The sweat on my brow was nothing compared to the ache in my heart as I watched Lady Hannah pray. I wasn’t supposed to be here, behind the curtain, peeking out at her, but I couldn’t help it. I had watched her come to the Mishkan—the holy Tabernacle in Shiloh—day after day, carrying the weight of something I couldn’t fully understand.
I wasn’t anyone important—just a servant girl, tasked with cleaning the sacred space and keeping the scrolls in order. But I had seen Lady Hannah’s pain long before I ever saw her pray.
She had no children, and the other women in the village never let her forget it. Peninah, Elkanah’s other wife, would often laugh in her face, mocking her for her barrenness. I could feel Lady Hannah’s pain every time I passed her in the halls. She never spoke of it, but you could see it in the way she held herself, in the way her eyes never quite looked up, like she was carrying the weight of a hundred broken dreams.
One day, everything changed. I watched her enter the Mishkan alone, her face pale and her eyes full of unshed tears. I had seen women pray before, but not like this. Lady Hannah wasn’t muttering prayers under her breath. She was silent, her lips moving with no sound, her body trembling with the force of her sorrow.
I had never seen anything like it.
The high priest, Eli, came over to her, and I saw the way he frowned, puzzled by what he thought was a woman drunk on grief. He scolded her, “How long will you be drunk? Put away your wine.”
Lady Hannah’s voice cracked with emotion as she answered him. “No, my master. I am a woman of sorrowful spirit. I have poured out my soul before the Lord.”
Eli paused. His gaze softened, and he quietly blessed her. “Go in peace,” he said. “May the God of Israel grant your petition.”
I didn’t understand at the time why her prayers were so different. But I would come to understand as I saw her life unfold.
Some months later, Lady Hannah returned. She held a little boy in her arms. His name was Shmuel—Samuel—and she told the priest, Eli, with tears in her eyes, “For this child I prayed, and the Lord granted my request.”
Her joy filled the room, but it was not a joy of relief alone. It was a joy of trust, of faith in something far greater than herself. She had promised the Lord that if He gave her a son, she would dedicate him to His service. And so, she kept her word. She brought Shmuel to live in the Mishkan, to serve the Lord.
But what I remember most, what changed me deeply, was the song she sang.
With her son in her arms, Lady Hannah stood before the altar, her voice strong yet trembling, and she sang: “My heart rejoices in the Lord, for He has filled my soul with strength.”
Her song was not just a song of thanksgiving. It was a song of faith. It was the faith of a woman who had been broken, who had faced mockery, and who had stood strong in the face of every challenge. It was a song of trust in the Lord’s goodness, even when the path seemed impossible.
I had always thought of prayer as a quiet act, a silent plea. But Lady Hannah taught me that prayer could be loud with hope, strong with faith.
That day, I whispered my own prayer: “God of Hannah, if You hear me, give me faith like hers.”
And in that moment, I felt something stir in my heart. It wasn’t an answer. Not yet. But it was a quiet peace, like the promise of something more.
Now, when I feel lost or unsure, I remember Lady Hannah’s song. I remember that faith is not just about what you receive, but about how you hold onto the hope of what could be.
And I believe, like she did, that God listens when we pour out our hearts.
The sweat on my brow was nothing compared to the ache in my heart as I watched Lady Hannah pray. I wasn’t supposed to be here, behind the curtain, peeking out at her, but I couldn’t help it. I had watched her come to the Mishkan—the holy Tabernacle in Shiloh—day after day, carrying the weight of something I couldn’t fully understand.
I wasn’t anyone important—just a servant girl, tasked with cleaning the sacred space and keeping the scrolls in order. But I had seen Lady Hannah’s pain long before I ever saw her pray.
She had no children, and the other women in the village never let her forget it. Peninah, Elkanah’s other wife, would often laugh in her face, mocking her for her barrenness. I could feel Lady Hannah’s pain every time I passed her in the halls. She never spoke of it, but you could see it in the way she held herself, in the way her eyes never quite looked up, like she was carrying the weight of a hundred broken dreams.
One day, everything changed. I watched her enter the Mishkan alone, her face pale and her eyes full of unshed tears. I had seen women pray before, but not like this. Lady Hannah wasn’t muttering prayers under her breath. She was silent, her lips moving with no sound, her body trembling with the force of her sorrow.
I had never seen anything like it.
The high priest, Eli, came over to her, and I saw the way he frowned, puzzled by what he thought was a woman drunk on grief. He scolded her, “How long will you be drunk? Put away your wine.”
Lady Hannah’s voice cracked with emotion as she answered him. “No, my master. I am a woman of sorrowful spirit. I have poured out my soul before the Lord.”
Eli paused. His gaze softened, and he quietly blessed her. “Go in peace,” he said. “May the God of Israel grant your petition.”
I didn’t understand at the time why her prayers were so different. But I would come to understand as I saw her life unfold.
Some months later, Lady Hannah returned. She held a little boy in her arms. His name was Shmuel—Samuel—and she told the priest, Eli, with tears in her eyes, “For this child I prayed, and the Lord granted my request.”
Her joy filled the room, but it was not a joy of relief alone. It was a joy of trust, of faith in something far greater than herself. She had promised the Lord that if He gave her a son, she would dedicate him to His service. And so, she kept her word. She brought Shmuel to live in the Mishkan, to serve the Lord.
But what I remember most, what changed me deeply, was the song she sang.
With her son in her arms, Lady Hannah stood before the altar, her voice strong yet trembling, and she sang: “My heart rejoices in the Lord, for He has filled my soul with strength.”
Her song was not just a song of thanksgiving. It was a song of faith. It was the faith of a woman who had been broken, who had faced mockery, and who had stood strong in the face of every challenge. It was a song of trust in the Lord’s goodness, even when the path seemed impossible.
I had always thought of prayer as a quiet act, a silent plea. But Lady Hannah taught me that prayer could be loud with hope, strong with faith.
That day, I whispered my own prayer: “God of Hannah, if You hear me, give me faith like hers.”
And in that moment, I felt something stir in my heart. It wasn’t an answer. Not yet. But it was a quiet peace, like the promise of something more.
Now, when I feel lost or unsure, I remember Lady Hannah’s song. I remember that faith is not just about what you receive, but about how you hold onto the hope of what could be.
And I believe, like she did, that God listens when we pour out our hearts.
