I served in the palace during the reign of King Daryavesh—some call him Darius—when the decree went out that no one could pray to any god except the king for thirty days. I remember when the guards brought Daniel in. His face was calm, even as the crowd whispered that he had defied the law.
I was just an apprentice servant, forgotten in most rooms—something that often let me hear what others didn’t notice I was hearing. I’d seen Daniel walk past me many times, always kind, always quiet, always praying. Nothing fancy. He just bowed his head toward Yerushalayim—Jerusalem—and spoke to Hashem, the name we use to speak of God with reverence.
The night they threw him into the lions' den, I couldn't sleep. I kept picturing the snarling beasts, their rough claws and hungry eyes. Why wouldn’t he just stop praying for a few days? Was it really so dangerous to wait a little?
But the next morning, I saw something I’ll never forget.
The king had barely slept either. He rushed to the den before the sun was up. I followed, staying back behind the torches. His voice shook when he called into the pit. “Daniel, servant of the living God! Was your God able to rescue you from the lions?”
My heart pounded. Why would the king even ask, unless...?
Then a voice came up from the darkness. “My God sent His malach—the Hebrew word for angel—and shut the lions’ mouths.”
I stepped forward until I could see into the den. Daniel was standing. Standing! Not a scratch on him. The lions—real ones, massive and powerful—sat around him like sleepy housecats. One was curled up with its mane resting by Daniel’s feet.
The others gasped. The king ordered ropes, and the guards pulled Daniel out. He didn’t limp. He didn’t shake. His eyes met the king’s, filled with peace.
I later asked him, when I was brave enough to speak, “Weren’t you afraid?”
He smiled gently, like he knew something I didn’t yet. “Yes,” he said. “But I surrendered my fear to Hashem. My life belongs to Him—not to kings, not to lions, not even to myself.”
That answer changed me. Not all at once, but deeply. I began to ask myself the questions Daniel had already answered: Who do I serve? Where is my identity really held? I thought being safe meant following the rules, doing what people expected. But Daniel showed me something else: real safety, real transformation, comes from surrendering to Hashem. Even in a den.
Years passed, but I never forgot the night the lions bowed to a man who bowed only to God.
I served in the palace during the reign of King Daryavesh—some call him Darius—when the decree went out that no one could pray to any god except the king for thirty days. I remember when the guards brought Daniel in. His face was calm, even as the crowd whispered that he had defied the law.
I was just an apprentice servant, forgotten in most rooms—something that often let me hear what others didn’t notice I was hearing. I’d seen Daniel walk past me many times, always kind, always quiet, always praying. Nothing fancy. He just bowed his head toward Yerushalayim—Jerusalem—and spoke to Hashem, the name we use to speak of God with reverence.
The night they threw him into the lions' den, I couldn't sleep. I kept picturing the snarling beasts, their rough claws and hungry eyes. Why wouldn’t he just stop praying for a few days? Was it really so dangerous to wait a little?
But the next morning, I saw something I’ll never forget.
The king had barely slept either. He rushed to the den before the sun was up. I followed, staying back behind the torches. His voice shook when he called into the pit. “Daniel, servant of the living God! Was your God able to rescue you from the lions?”
My heart pounded. Why would the king even ask, unless...?
Then a voice came up from the darkness. “My God sent His malach—the Hebrew word for angel—and shut the lions’ mouths.”
I stepped forward until I could see into the den. Daniel was standing. Standing! Not a scratch on him. The lions—real ones, massive and powerful—sat around him like sleepy housecats. One was curled up with its mane resting by Daniel’s feet.
The others gasped. The king ordered ropes, and the guards pulled Daniel out. He didn’t limp. He didn’t shake. His eyes met the king’s, filled with peace.
I later asked him, when I was brave enough to speak, “Weren’t you afraid?”
He smiled gently, like he knew something I didn’t yet. “Yes,” he said. “But I surrendered my fear to Hashem. My life belongs to Him—not to kings, not to lions, not even to myself.”
That answer changed me. Not all at once, but deeply. I began to ask myself the questions Daniel had already answered: Who do I serve? Where is my identity really held? I thought being safe meant following the rules, doing what people expected. But Daniel showed me something else: real safety, real transformation, comes from surrendering to Hashem. Even in a den.
Years passed, but I never forgot the night the lions bowed to a man who bowed only to God.
