Chapter One: The Barren Woman's Cry
All my life, I have carried the silence of an empty womb as another would carry a scar. It was not for lack of love, nor for lack of trying. My husband Manoah was a righteous man, gentle of heart and steadfast in faith. Together we served the Lord as best we knew how, but our home remained quiet—no child's laughter, no small feet running in the courtyard, no voice to call me "Mother."
In those days, every barren woman lived under a shadow. Women in my village whispered when they saw me pass. They did not mean to wound, yet their pity was heavier than stones. On festival days, when other women lifted their children to offer first fruits, I stood apart, empty-handed. I wept in private, praying that the Lord might look upon me with mercy. But the heavens remained closed, and year after year my tears fell into the dust.
Then came the day when everything changed. It was just after dawn. I had gone to the field to gather herbs and wheat, when suddenly—I felt the air shift. It grew still, almost trembling. And there before me stood a man, though I knew at once he was not like other men. His face shone with a brightness that made my heart quake, yet his eyes were kind. He greeted me by name, though I had not told him who I was.
"Behold," he said, "you are barren and have borne no child. But you shall conceive and bear a son."
The words struck me like thunder and honey at once. My breath caught; my hands trembled. I dared not speak. He continued, warning me to drink no wine or strong drink and to eat nothing unclean, for the child would be a Nazarite from his birth—set apart unto God. His hair was never to be cut, for it would be the sign of his consecration. And then—just as sudden as he came—he was gone. The light faded, and I was alone again with the wind and my astonishment.
I ran home to Manoah, my heart pounding. He listened as I poured out the words, though he could see my hands still trembling. His eyes narrowed with both hope and fear. He prayed that the Man of God might return, that he too could see Him and hear His words directly. Manoah's faith was great—but he was also cautious. Many deceivers had walked the land in those days.
Days later, the angel returned—this time while Manoah was with me. We offered a young goat upon a rock, and as the flames rose, the messenger of the Lord ascended into the fire before our eyes. We fell to our faces in awe, for we knew we had seen a heavenly being. And then—it was true. My womb, once silent as a tomb, began to stir with life. I cannot describe the reverence and fear that overcame me as I carried that child. Every kick within me was a reminder of the covenant we bore. I ate carefully, drank water from the well with prayer, and spoke softly to the life within me. When he was born, his cry rang through the night like a trumpet.
We named him Samson—"like the sun," for he had come into our world after years of darkness. At first, Samson was a quiet child, thoughtful even in his play. Yet from an early age, a strange strength lived within him. As a toddler, he lifted objects too heavy for boys twice his size. By the time he could walk, he could carry a jar of water that made my arms ache. Neighbors whispered that he was possessed or touched by God. Both, perhaps, were true in their own way.
The other children teased him for his uncut hair, which even then fell in thick, wild curls. I told him it was a crown from God, but the boys in our village mocked him, tugging it and calling him names. More than once, Samson came home with blood on his knuckles and dust on his face.
At first, I scolded him gently. But the more I watched, the more I saw that he never sought to hurt others—only to defend himself. And yet, when anger seized him, no one could control it, not even Manoah. Twice we found broken tools, cracked walls, and frightened neighbors who swore they saw our son lift a man like a bundle of straw. How does a mother raise such a child? How does one teach gentleness to strength, and humility to one destined for might? Manoah and I tried. We prayed daily, offering sacrifices and keeping the Nazarite vows for him until he was grown.
Sometimes, in the quiet evenings, I would hum tunes as I brushed his untamed hair. He would rest his head on my lap, and for a moment, he was only my son—not God's weapon, not the deliverer of Israel, but my child. And yet, even as he grew into manhood, the shadow of his calling lay across us. He was restless, eyes ever turning toward the foreign lands and the Philistines who oppressed us. I feared for him, though I dared not say it aloud. The same God who had opened my womb had claimed my child for purposes far greater—and more terrible—than I could bear.
When I looked upon Samson, I saw both miracle and mystery. I had prayed for a son, and the Lord gave me one, but He did not give me peace. The strength that set Samson apart also set him at odds with the world—and even with his own heart. Sometimes I would return to the field where the angel first appeared. I would kneel and whisper, "Lord, I have kept Your command. I have raised the child as You said. But what shall become of him?"
There was never an answer, only the wind sweeping through the wheat, like a sigh too old and deep for words.