I was born among the hills of Ephraim, but I grew into a man during the conquest of the land. I served under Joshua—a man who never chased glory for himself but carried the weight of Moses’ mantle with honor. Most knew him as a warrior, but to me, he was more of a shepherd. And that final day, when he gathered us in Shechem, his voice didn’t ring with the commands of war. It rang with something deeper. Something that pierced me.
I was standing among the crowd, just another elder, clutching my staff, my heart already heavy. The years had stretched long since we crossed the Jordan River. I had fought beside Joshua in Jericho, Ai, Hazor—cities whose names now blur in my memory. I buried friends. I saw miracles. But now, the time of battle was ending. And the time of remembering had come.
Joshua stood before us, his frame bent from age, his hair white as desert sand. His eyes—still clear, like the sea at Kadesh—swept over each of us.
“Choose you this day whom you will serve,” he said. His voice didn’t shake. It never did. “But as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”
I remember a stillness falling over the people, like when the sun pauses at its highest point. I looked around and saw sons of slaves, now landowners. Women who once followed tents through the wilderness now dressed in dyed cloth from their own vineyards. We had arrived in the land promised to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—but had we brought our hearts with us?
Joshua reminded us. “Remember the Lord alone. Teach your children His words. Bind them on your hands. Place them as reminders between your eyes. Speak them when you sit at home, when you walk, when you lie down, when you rise.” He was quoting the words Moses taught us years before (Devarim 6:4–9), words that had carried us through wilderness and war.
But something about hearing them now—spoken by a man who had guided us so faithfully, and knowing these were his last—made them feel alive again.
Suddenly, the spears I had polished seemed dull. The land I had fought to protect felt empty, unless we filled it with God’s presence.
I whispered to myself, “The Lord is our God, the Lord is One.”
My son tugged at my robe. “Abba,” he said, “what did Joshua mean?”
I knelt beside him. I tied a leather strap around his wrist and said, “It means we don’t fight just for land—we live for God. And we must remember Him in all we do.”
That day, my heart changed. I had once believed that serving God meant winning battles and claiming land. But Joshua’s last words taught me—serving God means remembering. Teaching. Living faithfully, even when war is over.
And now, every morning when I wake, I say the Shema, the ancient prayer. Not out of habit. But because I was there—when Joshua called us one last time to remember.
I was born among the hills of Ephraim, but I grew into a man during the conquest of the land. I served under Joshua—a man who never chased glory for himself but carried the weight of Moses’ mantle with honor. Most knew him as a warrior, but to me, he was more of a shepherd. And that final day, when he gathered us in Shechem, his voice didn’t ring with the commands of war. It rang with something deeper. Something that pierced me.
I was standing among the crowd, just another elder, clutching my staff, my heart already heavy. The years had stretched long since we crossed the Jordan River. I had fought beside Joshua in Jericho, Ai, Hazor—cities whose names now blur in my memory. I buried friends. I saw miracles. But now, the time of battle was ending. And the time of remembering had come.
Joshua stood before us, his frame bent from age, his hair white as desert sand. His eyes—still clear, like the sea at Kadesh—swept over each of us.
“Choose you this day whom you will serve,” he said. His voice didn’t shake. It never did. “But as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”
I remember a stillness falling over the people, like when the sun pauses at its highest point. I looked around and saw sons of slaves, now landowners. Women who once followed tents through the wilderness now dressed in dyed cloth from their own vineyards. We had arrived in the land promised to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—but had we brought our hearts with us?
Joshua reminded us. “Remember the Lord alone. Teach your children His words. Bind them on your hands. Place them as reminders between your eyes. Speak them when you sit at home, when you walk, when you lie down, when you rise.” He was quoting the words Moses taught us years before (Devarim 6:4–9), words that had carried us through wilderness and war.
But something about hearing them now—spoken by a man who had guided us so faithfully, and knowing these were his last—made them feel alive again.
Suddenly, the spears I had polished seemed dull. The land I had fought to protect felt empty, unless we filled it with God’s presence.
I whispered to myself, “The Lord is our God, the Lord is One.”
My son tugged at my robe. “Abba,” he said, “what did Joshua mean?”
I knelt beside him. I tied a leather strap around his wrist and said, “It means we don’t fight just for land—we live for God. And we must remember Him in all we do.”
That day, my heart changed. I had once believed that serving God meant winning battles and claiming land. But Joshua’s last words taught me—serving God means remembering. Teaching. Living faithfully, even when war is over.
And now, every morning when I wake, I say the Shema, the ancient prayer. Not out of habit. But because I was there—when Joshua called us one last time to remember.
