rushing across his skin, and spilling into his mouth, filling his body. And sometimes he could hear not just his own breath, but another motion even deeper. Like God was speaking directly to his soul. And the unintelligible words wrapped him like a blanket, and showed him things he’d never known about the world and about himself.

He saw that even though he had lived in a beautiful palace and had an excellent education, and even though he had been famous ever since he had killed a giant, he wasn’t actually much different than anyone else. He got angry and wanted revenge. He depended on food and needed sleep. He, too, had pride and selfishness and lust. Maybe he had killed one giant, but there was a much bigger foe he had yet to meet on the battlefield.

And this second giant was much bigger than he’d ever realized. He’d always just focused on his many talents and his several good qualities. But now he was noticing that even these had hidden weaknesses. His skill with words and music had allowed him to cover his feelings and distort the truth. His confidence had blinded him to Jonathan’s sorrows. And his passions were leading him to worship God but also to commit violence against Saul.

And as David began to know himself better, he started to notice other people in a new way. People he passed in the desert. People who had been forgotten, exiled, ignored. And he saw their weakness, but in their weaknesses, he saw sleeping virtues. What at first looked like stubbornness was also steadfastness. What could be fear was also sensitivity. Addictions covered a craving for connection. Criminality was a sort of industry. Slowness was not only laziness, but also patience. Even disloyalty could be a kind of honesty.

And David gathered these outcasts to him. Criminals who couldn’t find a job. Addicts who didn’t know if they could ever be whole. Debtors who had lost everything they owned. Foreigners looking for a home. And David taught them how to know themselves. To see weaknesses in their strengths and strengths in their weaknesses. He built an army of the broken, the outcast, the weary. And they were brave and mighty. And they were not only brave and mighty because they fought Saul and his legions, but because they were fighting their own demons, too.

And every time they won another battle, the army cheered for David, for the man who had shown them that small people could face giants. And David faced his giant time and time again. Not once but twice, David had a chance to kill Saul, but David told himself, “I am not like Saul. I will never be like Saul. I will never let jealousy destroy me or my family.” So David let Saul live. And that was a victory. And the people cheered for David the mighty, David the giant slayer, David the just, David the good. Even Saul had to admit David’s nobility.

And David became one of the most famous kings to ever live. And he did all the great things you’d imagine he’d do. And he built a kingdom with a palace right in the middle of a powerful city called Jerusalem. He put a flag on the wall and said, “This is where we are going to build the city of God.” But as king, he was very important and incredibly busy, and he stopped spending time in caves, or out in the desert, or climbing mountains. And as he became the king to more and more people, he forgot to be king of himself. He forgot about his own giants. He forgot that his great strengths contained fatal weaknesses.

His passion led him to worship God, to dance for God, to sing praises to God. But it also led him to desire things that didn’t belong to him. And in the end, David was not very different from Saul. And just like Saul, David’s jealousy drove him to kill another person. And when David realized what he’d done, he wept, “I’m sorry, God. I am so sorry!” He’d promised himself he’d never be like Saul, and now here he was, Saul all over again. A bad guy. A sinner. A fallen king.

And David knew what he had to do. He had to face the silence. To be back in the cave. To look inside himself, even though he was terrified of what he might find there. His goodness shriveled and small and pathetic, and his badness vast and overgrown. But David was determined to look. To face another giant. And when he looked this time, the giant was bigger and scarier than he’d ever imagined. And David didn’t know how he could ever win. But like he’d done so long ago, when he’d faced Goliath, when life had seemed simple and straightforward, when belief was fresh and pure, David believed again. He believed in the boy who was still inside of him, somewhere. And he believed that somehow, someway, God could deliver him from even this new, indomitable foe.

And he was right. As David faced his giant, he heard whispers, like a deep echo. The words of God were reaching into his soul. And they spoke for a long time, and while he didn’t know the words, he knew what they meant. Somehow, miraculously, God still loved him, and believed in him, and was rescuing him, even though he was not perfect or practically perfect or mostly perfect or even particularly remarkable.

