My hands were shaking as I reached for my father’s cloak.
Not from cold. From fear.
I was just a boy, the youngest son of one of the men in the tribe of Eliyahu. You won’t find my name in the scrolls, and there’s no reason you would. My job was to carry water and light the lamps in Shiloh, where the Mishkan — the holy Tabernacle — stood. That was where the Ark of the Covenant rested. The Ark held the tablets of the Torah and golden keruvim — small winged figures — sat atop it. It was the holiest object our people had.
So when the soldiers marched into Shiloh that morning with torn tunics and dirt on their faces, everyone stopped. One of them, trembling and pale, shouted, “Israel has fallen before the Pelishtim!” The Pelishtim — you may know them as the Philistines — were our enemies.
Only days before, we had sent an army to fight them. We thought if we brought the Ark with us, we would win. But we didn't.
“The Ark," the soldier gasped. "The Ark of God has been taken…”
I don’t remember dropping the water jar, but I heard the clay shatter on the stone floor.
Someone screamed.
Eli, the kohen gadol — the High Priest — had been sitting just outside the courtyard. He was old and blind, but we all respected him. When he heard the cry, he asked, “What is this noise?” But before anyone could answer, the soldier stumbled forward and told him everything:
His sons, Chofni and Pinchas, had died in battle. The army was defeated.
And the Ark of the Covenant — gone.
People say Eli fell backwards at that moment and died. And it was true. I ran to see. His head had struck the stones, and he was still.
It was like the breath had gone out of all of us.
That night, no lamps were lit. The air felt heavier, like the sky itself had lowered with grief. People said, “God has left us.” They wept in their homes, like the entire tribe was sitting shiva — the mourning period after death.
But one thing stayed in my mind: why had this happened?
I was too young then to understand everything, but as I grew older, I heard what the elders whispered. That Chofni and Pinchas had disrespected the offerings. That we had become careless with holy things. That the Ark was not a lucky charm we could carry into battle, but a sign of God’s holiness — and it had to be treated that way.
I never saw the Ark again. It was gone for years.
But I lived long enough to hear stories of how the Ark caused trouble to the Pelishtim wherever they tried to keep it. Some say statues fell, people became sick, and after seven months, they begged to give it back. Our enemies wanted no part of it.
We had lost the Ark, but we had not lost our God.
And I learned something even more important.
We cannot make God do what we want.
But if we turn back to Him with honesty, He never turns away.
My hands were shaking as I reached for my father’s cloak.
Not from cold. From fear.
I was just a boy, the youngest son of one of the men in the tribe of Eliyahu. You won’t find my name in the scrolls, and there’s no reason you would. My job was to carry water and light the lamps in Shiloh, where the Mishkan — the holy Tabernacle — stood. That was where the Ark of the Covenant rested. The Ark held the tablets of the Torah and golden keruvim — small winged figures — sat atop it. It was the holiest object our people had.
So when the soldiers marched into Shiloh that morning with torn tunics and dirt on their faces, everyone stopped. One of them, trembling and pale, shouted, “Israel has fallen before the Pelishtim!” The Pelishtim — you may know them as the Philistines — were our enemies.
Only days before, we had sent an army to fight them. We thought if we brought the Ark with us, we would win. But we didn't.
“The Ark," the soldier gasped. "The Ark of God has been taken…”
I don’t remember dropping the water jar, but I heard the clay shatter on the stone floor.
Someone screamed.
Eli, the kohen gadol — the High Priest — had been sitting just outside the courtyard. He was old and blind, but we all respected him. When he heard the cry, he asked, “What is this noise?” But before anyone could answer, the soldier stumbled forward and told him everything:
His sons, Chofni and Pinchas, had died in battle. The army was defeated.
And the Ark of the Covenant — gone.
People say Eli fell backwards at that moment and died. And it was true. I ran to see. His head had struck the stones, and he was still.
It was like the breath had gone out of all of us.
That night, no lamps were lit. The air felt heavier, like the sky itself had lowered with grief. People said, “God has left us.” They wept in their homes, like the entire tribe was sitting shiva — the mourning period after death.
But one thing stayed in my mind: why had this happened?
I was too young then to understand everything, but as I grew older, I heard what the elders whispered. That Chofni and Pinchas had disrespected the offerings. That we had become careless with holy things. That the Ark was not a lucky charm we could carry into battle, but a sign of God’s holiness — and it had to be treated that way.
I never saw the Ark again. It was gone for years.
But I lived long enough to hear stories of how the Ark caused trouble to the Pelishtim wherever they tried to keep it. Some say statues fell, people became sick, and after seven months, they begged to give it back. Our enemies wanted no part of it.
We had lost the Ark, but we had not lost our God.
And I learned something even more important.
We cannot make God do what we want.
But if we turn back to Him with honesty, He never turns away.
