I wasn’t a soldier. I was just a water-carrier — the youngest in my family and too small to lift a sword. But I lived in the days of Yehoshua—Joshua, who led us after Moshe. My job was simple: carry water jars from the stream back to the camp. I didn’t expect to be near anything important. But that all changed when we reached the walls of Yericho—Jericho.
The city was huge. Its walls looked like mountains of stone. I heard grown men mumble, “Not even giants could tear those down.” Others whispered about rams and ladders and fire. But General Yehoshua didn’t talk of weapons. He spoke of Hashem—the name we use to speak of God with respect—and said we would do what we were told. We would walk.
“Walk?” I had said out loud without meaning to. One of the guards gave me a sharp look, but I couldn’t help it. Was that really the plan? March around a wall with the army and the Kohanim—the priests—carrying the Aron, the Ark of the Covenant? And stay silent?
But that’s exactly what we did. Yehoshua gave the order, and we went. I shuffled behind one of the Leviyim—the Levites—who blew a shofar, a ram’s horn, though no sound came from our lips. I didn’t know why, but I obeyed. So did thousands of others.
Every day for six days, we did the same thing. Morning after morning, without a word, we circled the city once and returned to camp. And each day, the people of Yericho leaned over the walls, laughing, pointing, throwing things. “Cowards!” they shouted once. I saw one of our younger soldiers clench his fist. But he said nothing. Obedience slowly became strength.
On the seventh day, I noticed something was different. Everyone woke up earlier. Instead of one lap, we went around the city seven times. My legs ached. My skin burned under the sun. I almost stumbled carrying my jar. But still I walked. Still we were silent.
Then, when we finished the seventh circle, Yehoshua lifted his hand. “Now,” he commanded, “shout! For Hashem has given you the city!”
Suddenly, our silence exploded into sound. The shofars blasted. The people screamed. I opened my mouth and shouted with all my strength. And then—I still remember the earth shaking beneath my feet—the mighty walls cracked. They crumbled like dried bread. Dust filled the air. Yericho fell before us. Not by swords. Not by fire. But by faith.
I dropped to my knees. I didn’t care if I was just a water-carrier. I had seen something that I would never forget: obedience was stronger than strength, and blessing came when we trusted Hashem even when His ways didn’t make sense.
That day, I learned that a faithful heart can do what even iron weapons cannot.
I wasn’t a soldier. I was just a water-carrier — the youngest in my family and too small to lift a sword. But I lived in the days of Yehoshua—Joshua, who led us after Moshe. My job was simple: carry water jars from the stream back to the camp. I didn’t expect to be near anything important. But that all changed when we reached the walls of Yericho—Jericho.
The city was huge. Its walls looked like mountains of stone. I heard grown men mumble, “Not even giants could tear those down.” Others whispered about rams and ladders and fire. But General Yehoshua didn’t talk of weapons. He spoke of Hashem—the name we use to speak of God with respect—and said we would do what we were told. We would walk.
“Walk?” I had said out loud without meaning to. One of the guards gave me a sharp look, but I couldn’t help it. Was that really the plan? March around a wall with the army and the Kohanim—the priests—carrying the Aron, the Ark of the Covenant? And stay silent?
But that’s exactly what we did. Yehoshua gave the order, and we went. I shuffled behind one of the Leviyim—the Levites—who blew a shofar, a ram’s horn, though no sound came from our lips. I didn’t know why, but I obeyed. So did thousands of others.
Every day for six days, we did the same thing. Morning after morning, without a word, we circled the city once and returned to camp. And each day, the people of Yericho leaned over the walls, laughing, pointing, throwing things. “Cowards!” they shouted once. I saw one of our younger soldiers clench his fist. But he said nothing. Obedience slowly became strength.
On the seventh day, I noticed something was different. Everyone woke up earlier. Instead of one lap, we went around the city seven times. My legs ached. My skin burned under the sun. I almost stumbled carrying my jar. But still I walked. Still we were silent.
Then, when we finished the seventh circle, Yehoshua lifted his hand. “Now,” he commanded, “shout! For Hashem has given you the city!”
Suddenly, our silence exploded into sound. The shofars blasted. The people screamed. I opened my mouth and shouted with all my strength. And then—I still remember the earth shaking beneath my feet—the mighty walls cracked. They crumbled like dried bread. Dust filled the air. Yericho fell before us. Not by swords. Not by fire. But by faith.
I dropped to my knees. I didn’t care if I was just a water-carrier. I had seen something that I would never forget: obedience was stronger than strength, and blessing came when we trusted Hashem even when His ways didn’t make sense.
That day, I learned that a faithful heart can do what even iron weapons cannot.