No, David was not a remarkable person. But he was a remarkable king. And you are also a king. You are not one thing but many. You are goodness and badness all knit together. And to be a good king is to be still. To look inside. To breathe. To hear. To know. And when you find weaknesses, look for hidden strengths. And when you find strengths, look for camouflaged weaknesses. And always look for help. Your friends and family are not perfect. But they will still fight for you. Look for their strengths. See their goodness. Trust that God can create an army out of broken pieces. And with this army, you will face giants. And when you do, don’t look away. Even if what you see is ugly, bad, and shameful. Be like David, look and trust. Because God is great enough to deliver you and everyone else from even the worst parts of ourselves.

To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com

To access the complete audiobook of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, become a Friend of Faith Matters by subscribing at FaithMatters.org/subscribe.

1 Samuel 18:3 Then Jonathan made a covenant with David, because he loved him as his own soul.

By defeating Goliath, David had saved the kingdom. And Saul wanted to pay him back for his heroic actions. And so Saul invited David to live in the palace. And David slept in the same room as Saul’s own children. And even though David was raised as a shepherd who ate bread and goat cheese and beans and slept on a dirty hillside under the stars, it didn’t take long before he felt right at home in the king’s castle with the king’s children.

He was getting used to eating fancy meals of steak and potatoes, twisty pasta with cream sauce, and cheese and crackers with cured meats for snack time. And every meal, there was a large pitcher of pomegranate juice set on the table. And if they drank the whole pitcher, a waiter simply refilled it. At night, David slept on the top bunk, and Saul’s oldest son, Jonathan, slept on the bunk below. And they talked, and shared stories, and joked until long after the…

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1 Samuel 17:47 And that all this assembly may know that the LORD saves not with sword and spear. For the battle is the LORD’s, and he will give you into our hand. (ESV)

The word was out: Samuel had chosen their very first king. And so the people came from all over to find out who it was going to be. And there were no hotels large enough to accommodate a crowd that size, and so they brought their sleeping bags, tents, and pads. And when everyone had arrived, Samuel stood up on a platform to introduce the family of Jacob to their new leader. “Meet Saul,” he said, “your king.”

“Saul? Who is Saul?” The people asked each other. “Does anyone know an important person named Saul?” They thought the king would be someone rich or powerful, smart or well-known.

And so they were all surprised when a simple man from the family of Benjamin stepped out from behind a pile of sleeping bags and said, “Hi everyone, I’m Saul.” But their disbelief did not last long. Saul was tall and handsome, with large arms, broad shoulders, a square chin, and a round head that seemed built to wear a crown. Maybe Saul wasn’t famous or rich, but he was strong from years of hard work. Which made him look like a warrior, like someone who could really fight for them.

And he did. Like Samuel predicted, Saul became a great warrior king who fought bravely and boldly for the people. And the people rallied behind him. They served him, followed him, and went to war for him. And while having the people support him like this was really helpful, it was also really complicated. Because it is no easy thing to ask a person to go to war.

At first, Saul truly believed God would help them win all their battles. But Saul was wrong. Sometimes they lost, and a lot of people died. Sometimes they won, and still a lot of people died. Saul’s life had been so simple before. Before he became king, he only worried about his land and his animals. Now he had to worry about everyone’s land and everyone’s animals. Before he prayed for rain, now he prayed for life. Before, he only had to protect a few sheep. Now he was responsible for tens of thousands of people.

As a warrior king, Saul had to slaughter livestock and burn cities. He saw friends die, armies fall, and battlefields covered in blood. So much death, so much suffering. And when the family of Jacob won, Saul thanked God. And when they lost, Saul wondered what they’d done wrong. Why hadn’t God helped them win? God wasn’t knocking down walls or sending plagues or parting seas anymore. Winning felt harder than it should.

And so Saul became practical. Maybe God would help them, maybe he wouldn’t. And since they couldn’t count on God to save them, they had to take responsibility for winning their own wars. They had to make their own plans, fight their own battles, and be their own heroes.

Saul trained his soldiers harder and harder. He developed supply lines and appointed commanders. Because he thought that if they fought well enough, smart enough, and strong enough, one day all the fighting and bleeding and dying would come to an end. And then, there would be peace. But that never seemed to happen. And right after one war ended, another began.

And this new war was against a new army led by a new warrior. But this time, the warrior was even taller than Saul, a lot stronger, and better at fighting. His name was Goliath. And if that sounds like the name of a giant, that’s because it was.

