They called me a gravedigger, but I was more than that.
After the Babylonian army destroyed Jerusalem—the holy city where we once brought offerings to God—and tore down the Temple, they dragged many of us into exile. I ended up in the valley near Tel Aviv—not the modern city, but a place near the Kebar River in Babylon—where the exiles gathered. There, I was tasked with burying the bodies from one of Nebuchadnezzar’s—he was the Babylonian king—massacres.
The air was always thick with dust and silence, except for the wind blowing over dry bones. Bones of men who once prayed as I did. Fathers, brothers, neighbors. At first, I tried to pray while I worked, but after a while, the silence won. Hope vanished, and I moved through the valley like a shadow.
One evening, I saw him—Ezekiel, the prophet God had sent with us into exile. He wasn’t like the others. While most had sunken into sorrow or anger, Ezekiel carried something inside him—something that hadn’t died with the Temple.
I watched him walk into the valley, alone. I froze when he stopped near the oldest bones, the ones I had buried years ago. Then he lifted his face, and I heard his voice cry out, though no one else was around. “O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord!”
I stared from behind a cluster of stones. Was he praying? Preaching… to skeletons?
“God says He will bring breath into you, and you shall live!”
At first I thought he had gone mad from grief. But then… I heard it. A rattling. The bones began to shift. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, thinking I was hallucinating. But no… bone came to bone, joining together. Then came sinews, and flesh, and skin. Bodies—whole bodies—lay around him.
But they didn’t breathe.
Still standing firm, Ezekiel cried out again. “Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe into these slain, so they may live!”
That’s when it happened. The valley filled with wind—not of sand, but spirit. And they rose. The lifeless began to stand, like an army of the living, born again.
I fell to my knees. Tears streamed down my face, the kind I hadn’t shed in years. I wasn’t looking at soldiers or skeletons anymore. I was looking at hope. I understood then—this wasn’t about the dead rising. It was about us. Our broken nation. Our broken hearts.
God had not abandoned us.
I approached Ezekiel after the vision ended, my hands trembling. I asked him—quietly, ashamed—“Will we live again too?” He nodded.
“This is what God says,” he replied gently. “I will open your graves, and I will bring you back to the Land of Israel.”
That night, I walked back through the valley no longer as a gravedigger, but as a witness. A witness to hope, to promise, to life breathed back into what we thought was beyond saving.
We may be in exile, but our story isn’t over.
God will raise us too.
They called me a gravedigger, but I was more than that.
After the Babylonian army destroyed Jerusalem—the holy city where we once brought offerings to God—and tore down the Temple, they dragged many of us into exile. I ended up in the valley near Tel Aviv—not the modern city, but a place near the Kebar River in Babylon—where the exiles gathered. There, I was tasked with burying the bodies from one of Nebuchadnezzar’s—he was the Babylonian king—massacres.
The air was always thick with dust and silence, except for the wind blowing over dry bones. Bones of men who once prayed as I did. Fathers, brothers, neighbors. At first, I tried to pray while I worked, but after a while, the silence won. Hope vanished, and I moved through the valley like a shadow.
One evening, I saw him—Ezekiel, the prophet God had sent with us into exile. He wasn’t like the others. While most had sunken into sorrow or anger, Ezekiel carried something inside him—something that hadn’t died with the Temple.
I watched him walk into the valley, alone. I froze when he stopped near the oldest bones, the ones I had buried years ago. Then he lifted his face, and I heard his voice cry out, though no one else was around. “O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord!”
I stared from behind a cluster of stones. Was he praying? Preaching… to skeletons?
“God says He will bring breath into you, and you shall live!”
At first I thought he had gone mad from grief. But then… I heard it. A rattling. The bones began to shift. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, thinking I was hallucinating. But no… bone came to bone, joining together. Then came sinews, and flesh, and skin. Bodies—whole bodies—lay around him.
But they didn’t breathe.
Still standing firm, Ezekiel cried out again. “Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe into these slain, so they may live!”
That’s when it happened. The valley filled with wind—not of sand, but spirit. And they rose. The lifeless began to stand, like an army of the living, born again.
I fell to my knees. Tears streamed down my face, the kind I hadn’t shed in years. I wasn’t looking at soldiers or skeletons anymore. I was looking at hope. I understood then—this wasn’t about the dead rising. It was about us. Our broken nation. Our broken hearts.
God had not abandoned us.
I approached Ezekiel after the vision ended, my hands trembling. I asked him—quietly, ashamed—“Will we live again too?” He nodded.
“This is what God says,” he replied gently. “I will open your graves, and I will bring you back to the Land of Israel.”
That night, I walked back through the valley no longer as a gravedigger, but as a witness. A witness to hope, to promise, to life breathed back into what we thought was beyond saving.
We may be in exile, but our story isn’t over.
God will raise us too.
