---
"What if I'm wrong about all of this?" Gideon whispered, kneeling in the threshing floor as night descended around him. The wool fleece felt coarse between his trembling fingers. He spread it flat against the dirt, smoothing its edges with care that belied his inner turmoil.
The weight of Israel's future pressed down on his shoulders. Just days ago, he had been threshing wheat in secret, hiding from Midianite raiders. Now, somehow, he was meant to lead an army? The angel's words still burned in his memory: "The Lord is with you, mighty warrior."
Mighty warrior. The title felt like borrowed clothing, too large and ill-fitting.
The evening air cooled against his skin as he knelt beside the fleece. Stars emerged overhead, watching like silent witnesses. In the distance, he could hear the faint sounds of the encamped Midianites—thousands of them. His people cowered in mountain caves while these invaders devoured their crops and slaughtered their livestock.
"Lord," he prayed, his voice barely audible even to himself, "if You will save Israel by my hand as You have promised..." He paused, ashamed of what he was about to ask. The angel had already given him a sign, consuming his offering with fire. The altar he'd built—Yahweh-Shalom, The Lord is Peace—stood as testimony. Yet doubt still gnawed at him.
"I will place a fleece of wool on the threshing floor," he continued. "If there is dew only on the fleece and all the ground is dry, then I will know that You will save Israel by my hand, as You said."
Rising, Gideon cast one last glance at the wool lying pale against the dark earth. He retreated to his tent but found no rest. The hours crawled by as he stared into darkness, his mind filled with competing voices: the mockery of the Midianites, the desperate prayers of his people, the unexpected call of God.
Dawn broke with painful slowness. Gideon rose before the sun had fully crested the horizon, his heart thundering against his ribs. He approached the threshing floor with measured steps, afraid to hope yet unable to quell the desire to believe.
The fleece lay where he had left it, but transformed. He bent down, hands hovering just above it, almost afraid to touch. When he finally gathered his courage and lifted the wool, water streamed from it, enough to fill a bowl. His fingers came away damp while the ground around it remained completely dry.
A miracle. A sign.
Yet as the day progressed, doubt returned like an unwelcome shadow. What if it had been merely chance? What if the fleece naturally collected dew while the ground did not?
Night fell again, and Gideon returned to the threshing floor, clutching the now-dry fleece.
"Please don't be angry with me," he whispered, feeling the weight of his presumption. "Let me make just one more test with the fleece. This time let the fleece remain dry, and let the ground be covered with dew."
He spread the fleece out again, his movements more deliberate this time. The stars seemed closer, the night more alive with possibility. He smoothed the wool one final time before walking away, his prayer hanging in the night air behind him.
This time, sleep found him, though fitful and light. Strange dreams of battles and trumpets haunted his rest.
Morning came with golden light spilling across the land. Gideon approached the threshing floor, eyes fixed on the small patch of wool. His breath caught when he saw it—the ground glistened with moisture, wet with dew that sparkled in the dawn light. And the fleece? He knelt and touched it with trembling fingers. Dry. Completely dry.
Something shifted within him, a fault line in the geography of his soul giving way. Not confidence exactly—fear still clung to him like a second skin—but something had changed. A quiet certainty began to form, small but unshakable.
He rose slowly, the dry fleece in his hand, his gaze turning toward the Midianite camp in the valley below.
Gideon stood motionless in the morning light, listening to a silence that somehow spoke louder than words.
---
"What if I'm wrong about all of this?" Gideon whispered, kneeling in the threshing floor as night descended around him. The wool fleece felt coarse between his trembling fingers. He spread it flat against the dirt, smoothing its edges with care that belied his inner turmoil.
The weight of Israel's future pressed down on his shoulders. Just days ago, he had been threshing wheat in secret, hiding from Midianite raiders. Now, somehow, he was meant to lead an army? The angel's words still burned in his memory: "The Lord is with you, mighty warrior."
Mighty warrior. The title felt like borrowed clothing, too large and ill-fitting.
The evening air cooled against his skin as he knelt beside the fleece. Stars emerged overhead, watching like silent witnesses. In the distance, he could hear the faint sounds of the encamped Midianites—thousands of them. His people cowered in mountain caves while these invaders devoured their crops and slaughtered their livestock.
"Lord," he prayed, his voice barely audible even to himself, "if You will save Israel by my hand as You have promised..." He paused, ashamed of what he was about to ask. The angel had already given him a sign, consuming his offering with fire. The altar he'd built—Yahweh-Shalom, The Lord is Peace—stood as testimony. Yet doubt still gnawed at him.
"I will place a fleece of wool on the threshing floor," he continued. "If there is dew only on the fleece and all the ground is dry, then I will know that You will save Israel by my hand, as You said."
Rising, Gideon cast one last glance at the wool lying pale against the dark earth. He retreated to his tent but found no rest. The hours crawled by as he stared into darkness, his mind filled with competing voices: the mockery of the Midianites, the desperate prayers of his people, the unexpected call of God.
Dawn broke with painful slowness. Gideon rose before the sun had fully crested the horizon, his heart thundering against his ribs. He approached the threshing floor with measured steps, afraid to hope yet unable to quell the desire to believe.
The fleece lay where he had left it, but transformed. He bent down, hands hovering just above it, almost afraid to touch. When he finally gathered his courage and lifted the wool, water streamed from it, enough to fill a bowl. His fingers came away damp while the ground around it remained completely dry.
A miracle. A sign.
Yet as the day progressed, doubt returned like an unwelcome shadow. What if it had been merely chance? What if the fleece naturally collected dew while the ground did not?
Night fell again, and Gideon returned to the threshing floor, clutching the now-dry fleece.
"Please don't be angry with me," he whispered, feeling the weight of his presumption. "Let me make just one more test with the fleece. This time let the fleece remain dry, and let the ground be covered with dew."
He spread the fleece out again, his movements more deliberate this time. The stars seemed closer, the night more alive with possibility. He smoothed the wool one final time before walking away, his prayer hanging in the night air behind him.
This time, sleep found him, though fitful and light. Strange dreams of battles and trumpets haunted his rest.
Morning came with golden light spilling across the land. Gideon approached the threshing floor, eyes fixed on the small patch of wool. His breath caught when he saw it—the ground glistened with moisture, wet with dew that sparkled in the dawn light. And the fleece? He knelt and touched it with trembling fingers. Dry. Completely dry.
Something shifted within him, a fault line in the geography of his soul giving way. Not confidence exactly—fear still clung to him like a second skin—but something had changed. A quiet certainty began to form, small but unshakable.
He rose slowly, the dry fleece in his hand, his gaze turning toward the Midianite camp in the valley below.
Gideon stood motionless in the morning light, listening to a silence that somehow spoke louder than words.
