I was just a servant in the Tent of Meeting, quiet as a shadow. I swept floors, trimmed the lamps, and made sure the oil stayed full in the menorah. I lived during the time of Eli, the High Priest of Israel, and I remember the boy Shmuel—you may know him as Samuel.
He slept just a few steps away from the Ark of God, near where we kept the sacred tablets. Everyone said Elkanah and Channah, known in English as Elkanah and Hannah, had brought him as a gift to Hashem, the name we use to speak of God with reverence, after years of praying for a child. Shmuel wasn’t like the other boys. He listened more than he talked. And when he prayed, you could feel a stillness, like the air itself stopped to hear.
That night, the oil in the lamps was almost out. I was dozing near the linen curtains when Shmuel sat up suddenly, blinking into the darkness.
“Here I am!” he called, and rushed to Eli’s side.
I remember Eli groaning as he sat up. “I didn’t call you, my son,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”
Shmuel obeyed, his steps light as he returned. I turned over, curious, but sleep tugged at me again.
Then it happened a second time. And a third.
By now, Eli’s voice was slower, his eyes tired. But something in his face changed—like a cloud lifting.
“If He calls again,” Eli whispered, “say, ‘Speak, Hashem, for Your servant is listening.’”
I held my breath as Shmuel lay down again. The tent became so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat.
Then, it came—not thunder or fire, but a voice. Gentle. Strong. The kind of voice you feel in your bones.
“Shmuel. Shmuel.”
I watched the boy sit up, trembling.
“Speak, Hashem,” he whispered, “for Your servant is listening.”
A long silence followed. I could not hear what God said to Shmuel, but I saw the change in his face. Sorrow. Resolve. Fear. And something else—mercy.
In the morning, his hands shook as he opened the tent flaps. Eli called him close.
“What did He say to you, my son? Do not hide it from me.”
And so Shmuel told him. Everything.
That Hashem would punish Eli’s sons for their cruelty, their disrespect for the offerings—how they had broken trust with the people and with God. Eli bowed his head.
“He is Hashem,” he said. “Let Him do what is good in His eyes.”
I stared at them, both quiet. A boy and an old man. A message and a response.
From that day on, Shmuel wasn’t just a boy. The word of Hashem came to him, and all Israel learned to listen. But it wasn’t his courage I remembered most. It was his obedience.
In the stillness of night, when no one else heard, he said yes to God. Because mercy begins where listening starts.
I was just a servant in the Tent of Meeting, quiet as a shadow. I swept floors, trimmed the lamps, and made sure the oil stayed full in the menorah. I lived during the time of Eli, the High Priest of Israel, and I remember the boy Shmuel—you may know him as Samuel.
He slept just a few steps away from the Ark of God, near where we kept the sacred tablets. Everyone said Elkanah and Channah, known in English as Elkanah and Hannah, had brought him as a gift to Hashem, the name we use to speak of God with reverence, after years of praying for a child. Shmuel wasn’t like the other boys. He listened more than he talked. And when he prayed, you could feel a stillness, like the air itself stopped to hear.
That night, the oil in the lamps was almost out. I was dozing near the linen curtains when Shmuel sat up suddenly, blinking into the darkness.
“Here I am!” he called, and rushed to Eli’s side.
I remember Eli groaning as he sat up. “I didn’t call you, my son,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”
Shmuel obeyed, his steps light as he returned. I turned over, curious, but sleep tugged at me again.
Then it happened a second time. And a third.
By now, Eli’s voice was slower, his eyes tired. But something in his face changed—like a cloud lifting.
“If He calls again,” Eli whispered, “say, ‘Speak, Hashem, for Your servant is listening.’”
I held my breath as Shmuel lay down again. The tent became so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat.
Then, it came—not thunder or fire, but a voice. Gentle. Strong. The kind of voice you feel in your bones.
“Shmuel. Shmuel.”
I watched the boy sit up, trembling.
“Speak, Hashem,” he whispered, “for Your servant is listening.”
A long silence followed. I could not hear what God said to Shmuel, but I saw the change in his face. Sorrow. Resolve. Fear. And something else—mercy.
In the morning, his hands shook as he opened the tent flaps. Eli called him close.
“What did He say to you, my son? Do not hide it from me.”
And so Shmuel told him. Everything.
That Hashem would punish Eli’s sons for their cruelty, their disrespect for the offerings—how they had broken trust with the people and with God. Eli bowed his head.
“He is Hashem,” he said. “Let Him do what is good in His eyes.”
I stared at them, both quiet. A boy and an old man. A message and a response.
From that day on, Shmuel wasn’t just a boy. The word of Hashem came to him, and all Israel learned to listen. But it wasn’t his courage I remembered most. It was his obedience.
In the stillness of night, when no one else heard, he said yes to God. Because mercy begins where listening starts.
