It wasn’t supposed to rain that night, but dark clouds gathered, and thunder rolled in like an army. I grabbed my rope tighter, squinting through the wind as Balaam's donkey stomped nervously beside me. I wasn’t a prophet or a warrior—just a stable boy who’d been ordered to follow this strange man on his sudden trip to curse a people none of us had ever met.
My job was simple: keep the animal calm and feed it when we stopped. But nothing had felt right since the journey began. Balaam had heard from G-d—he said so himself—but then why did he look so afraid now? Who hears from G-d and trembles more afterwards?
I stayed close to the donkey, hoping its calmness would rub off on me. We’d only gone a little ways when she suddenly stopped. Not gently, not slowly—like she’d hit an invisible wall. Balaam kicked her side. She lurched forward again, only to veer into a vineyard wall, crushing Balaam’s foot. His face turned red with rage. He beat her again.
People beat animals all the time where I’m from, but something in my chest ached when he struck her. It didn't feel like a man correcting a beast. It felt like something worse—like Balaam had no idea who was guiding our steps anymore, and fear made him cruel.
She kept walking until suddenly she dropped beneath him, right into the dirt. I ran forward to help, but before I could say anything, the strange thing happened. The donkey... she turned her head—to look right at Balaam—and asked, “Why are you hitting me? Have I ever acted this way before?”
I froze. Balaam froze too. The donkey had spoken. Not in sounds—actual words. And not wild, angry words, but sad ones. Honest ones.
Then Balaam began to cry.
I blinked, thinking maybe I was dizzy from the heat, but then I saw what the donkey had seen this whole time—a magnificent angel, sword drawn, standing in the road ahead. It was terrifying and beautiful all at once, and even I could feel that this wasn’t just a warrior—it was a warning.
The angel told Balaam that the donkey had saved his life, that if she hadn’t stopped, the angel would have struck him down.
We all stood there in total silence.
I think Balaam understood for the first time that being powerful or religious doesn’t mean you always know G-d’s plan. Sometimes, G-d prefers to open the eyes of the lowliest creature to remind us who’s really in control.
We turned back after that.
I’d come on this trip thinking I was just a servant. But I left realizing I’d witnessed something holy.
A donkey stopped a prophet. And G-d spoke through a voice no one expected.
That day, I learned that G-d doesn't always use the strongest or smartest. Sometimes, He works through the ones everyone else ignores—including me.
It wasn’t supposed to rain that night, but dark clouds gathered, and thunder rolled in like an army. I grabbed my rope tighter, squinting through the wind as Balaam's donkey stomped nervously beside me. I wasn’t a prophet or a warrior—just a stable boy who’d been ordered to follow this strange man on his sudden trip to curse a people none of us had ever met.
My job was simple: keep the animal calm and feed it when we stopped. But nothing had felt right since the journey began. Balaam had heard from G-d—he said so himself—but then why did he look so afraid now? Who hears from G-d and trembles more afterwards?
I stayed close to the donkey, hoping its calmness would rub off on me. We’d only gone a little ways when she suddenly stopped. Not gently, not slowly—like she’d hit an invisible wall. Balaam kicked her side. She lurched forward again, only to veer into a vineyard wall, crushing Balaam’s foot. His face turned red with rage. He beat her again.
People beat animals all the time where I’m from, but something in my chest ached when he struck her. It didn't feel like a man correcting a beast. It felt like something worse—like Balaam had no idea who was guiding our steps anymore, and fear made him cruel.
She kept walking until suddenly she dropped beneath him, right into the dirt. I ran forward to help, but before I could say anything, the strange thing happened. The donkey... she turned her head—to look right at Balaam—and asked, “Why are you hitting me? Have I ever acted this way before?”
I froze. Balaam froze too. The donkey had spoken. Not in sounds—actual words. And not wild, angry words, but sad ones. Honest ones.
Then Balaam began to cry.
I blinked, thinking maybe I was dizzy from the heat, but then I saw what the donkey had seen this whole time—a magnificent angel, sword drawn, standing in the road ahead. It was terrifying and beautiful all at once, and even I could feel that this wasn’t just a warrior—it was a warning.
The angel told Balaam that the donkey had saved his life, that if she hadn’t stopped, the angel would have struck him down.
We all stood there in total silence.
I think Balaam understood for the first time that being powerful or religious doesn’t mean you always know G-d’s plan. Sometimes, G-d prefers to open the eyes of the lowliest creature to remind us who’s really in control.
We turned back after that.
I’d come on this trip thinking I was just a servant. But I left realizing I’d witnessed something holy.
A donkey stopped a prophet. And G-d spoke through a voice no one expected.
That day, I learned that G-d doesn't always use the strongest or smartest. Sometimes, He works through the ones everyone else ignores—including me.