Goliath was ginormous, scary, and strong. And the family of Jacob was pretty tired of war and very afraid of fighting a giant. And so when Goliath made Saul an offer, Saul listened: Instead of the two armies clashing and thousands dying, the family of Jacob could simply send their strongest warrior to face Goliath. And the two of them would fight, and the winner would decide the entire battle, the entire war. One person would die instead of many.

Saul was the tallest, strongest, and best fighter in his entire army. He would have to face the giant. But if he faced the giant, he would probably lose. And if he lost, it was the end of his army, his kingdom, everything. The family of Jacob would become slaves again to a foreign nation. “God,” said Saul, “I don’t know if you’re listening, but if you are, I could really use your help.” He waited for a moment, but nothing happened. No answer, no miracle.

In truth, Saul hadn’t really expected much. He was used to taking care of himself. But this time was different. He didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, he didn’t think he could defeat a giant alone. On the other hand, he didn’t want a bunch of people to die in his place. On the other, other hand, he didn’t want his people to be slaves again. On the other, other, other hand, if he wasn’t brave enough to face a giant, what would everyone think? Saul was stuck. And so he did nothing. And the armies just sat looking at each other, waiting for Saul to make up his mind.

Forty days passed by, and everyone just kept waiting and waiting and wondering what Saul would decide. But all that was about to change because a young shepherd boy named David was just arriving with some cheese. He was part of the supply chain. Not a captain, not a soldier, just a regular boy who was delivering some food. But when he saw Saul’s predicament, he had an idea. “I’ll fight Goliath,” he said. Now this sounded ridiculous because David was not tall or particularly strong. He didn’t look kingly or fearsome. His only experience fighting was warding off wild animals that occasionally attacked his sheep.

Saul tried to explain, “This is a terrible idea. Chasing away wild animals is nothing like fighting a giant. Why do you think you even have a shot?”

David shrugged and replied, “The God who rescued me from the paws of lions and the claws of bears will rescue me from the hand of this giant.”

And what was most remarkable was the way David spoke. It was simple. Like he believed every word he said. And it reminded Saul of himself when he was younger and less experienced. Before all the war and death. Before the victories and the defeats. Before he’d given up always relyingied on another miracle.

But here was a boy who believed so simply and purely that Saul was unable to say no. Hearing David made Saul want to believe again — believe in the boy and believe in the God that the boy believed in. The God who still performed miracles. The God who fought for the family of Jacob. The God who answers prayers.

And so Saul did a remarkable thing. Even though David was young, and weak, and inexperienced, even though it was a very bad strategy to risk the freedom of every single person in the family of Jacob, Saul said, “Okay.” And he gave his own armor to David. “Fight for our people,” he said. “If you win, we will be free. And if you lose, we will all become slaves. But I believe in you. Somehow, I believe you will win. I don’t know why, when it seems so impossible, but I do. So go, take my armor, and fight.”

But Saul’s armor was too big, and so David went to fight Goliath without any armor at all, carrying only a stick and his slingshot. Was it brave or remarkably stupid? The people weren’t sure. And they held their breath as they watched David approach the giant. There was something about the way he ran towards it, so confident and unafraid. He knew he would win. And for just a moment, Saul saw himself in the child. Young again, with a pocket full of faith. Off to find some lost donkeys. And Saul prayed for the boy., “God be with you, my son,” he said.

And David hurled a single stone right at the giant. And somehow, the rock hit its mark, and Goliath fell to the ground dead. The battle was over before it had begun. David had won. And the family of Jacob breathed out a collective sigh of relief. The Promised Land rang with their cheers. The God who had defeated giants before had done it again, right in front of their eyes.

And the family of Jacob cheered louder for David, the miracle worker. David, the giant slayer. David, their savior. And they cheered for Saul the King, who saw strength where others saw weakness, faith where others saw simplicity, and victory where others saw defeat. Louder and louder they cheered. They cheered for David, who never doubted. And they cheered for Saul, who doubted but still chose to believe.

To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com

To access the complete audiobook of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, become a Friend of Faith Matters by subscribing at FaithMatters.org/subscribe.