The sandals on my feet were too thin for walking rubble, but I ran anyway. Stones crunched beneath me, and dust scraped my throat—it had been weeks of this. Moving broken walls. Lifting burnt gates. Watching grown men cry over what should have been a city but looked more like a burial ground.
My name is Eliab. I was a spice merchant's son, born and raised in exile. My friends and I used to whisper stories of Jerusalem like it was a fairy tale, too ruined to remember, too sacred to forget.
That changed when Nehemiah arrived.
He’d been a cupbearer in the Persian palace—trusted by King Artaxerxes himself. But what shocked everyone wasn’t that the king let him come. It was that the king gave him letters, guards, and timber to rebuild our home. It didn’t make sense. Why would a foreign king care about a burned city he didn’t believe in?
Nehemiah always said it wasn’t the king’s heart—it was God’s.
He walked our streets. Measured our ruins. And then, he gathered us and said, “The hand of my God has been on me.” At first, I didn’t believe him. But something about the way he looked at our ashes—he didn’t flinch. Like he saw something we didn’t. Like he’d already seen the wall standing again in his mind.
But not everyone wanted the wall rebuilt.
The neighbors surrounding us—Samaritans, Ammonites, and others—mocked us. "A fox could break that wall down," they laughed. Their leaders, men like Sanballat and Tobiah, threatened us daily. “You rebel against the king,” they shouted. “Stop this madness or face war.”
My father wanted me to stay away from the wall zone. “They’ll kill anyone who lifts a stone.”
But I couldn’t. The fear was real—but so was this strange, rising courage.
We worked with one hand on a rock and the other on a sword. We built day and night—Shadai, an old Levite, even slept on his section with a hammer by his pillow. Farmers built next to goldsmiths. Parents shared tools with priests. We weren’t builders. But we became one body, held together by fear and faith.
One morning, I saw Nehemiah rubbing ash between his fingers, his brow low.
“They want to meet,” he sighed. “In the valley.”
The valley. Far from the city. Perfect place for an ambush.
“Don’t go!” I cried. “You’re our only leader.”
He looked at me—and I still remember what he said. “I’m doing a great work. I cannot come down.”
After that, they tried another way. Four letters sent to scare him: lies that said Nehemiah wanted to become king himself. Everyone whispered it might be true. Even the priests were shaky.
But Nehemiah didn’t bend.
Then came the fifth letter. This time, meant to be seen. Threats. More lies. And finally—the whisper that froze even my bones—Sanballat had hired someone inside our city. Someone who claimed to be a prophet.
“Hide in the temple," the man urged. "They're coming to kill you tonight!”
Nehemiah stared at him.
“I will not run,” he said simply. “And I will not hide.”
That night, I barely slept. But nothing happened. The next day, Nehemiah ordered that the doors of the city be set.
And on the fifty-second day—it was done.
The wall. Finished. Gates hung. Enemies silenced. Not one crack left.
People from other nations heard what had happened. And you’d think they’d be angry. But something else happened instead.
They were afraid.
Not of us.
Of our God.
“This couldn't have been done by men,” I heard one of them murmur. “Their God fights for them.”
I touched the stone that day, rough and new beneath my fingers. It wasn’t perfect. But for the first time in my life, I had a home.
The miracle wasn’t just the wall. It was that we no longer believed we were broken.
We had remembered who we were—even in ruins.
The sandals on my feet were too thin for walking rubble, but I ran anyway. Stones crunched beneath me, and dust scraped my throat—it had been weeks of this. Moving broken walls. Lifting burnt gates. Watching grown men cry over what should have been a city but looked more like a burial ground.
My name is Eliab. I was a spice merchant's son, born and raised in exile. My friends and I used to whisper stories of Jerusalem like it was a fairy tale, too ruined to remember, too sacred to forget.
That changed when Nehemiah arrived.
He’d been a cupbearer in the Persian palace—trusted by King Artaxerxes himself. But what shocked everyone wasn’t that the king let him come. It was that the king gave him letters, guards, and timber to rebuild our home. It didn’t make sense. Why would a foreign king care about a burned city he didn’t believe in?
Nehemiah always said it wasn’t the king’s heart—it was God’s.
He walked our streets. Measured our ruins. And then, he gathered us and said, “The hand of my God has been on me.” At first, I didn’t believe him. But something about the way he looked at our ashes—he didn’t flinch. Like he saw something we didn’t. Like he’d already seen the wall standing again in his mind.
But not everyone wanted the wall rebuilt.
The neighbors surrounding us—Samaritans, Ammonites, and others—mocked us. "A fox could break that wall down," they laughed. Their leaders, men like Sanballat and Tobiah, threatened us daily. “You rebel against the king,” they shouted. “Stop this madness or face war.”
My father wanted me to stay away from the wall zone. “They’ll kill anyone who lifts a stone.”
But I couldn’t. The fear was real—but so was this strange, rising courage.
We worked with one hand on a rock and the other on a sword. We built day and night—Shadai, an old Levite, even slept on his section with a hammer by his pillow. Farmers built next to goldsmiths. Parents shared tools with priests. We weren’t builders. But we became one body, held together by fear and faith.
One morning, I saw Nehemiah rubbing ash between his fingers, his brow low.
“They want to meet,” he sighed. “In the valley.”
The valley. Far from the city. Perfect place for an ambush.
“Don’t go!” I cried. “You’re our only leader.”
He looked at me—and I still remember what he said. “I’m doing a great work. I cannot come down.”
After that, they tried another way. Four letters sent to scare him: lies that said Nehemiah wanted to become king himself. Everyone whispered it might be true. Even the priests were shaky.
But Nehemiah didn’t bend.
Then came the fifth letter. This time, meant to be seen. Threats. More lies. And finally—the whisper that froze even my bones—Sanballat had hired someone inside our city. Someone who claimed to be a prophet.
“Hide in the temple," the man urged. "They're coming to kill you tonight!”
Nehemiah stared at him.
“I will not run,” he said simply. “And I will not hide.”
That night, I barely slept. But nothing happened. The next day, Nehemiah ordered that the doors of the city be set.
And on the fifty-second day—it was done.
The wall. Finished. Gates hung. Enemies silenced. Not one crack left.
People from other nations heard what had happened. And you’d think they’d be angry. But something else happened instead.
They were afraid.
Not of us.
Of our God.
“This couldn't have been done by men,” I heard one of them murmur. “Their God fights for them.”
I touched the stone that day, rough and new beneath my fingers. It wasn’t perfect. But for the first time in my life, I had a home.
The miracle wasn’t just the wall. It was that we no longer believed we were broken.
We had remembered who we were—even in ruins.
