You won’t find my name in any scroll. I was just a stonecutter’s son in Yerushalayim — that's what we call Jerusalem — during the days when the Second Temple was being rebuilt. But I remember the day it happened as clearly as I remember my father’s voice.
The sun had barely climbed above the hills when I followed Abba to the worksite. He handed me a chisel, his hands rough and white from powdered stone. “Today, we set the last foundation stone,” he said. “You’ll want to remember this your whole life.”
I didn’t understand why everyone looked so nervous. The king of Persia, Darius, had finally given us permission to rebuild — even promised protection! But not long before, men from the neighboring lands tried to stop the work. They said we were rebels. That we would turn against the king. Some workers had dropped their tools out of fear.
I’ll admit — even I felt a shadow in my chest when I thought of soldiers coming again. My father squeezed my shoulder. “This time, we build not with pride, but with humility. The first Temple was destroyed after we turned from the ways of the Torah. But the Lord has given us another chance.”
The elder priest stood up on a pile of stones and raised his voice. “This is the day we finish the foundation. As Ezra the scribe reminded us,” he said, pointing to the scroll in his hand, “the words of the prophets — like Zecharyah and Chaggai — told us not to fear. The Lord is with us.”
As we placed the final foundation stone, a great shout rose from the people. Some shouted with joy. Others — the very old ones — wept. They had seen the First Beit HaMikdash — the holy Temple built by King Shlomo, or Solomon — before it was destroyed. Their tears weren’t just sadness. They were tears of remembering, and hoping.
I found my voice in that moment. I shouted, too — not because I understood everything, but because it felt like a miracle. A people broken and scattered had come back. We had no king of our own. We were under foreign rule. But somehow, this stone, placed by my Abba’s hands — and mine — proved that we still had a promise. A brit — a covenant — that couldn’t be crushed.
Later that day, I sat alone and touched the edges of the stone we’d placed. It was smoother than the others. My father's carving. He’d made space on that stone for the names of his brothers — those taken or lost. He said we carry the past in every bit of the future we build.
Now I'm old, like those men who once wept. But whenever I see a child pick up a tool to build, to learn, to help — I remember that day. We rebuilt not just with stone, but with faith, courage, and the quiet miracle of beginning again.
You won’t find my name in any scroll. I was just a stonecutter’s son in Yerushalayim — that's what we call Jerusalem — during the days when the Second Temple was being rebuilt. But I remember the day it happened as clearly as I remember my father’s voice.
The sun had barely climbed above the hills when I followed Abba to the worksite. He handed me a chisel, his hands rough and white from powdered stone. “Today, we set the last foundation stone,” he said. “You’ll want to remember this your whole life.”
I didn’t understand why everyone looked so nervous. The king of Persia, Darius, had finally given us permission to rebuild — even promised protection! But not long before, men from the neighboring lands tried to stop the work. They said we were rebels. That we would turn against the king. Some workers had dropped their tools out of fear.
I’ll admit — even I felt a shadow in my chest when I thought of soldiers coming again. My father squeezed my shoulder. “This time, we build not with pride, but with humility. The first Temple was destroyed after we turned from the ways of the Torah. But the Lord has given us another chance.”
The elder priest stood up on a pile of stones and raised his voice. “This is the day we finish the foundation. As Ezra the scribe reminded us,” he said, pointing to the scroll in his hand, “the words of the prophets — like Zecharyah and Chaggai — told us not to fear. The Lord is with us.”
As we placed the final foundation stone, a great shout rose from the people. Some shouted with joy. Others — the very old ones — wept. They had seen the First Beit HaMikdash — the holy Temple built by King Shlomo, or Solomon — before it was destroyed. Their tears weren’t just sadness. They were tears of remembering, and hoping.
I found my voice in that moment. I shouted, too — not because I understood everything, but because it felt like a miracle. A people broken and scattered had come back. We had no king of our own. We were under foreign rule. But somehow, this stone, placed by my Abba’s hands — and mine — proved that we still had a promise. A brit — a covenant — that couldn’t be crushed.
Later that day, I sat alone and touched the edges of the stone we’d placed. It was smoother than the others. My father's carving. He’d made space on that stone for the names of his brothers — those taken or lost. He said we carry the past in every bit of the future we build.
Now I'm old, like those men who once wept. But whenever I see a child pick up a tool to build, to learn, to help — I remember that day. We rebuilt not just with stone, but with faith, courage, and the quiet miracle of beginning again.
