It began with a whisper from my own heart—one I could no longer ignore.
I am Meira, daughter of Avraham, from the tribe of Dan. My name never made it into the great scrolls, but for a season, my life was set apart. I was a Nazir—a woman who took the sacred vow described in the teachings of Moses in the wilderness. You may think this calling was only for men, but the Torah, in Numbers 6, shows clearly that a woman, too, could choose it. I did.
I took the vow after my brother Elazar died suddenly of a fever. He was only sixteen. He had such dreams—he would recite psalms at twilight and ask endless questions about God. His hunger for holiness sparked something deep in me. But when he was gone, that flame, oddly, didn’t dim. It turned inward, consuming me with a yearning to draw closer to the One he loved.
I approached the elders and told them I would become a Nazir. They looked surprised, and one even asked, “Are you certain, my child?” I nodded; my voice didn’t shake. For the next thirty days, I would live in a way set apart: no wine or grapes, no cutting my hair, and no contact with the dead—not even to mourn again.
Do you know what it’s like to walk through the camp and smell the sweet wine from feasting fires and turn away, again and again? To feel the wind tug at long hair, unadorned, unstyled, but carried proudly like a banner of obedience? To hear others speak of their grief and remain silent with your own so raw?
It was hard. So much harder than I imagined.
But in the silence, I began to hear things differently. Without the wine, I didn’t dull the ache—I brought it before God as an offering. Without trimming my hair, I saw every strand as a record of days I had chosen Him above all. Without distractions, my prayers came clearer. Not louder. Just truer.
On the day I completed my vow, I came to the entrance of the Tent of Meeting. I brought my offerings—the lambs, the grain, the drink offerings—and then the moment came when the priest cut my hair. Every lock I had grown during those sacred days fell to the flames on the altar.
I wept.
Not because I mourned the end, but because holiness had once felt distant—a thing for prophets and priests. In those thirty days, I learned it could sit within a heart like mine. I was not always perfect in those days. There were moments I longed for the comfort of the old ways. But the vow shaped me. Not just in what I didn’t do—but in who I was becoming.
And though the days of my Nazir vow passed, the lessons remained.
To be holy is not to separate oneself from life, but to walk through it with restraint, intention, and a soul tied to Him.
That vow left me with no wine, no blade, and no regret.
It began with a whisper from my own heart—one I could no longer ignore.
I am Meira, daughter of Avraham, from the tribe of Dan. My name never made it into the great scrolls, but for a season, my life was set apart. I was a Nazir—a woman who took the sacred vow described in the teachings of Moses in the wilderness. You may think this calling was only for men, but the Torah, in Numbers 6, shows clearly that a woman, too, could choose it. I did.
I took the vow after my brother Elazar died suddenly of a fever. He was only sixteen. He had such dreams—he would recite psalms at twilight and ask endless questions about God. His hunger for holiness sparked something deep in me. But when he was gone, that flame, oddly, didn’t dim. It turned inward, consuming me with a yearning to draw closer to the One he loved.
I approached the elders and told them I would become a Nazir. They looked surprised, and one even asked, “Are you certain, my child?” I nodded; my voice didn’t shake. For the next thirty days, I would live in a way set apart: no wine or grapes, no cutting my hair, and no contact with the dead—not even to mourn again.
Do you know what it’s like to walk through the camp and smell the sweet wine from feasting fires and turn away, again and again? To feel the wind tug at long hair, unadorned, unstyled, but carried proudly like a banner of obedience? To hear others speak of their grief and remain silent with your own so raw?
It was hard. So much harder than I imagined.
But in the silence, I began to hear things differently. Without the wine, I didn’t dull the ache—I brought it before God as an offering. Without trimming my hair, I saw every strand as a record of days I had chosen Him above all. Without distractions, my prayers came clearer. Not louder. Just truer.
On the day I completed my vow, I came to the entrance of the Tent of Meeting. I brought my offerings—the lambs, the grain, the drink offerings—and then the moment came when the priest cut my hair. Every lock I had grown during those sacred days fell to the flames on the altar.
I wept.
Not because I mourned the end, but because holiness had once felt distant—a thing for prophets and priests. In those thirty days, I learned it could sit within a heart like mine. I was not always perfect in those days. There were moments I longed for the comfort of the old ways. But the vow shaped me. Not just in what I didn’t do—but in who I was becoming.
And though the days of my Nazir vow passed, the lessons remained.
To be holy is not to separate oneself from life, but to walk through it with restraint, intention, and a soul tied to Him.
That vow left me with no wine, no blade, and no regret.
