My hands still ached from the olive-press when they came for me. I didn’t expect visitors out here, far from Beit Lechem—the Bethlehem you might know. I was just a shepherd, and shepherds don’t usually get called by the prophet of Israel.
You won’t find my name in any scrolls. I was just one of the servants in Yishai’s house. Yishai, or Jesse, the father of many strong sons. I helped him with chores around the village, but most days, I was out near the pastures, bringing food or gathering tools. That day, they sent me after the youngest son. “Bring David,” they told me. “The prophet Shmuel won’t sit down until he sees him.”
David? The youngest? The boy who always stayed with the sheep? What could someone like Shmuel—the great prophet of our generation—want with him?
Still, I ran.
I found David exactly where I expected—his slingshot hanging at his side, gently petting one of the lambs. His hair was wild, blowing in the wind, and he was singing softly, like he always did—words I didn’t understand, but they sounded like praise.
“David,” I said, catching my breath. “Come. Now. They’re waiting for you. Shmuel won’t sit until you arrive.”
He looked at me, surprised. “He wants me?”
I nodded.
We walked back together, my heart racing the whole way. David didn’t say much, but I could see his eyes searching the sky, as if wondering what the Lord had in store for him.
When we reached the house, everyone turned. I’ll never forget the silence. All of his older brothers—tall and fierce, their hands rough with work—stood back. And there was Shmuel—Samuel, the prophet who had once anointed King Shaul, or Saul. His eyes met David’s, and I saw something pass between them. It wasn’t just recognition—it was something deeper.
Without a word, Shmuel reached into his flask of oil. He didn’t ask permission. He stepped forward and poured it over David’s head. The scent of fresh olives filled the room.
“The Lord has chosen you,” he said softly.
I gasped. So did David’s brothers.
But no one spoke. No one dared.
And then, something changed. I can’t explain it, but even I felt it. A stillness filled the room, and it wasn’t just oil on David’s forehead. It was something holy. After that, Shmuel left without another word. He’d done what God had commanded him.
That night, David didn’t return to the fields.
And I... I watched him sit in the corner, turning the words of a new song over in his mouth. There was awe in his face. Not pride. Just awe.
I was there when a boy became something more.
Not yet a king—not with a throne or crown. But chosen. Anointed for his heart, not his strength.
And I learned that day: when God looks for greatness, He looks where others don’t.
My hands still ached from the olive-press when they came for me. I didn’t expect visitors out here, far from Beit Lechem—the Bethlehem you might know. I was just a shepherd, and shepherds don’t usually get called by the prophet of Israel.
You won’t find my name in any scrolls. I was just one of the servants in Yishai’s house. Yishai, or Jesse, the father of many strong sons. I helped him with chores around the village, but most days, I was out near the pastures, bringing food or gathering tools. That day, they sent me after the youngest son. “Bring David,” they told me. “The prophet Shmuel won’t sit down until he sees him.”
David? The youngest? The boy who always stayed with the sheep? What could someone like Shmuel—the great prophet of our generation—want with him?
Still, I ran.
I found David exactly where I expected—his slingshot hanging at his side, gently petting one of the lambs. His hair was wild, blowing in the wind, and he was singing softly, like he always did—words I didn’t understand, but they sounded like praise.
“David,” I said, catching my breath. “Come. Now. They’re waiting for you. Shmuel won’t sit until you arrive.”
He looked at me, surprised. “He wants me?”
I nodded.
We walked back together, my heart racing the whole way. David didn’t say much, but I could see his eyes searching the sky, as if wondering what the Lord had in store for him.
When we reached the house, everyone turned. I’ll never forget the silence. All of his older brothers—tall and fierce, their hands rough with work—stood back. And there was Shmuel—Samuel, the prophet who had once anointed King Shaul, or Saul. His eyes met David’s, and I saw something pass between them. It wasn’t just recognition—it was something deeper.
Without a word, Shmuel reached into his flask of oil. He didn’t ask permission. He stepped forward and poured it over David’s head. The scent of fresh olives filled the room.
“The Lord has chosen you,” he said softly.
I gasped. So did David’s brothers.
But no one spoke. No one dared.
And then, something changed. I can’t explain it, but even I felt it. A stillness filled the room, and it wasn’t just oil on David’s forehead. It was something holy. After that, Shmuel left without another word. He’d done what God had commanded him.
That night, David didn’t return to the fields.
And I... I watched him sit in the corner, turning the words of a new song over in his mouth. There was awe in his face. Not pride. Just awe.
I was there when a boy became something more.
Not yet a king—not with a throne or crown. But chosen. Anointed for his heart, not his strength.
And I learned that day: when God looks for greatness, He looks where others don’t.
