Read Online Warrior Poet by Timothy J. Stoner - Free Book Online
Authors: Timothy J. Stoner
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, Historical, Christian, Courage, Faith, Shepherd, David, Saul, Goliath
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made Samuel’s heart race.
“Here I am, for you called me,” Samuel said.
“I did not call,” the old man replied groggily. “Go back and lie down.”
Once more the Voice had called. Again Samuel had run to Eli’s side. “Go back to bed, my son; you must be dreaming,” Eli said—but this time with less conviction.
The third time, Samuel had tentatively pushed aside the veil and shuffled back to Eli, worried that the priest would lose his temper. When he approached, Eli was wide awake. Propped up on one arm, the old man, who was now almost completely blind, gestured for his servant boy to come closer.
“Samuel, go back and lie down,” he whispered, “and should someone call to you, say this: ‘Speak, Lord, for Your servant is listening.’” Eli’s face held a wistful expression. He clutched Samuel’s arm so tightly, it hurt.
This time his name was repeated twice, and he responded as Eli had instructed him. But what the Voice told him so shook him he covered his head with his cloak to muffle his sobs. The next morning, Eli forced him to disclose what he’d been told: Eli and his house would be wiped out. God was going to judge the high priest for refusing to restrain the wicked behavior of his two sons. Samuel had no idea what this meant.
Apparently Eli understood, for his shoulders had slumped and he’d lifted his face to the sky, murmuring weakly, “He is the Lord. What is good in His eyes, let Him do.”
That was almost seven decades ago. Ever since, Samuel had slept lightly, on alert for another summons in the night. Over the long years, the prophet had tried to come to terms with fitful sleep and regular interruptions, accepting it as an occupational hazard. As he crossed into his eighth decade, and as sleep became more fitful, he had become more cantankerous. Losing Siphora, his companion for over fifty years, had not helped.
It was something only his servant understood. Ginath had been a mercy. From the moment he’d joined the household, Ginath had watched over the bereaved old prophet with uncommon solicitude. He moved with alacrity and ignored Samuel’s temper. Also, since he was Ginath was in his middle years, he was a welcome sounding board. Samuel considered him a gift from the Lord to compensate for his wife’s death and for his two lazy, selfish sons, around whom rumors of dishonesty swarmed like gnats.
His boys, Joel and Abijah, had been such disappointments. He had dreamed of passing his prophetic mantle on to them, as well as his role as judge. But their habit of taking bribes from worshippers had disqualified them.
At least his boys were nothing like Eli’s. Hophni and Phineas had been perverse as well as incorrigible. They not only stole the choice meat from the sacrificial pots but also enjoyed illicit relations with the embroidery women.
Samuel grimaced as he straightened his stiff back and turned to pace across to the other side of his house. While there was no question that taking a bribe here or there was an offense, he was hopeful that Joel and Abijah would not be punished as severely as Eli’s boys.
“Lord, have mercy,” he prayed for the thousandth time as he made his turn one pace away from the far wall with its open window. “Do not treat my sons as their sins deserve. Do not cut them or their families off from before You. Remember my service and my devotion to Your name. El Shaddai, leave me a place among Your chosen people for generations to come.”
Ginath raised himself from his pallet and looked toward the horizon. It was too dark to make anything out. In warm weather he slept on the roof under the stars. His head rested against the low wall that ran along its border so he could hear Samuel’s voice through the window beneath it. Ginath was a light sleeper, and when the prophet prayed, his quavering voice would rise with emotion. Samuel was awake, and Ginath had to care for the needs of his master.
The old prophet did not indicate that he’d
“Here I am, for you called me,” Samuel said.
“I did not call,” the old man replied groggily. “Go back and lie down.”
Once more the Voice had called. Again Samuel had run to Eli’s side. “Go back to bed, my son; you must be dreaming,” Eli said—but this time with less conviction.
The third time, Samuel had tentatively pushed aside the veil and shuffled back to Eli, worried that the priest would lose his temper. When he approached, Eli was wide awake. Propped up on one arm, the old man, who was now almost completely blind, gestured for his servant boy to come closer.
“Samuel, go back and lie down,” he whispered, “and should someone call to you, say this: ‘Speak, Lord, for Your servant is listening.’” Eli’s face held a wistful expression. He clutched Samuel’s arm so tightly, it hurt.
This time his name was repeated twice, and he responded as Eli had instructed him. But what the Voice told him so shook him he covered his head with his cloak to muffle his sobs. The next morning, Eli forced him to disclose what he’d been told: Eli and his house would be wiped out. God was going to judge the high priest for refusing to restrain the wicked behavior of his two sons. Samuel had no idea what this meant.
Apparently Eli understood, for his shoulders had slumped and he’d lifted his face to the sky, murmuring weakly, “He is the Lord. What is good in His eyes, let Him do.”
That was almost seven decades ago. Ever since, Samuel had slept lightly, on alert for another summons in the night. Over the long years, the prophet had tried to come to terms with fitful sleep and regular interruptions, accepting it as an occupational hazard. As he crossed into his eighth decade, and as sleep became more fitful, he had become more cantankerous. Losing Siphora, his companion for over fifty years, had not helped.
It was something only his servant understood. Ginath had been a mercy. From the moment he’d joined the household, Ginath had watched over the bereaved old prophet with uncommon solicitude. He moved with alacrity and ignored Samuel’s temper. Also, since he was Ginath was in his middle years, he was a welcome sounding board. Samuel considered him a gift from the Lord to compensate for his wife’s death and for his two lazy, selfish sons, around whom rumors of dishonesty swarmed like gnats.
His boys, Joel and Abijah, had been such disappointments. He had dreamed of passing his prophetic mantle on to them, as well as his role as judge. But their habit of taking bribes from worshippers had disqualified them.
At least his boys were nothing like Eli’s. Hophni and Phineas had been perverse as well as incorrigible. They not only stole the choice meat from the sacrificial pots but also enjoyed illicit relations with the embroidery women.
Samuel grimaced as he straightened his stiff back and turned to pace across to the other side of his house. While there was no question that taking a bribe here or there was an offense, he was hopeful that Joel and Abijah would not be punished as severely as Eli’s boys.
“Lord, have mercy,” he prayed for the thousandth time as he made his turn one pace away from the far wall with its open window. “Do not treat my sons as their sins deserve. Do not cut them or their families off from before You. Remember my service and my devotion to Your name. El Shaddai, leave me a place among Your chosen people for generations to come.”
Ginath raised himself from his pallet and looked toward the horizon. It was too dark to make anything out. In warm weather he slept on the roof under the stars. His head rested against the low wall that ran along its border so he could hear Samuel’s voice through the window beneath it. Ginath was a light sleeper, and when the prophet prayed, his quavering voice would rise with emotion. Samuel was awake, and Ginath had to care for the needs of his master.
The old prophet did not indicate that he’d
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