The Voice That Remembers

Last weekend I went to North Carolina for an event our pastor hosted, called “On Earth as it is in Heaven.” I walked away full of the Bread of Life. I incorporated all my notes that stood out from the different speakers and our group talks into this chapter in Ehud’s story that I am writing next:

The ears of the Father are never far from the voice of a child who calls Him Abba.

I don’t expect to see him again. Not after all these years. Not after the hiding and the shame. But when he walks into the edge of the market square wrapped in the same old linen robes, beard longer, eyes hollowed by time and regret, I know immediately.

The priest from my childhood.

He sees me too. His eyes widen, then narrow, as if searching for the boy he once dismissed. I rise from my seat near the olive barrels, heart pounding not with anger, but with a grief unhealed.

He speaks first. “Ehud.”

I nod. “You remember.”

“I never forgot.”

I motion him aside, away from the noise of barter and Moabite sneers. We walk in silence to a shaded place behind the well; the stones worn smooth by years of prayers—some answered, most not. At least not in the way many wanted them answered.

He turns to face me. “I’ve heard you speaking. Preaching. Training. Whispered tales say your words carry the old teachings. That people are listening.”

“They are not my words, but yes. Our people are listening.”

His shoulders sag. “And what do you tell them?”

I stare at him. “I tell them that Jehovah has not changed. That He sings still. Even if they’ve forgotten the sound.”

His mouth twists, bitter. “You are a better man than I.”

“No, but I remember. And I’m not afraid of what the remembering demands.”

His hand trembles as he leans against the stone wall. “Do you think I haven’t tried? I gave everything once—my years, my strength. And what did it bring? Silence. Loss. The children of Israel mocking my prayers. The Moabites laughing as I lit empty fires.”

My jaw tightens. “So you stopped lighting them.”

His eyes flash. “Wouldn’t you? When the heavens feel as hard as bronze?”

“No, because Abba never stopped listening. You did.”

He stares at me. I see the pain behind the fury, the guilt behind the excuses.

“I thought you’d understand,” he says.

“I do, but I won’t let you stay there.”

I step forward. My voice rises—not in anger, but conviction. The words are not mine. They never are. They pour from a well deeper than grief, older than silence.

“Tell me about the god you don’t believe in.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Describe him. This god who abandons. Who demands strength without mercy. Who watches while his people suffer and does nothing. Tell me about that god.”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “That’s the only god I’ve known these past years.”

“Wow,” I whisper under my breath. “I don’t believe in that god either.”

His arms fall to his sides.

“The truth is,” I step closer, “our Abba never leaves you to save yourself. Never. That was never the plan. Never the promise.”

He closes his eyes, breathing ragged.

“Jehovah never leaves you to do anything by yourself. Not fight. Not grieve. Not repent. Not rejoice. Not even pray.”

His lips tremble.

“Let your circumstances say whatever they want,” I add. “What Jehovah says is the only truth.”

His eyes meet mine, glassy with tears he hasn’t let fall in years.

“Every other god only offers hope for an eternity. Jehovah gives you Himself.”

His knees buckle. He sinks onto the stone edge of the well.

“The milk and honey will return to the land,” I promise. “Not because we earn it. Because He longs to dwell with His children again.”

“I failed,” he rasps.

“We all have.”

“I taught law. Discipline. Duty.”

I nod. “That’s because the deepest need inside a human is the need to feel safe.”

He covers his face with his hands. “I wanted to make them holy.”

“But the pursuit of God was never about perfecting people. It was always about making us part of His family.”

A sob breaks free from his chest. I kneel beside him.

“It is unmerited,” I continue, “because you cannot work for it, earn it, or pay for it. It’s not for sale.”

He clutches at my robe like a man drowning. “How do I return? How do I lead when I am so broken?”

“You’ve not been asked to produce this life.” I touch his shoulder. “Only to receive it.”

He groans and lets the tears come.

I put my hand on his back and wait.

When his sobs quiet, I speak again, low but sure. “Don’t give my children principles to work, but bread to eat.”

He breathes in like the air is new.

“You knew this once,” I say.

“I lost it.”

“You remember now.”

He looks at me, and there is light in his eyes. Small, flickering, but real.

“Come, let us call the people. Let us remind them of their Father’s voice.”

He stands. Not with pride. With purpose.

Together, we walk to the square. He lifts his hands. I raise my voice.

And we call them home.

“Return,” I cry out to all nearby, “to the One who gave you milk and honey. Not just for your lips—but to show you His goodness.”

“Return,” he echoes, “to the One who is not far, but near.”

“Return,” I cry, “to Abba.”

A crowd gathers. Faces lift. Tears fall.