They laughed when I stopped trimming my beard.
At first, it was just small comments—“Why do you look like a wild goat, Gavriel?” or “You’ve got vineyard curls, but no wine barrel!” Then came louder mocking, even from boys I used to call friends. I heard whispers behind me in the marketplace and caught merchants glancing at the long, tangled hair I had once kept neat. But I didn’t answer their teasing. I knew they wouldn’t understand.
You won’t find my name in the scrolls. I was just a shepherd’s son from a village near Shiloh, in the time when the judges ruled Israel. But for thirty days, I became something more—something different.
I took the vow of a Nazir.
Have you heard of a Nazir? In the Torah, in the Book of Bamidbar—called Numbers in other tongues—it tells us about men and women who wanted to get closer to God. A Nazir would promise not to cut his hair, drink wine or anything from grapes, and stay away from death—even the funerals of loved ones. It was a vow of holiness, of discipline.
But I didn’t take the vow because I thought I was already holy. I took it because I wasn’t.
It happened after I lost my temper. My little brother broke the water jar while I was preparing supplies for the flock. We had one good jar. I yelled so loud even the goats ran. Later, I saw my brother crying, hiding behind the fig tree, and I felt something burn inside me—not anger, but shame. I had scared someone I loved.
That night, I sat under the stars and watched the sheep sleeping in peace. I prayed quietly. “Lord, I am not who I want to be. Help me return.”
The next morning, I spoke to the village elder and told him I wanted to become a Nazir. Thirty days. No wine. No hair cutting. No contact with death. He nodded solemnly.
Living as a Nazir wasn’t easy. I walked past grapevines without tasting one fat purple fruit. I missed weddings because I couldn't be near wine. My head itched, and I began to smell like dust and olive bark. But I stayed true. Every single day, I woke and said in my heart, “Today I belong to God.”
Then the morning came. Day thirty. I traveled to the Mishkan—the Holy Dwelling-place in Shiloh. There, I brought the offerings that marked the end of the vow: a burnt offering, a sin offering (because even a Nazir could have impure thoughts), and a peace offering. Then, in front of the priest, I shaved all the hair from my head. Every curl that had grown while I fought to be better—I burned it on the altar as the Torah said.
As the smell of fire and hair rose, I felt something deep within me: not pride, but peace. I wasn’t perfect. But I had tried—really tried—to become holy, even for just a little while.
And I believe God saw me.
They laughed when I stopped trimming my beard.
At first, it was just small comments—“Why do you look like a wild goat, Gavriel?” or “You’ve got vineyard curls, but no wine barrel!” Then came louder mocking, even from boys I used to call friends. I heard whispers behind me in the marketplace and caught merchants glancing at the long, tangled hair I had once kept neat. But I didn’t answer their teasing. I knew they wouldn’t understand.
You won’t find my name in the scrolls. I was just a shepherd’s son from a village near Shiloh, in the time when the judges ruled Israel. But for thirty days, I became something more—something different.
I took the vow of a Nazir.
Have you heard of a Nazir? In the Torah, in the Book of Bamidbar—called Numbers in other tongues—it tells us about men and women who wanted to get closer to God. A Nazir would promise not to cut his hair, drink wine or anything from grapes, and stay away from death—even the funerals of loved ones. It was a vow of holiness, of discipline.
But I didn’t take the vow because I thought I was already holy. I took it because I wasn’t.
It happened after I lost my temper. My little brother broke the water jar while I was preparing supplies for the flock. We had one good jar. I yelled so loud even the goats ran. Later, I saw my brother crying, hiding behind the fig tree, and I felt something burn inside me—not anger, but shame. I had scared someone I loved.
That night, I sat under the stars and watched the sheep sleeping in peace. I prayed quietly. “Lord, I am not who I want to be. Help me return.”
The next morning, I spoke to the village elder and told him I wanted to become a Nazir. Thirty days. No wine. No hair cutting. No contact with death. He nodded solemnly.
Living as a Nazir wasn’t easy. I walked past grapevines without tasting one fat purple fruit. I missed weddings because I couldn't be near wine. My head itched, and I began to smell like dust and olive bark. But I stayed true. Every single day, I woke and said in my heart, “Today I belong to God.”
Then the morning came. Day thirty. I traveled to the Mishkan—the Holy Dwelling-place in Shiloh. There, I brought the offerings that marked the end of the vow: a burnt offering, a sin offering (because even a Nazir could have impure thoughts), and a peace offering. Then, in front of the priest, I shaved all the hair from my head. Every curl that had grown while I fought to be better—I burned it on the altar as the Torah said.
As the smell of fire and hair rose, I felt something deep within me: not pride, but peace. I wasn’t perfect. But I had tried—really tried—to become holy, even for just a little while.
And I believe God saw me.
