The sound of iron hitting wood still echoes in my ears. Not from battle, but from the work we were doing along the Jordan River. My name won’t appear in any scroll, but I was a student of the prophet Elisha—one of many young men eager to learn and serve God in those dangerous times.
Our living quarters had grown too small. More students came each month, seeking wisdom, truth, and connection to the Holy One. We decided to build new housing by the Jordan River. I offered to help, even though I had no skill with tools. I was just a scribe’s son from a small village. My hands were better with parchment than with axes. Still, I wanted to be useful.
One of the elders lent me his ax—a heavy tool made of strong iron. “Be careful,” he warned. “This is borrowed.” I nodded quickly, not wanting to seem worried. But I was.
We began to chop trees together, the sound of falling wood ringing through the warm morning air. I gripped the ax tightly, trying to mimic the others. Then it happened—so fast I could hardly process it. As I swung, the iron head flew from the handle, twisting in the air, and vanished beneath the surface of the Jordan into murky water.
I froze. My heart pounded. My breath got short. “No!” I shouted, running to the riverbank. “It was borrowed!”
I felt sick. Losing something that wasn’t mine—something important—was like failing twice. First as a worker. Then, worse, as a servant of God.
Elisha stepped beside me. He had a quiet strength that always amazed me. He didn’t scold me. He didn’t call me careless.
He simply asked, “Where did it fall?”
I pointed to the spot in the water, still rippling. Without a word, Elisha picked up a stick, broke it cleanly, and tossed it into the river.
That’s when I saw it.
The iron head—iron, mind you, heavier than any object I’d ever lifted—floated to the surface like a dry leaf. I blinked. I couldn't speak.
“Take it,” Elisha said calmly.
I stepped forward, grabbed the floating ax head, and clutched it close to my chest. It was real. Cold and heavy in my hands. But something had shifted in me just then. It wasn’t about the ax anymore.
In that moment, I understood that nothing—no burden, no mistake—was too small for God to notice. Or too heavy for Him to lift.
I had thought miracles were just for kings or prophets. But here was one, brought forth over a borrowed ax. Not to show power. But to show care.
I still have that image in my mind—the iron rising when it should have sunk. My faith, too, began to rise that day. Not out of glory, but out of gratitude.
Because I learned that God sees even the small things. Even me.
The sound of iron hitting wood still echoes in my ears. Not from battle, but from the work we were doing along the Jordan River. My name won’t appear in any scroll, but I was a student of the prophet Elisha—one of many young men eager to learn and serve God in those dangerous times.
Our living quarters had grown too small. More students came each month, seeking wisdom, truth, and connection to the Holy One. We decided to build new housing by the Jordan River. I offered to help, even though I had no skill with tools. I was just a scribe’s son from a small village. My hands were better with parchment than with axes. Still, I wanted to be useful.
One of the elders lent me his ax—a heavy tool made of strong iron. “Be careful,” he warned. “This is borrowed.” I nodded quickly, not wanting to seem worried. But I was.
We began to chop trees together, the sound of falling wood ringing through the warm morning air. I gripped the ax tightly, trying to mimic the others. Then it happened—so fast I could hardly process it. As I swung, the iron head flew from the handle, twisting in the air, and vanished beneath the surface of the Jordan into murky water.
I froze. My heart pounded. My breath got short. “No!” I shouted, running to the riverbank. “It was borrowed!”
I felt sick. Losing something that wasn’t mine—something important—was like failing twice. First as a worker. Then, worse, as a servant of God.
Elisha stepped beside me. He had a quiet strength that always amazed me. He didn’t scold me. He didn’t call me careless.
He simply asked, “Where did it fall?”
I pointed to the spot in the water, still rippling. Without a word, Elisha picked up a stick, broke it cleanly, and tossed it into the river.
That’s when I saw it.
The iron head—iron, mind you, heavier than any object I’d ever lifted—floated to the surface like a dry leaf. I blinked. I couldn't speak.
“Take it,” Elisha said calmly.
I stepped forward, grabbed the floating ax head, and clutched it close to my chest. It was real. Cold and heavy in my hands. But something had shifted in me just then. It wasn’t about the ax anymore.
In that moment, I understood that nothing—no burden, no mistake—was too small for God to notice. Or too heavy for Him to lift.
I had thought miracles were just for kings or prophets. But here was one, brought forth over a borrowed ax. Not to show power. But to show care.
I still have that image in my mind—the iron rising when it should have sunk. My faith, too, began to rise that day. Not out of glory, but out of gratitude.
Because I learned that God sees even the small things. Even me.
