Chapter One: The Stranger Among the Chosen
I was not born among the tribes of Israel. My father's tents rested far south of Jerusalem, and our gods were many — lifeless stones that glittered in the sun but neither heard nor spoke. My earliest prayers were whispered to the wind, my offerings consumed by fire that never answered. I was a young woman searching for meaning, but every altar I approached left me emptier than before.
When my father sent me north to Judah as part of a peace offering between lands, I did not yet know that my journey would lead me not just to a foreign court, but to the living God Himself. The streets of Jerusalem were narrow and uneven, yet there was something stirring about their dust — a sacredness that clung to stone and air alike. I heard hymns rise from the temple courtyards, though I understood none of the words. Still, my heart stirred as if my soul recognized someone I had long forgotten.
Among those who welcomed me to the city was a woman named Huldah — a prophetess, a woman of calm eyes and unwavering voice. She lived near the Second Quarter, her house smelling of oil and ink, scrolls stacked high like towers of wisdom. Rumor said the Spirit of the God of Israel spoke through her. When I visited her home one evening, timid and uncertain of my purpose, she received me as one known.
"You are not from here," she said with a smile, offering me bread. "Yet the Lord has brought you for His reason."
I remember looking at her — the confidence in her tone both unnerving and comforting.
"Your God," I asked softly, "He listens to women as well?"
Her laughter was gentle. "He listens to all who seek Him truly."
That night, under her roof, I heard the name of Yahweh for the first time. She told me stories of Abraham, of Moses, of a covenant between heaven and earth unlike any god I had ever known. My heart burned as she spoke, though I could not explain why. It was as if something ancient and holy stirred within me — a long-forgotten melody revived in the hearing. When I married Amon, son of Manasseh, I carried that secret flame inside me.
My husband was a man of restless temper and divided allegiance; it was said that his father had turned Jerusalem into a city of idols, and the old habits clung stubbornly to his household. Altars to pagan gods stood beside the sacred things of Israel, and Amon's heart favored the former. I spoke little — a foreign wife, careful not to offend, but each night I whispered prayers to the unseen God of my friend Huldah. I prayed that if I ever bore a son, he would not follow his father's path.
Thus when Josiah was born, I believed my prayer had been heard. He was small and frail when I first held him, his cry thin as a reed. But his eyes bright, and searching, made me feel as though heaven itself had lent him its fire. As he grew, I told him stories, not of my homeland, but of the Lord who made heaven and earth. I recited the tales as Huldah had taught me: how the Red Sea parted for the people of Israel, how manna fell from the sky, and how the walls of Jericho tumbled at the sound of trumpets.
"Why would anyone worship idols if such a God exists?" he once asked, his small brow furrowed.
"Because, my son," I told him, "Men love gods they can see — even if those gods cannot love them back."
I raised him on the words of the Law to the best of my knowledge. Though I was not born of Israel, I became its daughter through faith. I often took him to visit Huldah, who grew old but never weary of teaching. She spoke to him with kindness, sometimes laying her wrinkled hand upon his head and murmuring blessings.
"The Lord has placed His hand on this child," she would say. "See that you guard his heart well, Jedidah."
I tried. I truly did. When Josiah was eight, Amon was killed — betrayed by his own servants in the palace courtyard. I remember hearing the news like a thunderclap, my heart torn between grief and strange relief. For though Amon had been my husband, his path had grown dark. The idols that covered his chambers had multiplied more than ever before, and his temper turned cruel. In secret, I prayed that the Lord would have mercy on him; but heaven was silent. The crown passed to our son and so began the boy-king's reign — fragile, uncertain, surrounded by advisors far older and more cunning. I stood beside him as mother, counselor, and unseen guardian. Many whispered that a woman — and a foreign one at that — had no place in counsel. But I understood then what Huldah had meant: the Lord listens to all who seek Him truly. So, I became Josiah's first teacher and his fiercest protector. I taught him that the strength of a king lies not in his armies but in his obedience to God.
As he grew older, I noticed the hunger in him for righteousness. At sixteen, he began to destroy the idols his father and grandfather had raised. He tore down the altars on the high places; I watched from the palace window as the golden calf that once gleamed under the sun was smashed to dust. Josiah came to me that evening, his hands blackened with soot.
"Mother," he said quietly, "I feel as though I am at war with my own blood."
I touched his cheek.
"Then make war, my son — but fight with the strength of the Lord, not with hatred."
It was ten years not long after that he found the Book of the Law, a scroll long hidden in the temple ruins. When Shaphan the scribe read its words to him, my son tore his garments and wept. He sent for me, trembling.
"Mother," he said, "we have not kept the covenant of the Lord. Our fathers have forsaken Him."
In that moment, my heart returned to Huldah's words so many years before: 'The Lord has brought you for His reason.'
"Then seek His word again," I told him, remembering the woman who once gave light to my darkness. "Send men to the prophetess Huldah. She will tell you what the Lord requires."
They went, and she received them as she had once received me — with truth. Her message was stern but not without hope: judgment would come upon Judah for her sins, but because Josiah's heart was tender and humble before the Lord, it would not come in his days. When Josiah heard it, he bowed his head. But later that night, as I looked upon him from the shadows, I saw both peace and grief struggle within him.
"Does this mean I will never see deliverance in my own time?" he asked.
"It means the Lord has seen your heart, and that is a blessing beyond measure," I said, though my voice trembled. "You have turned His wrath aside for a season. Is that not mercy?"
He nodded, yet I could see the longing in his eyes, the longing of a man who wished he could restore more than he was given time to mend. Still, he pressed on. Under his command, the land of Judah began to breathe again. The Passover was restored as it had not been kept since the days of the judges. The people sang, and I felt as though the Lord Himself walked among them once again.
And though few knew it, I often stood at the temple gates, head covered, praying quietly for my son — that his zeal would be tempered by wisdom, and that the Lord who saved him as a boy would preserve him as a man. Now, in the quiet hours of my old age, I sometimes look back to those early days — the light in Huldah's eyes, the first prayer whispered to a foreign God who became my own, the soft weight of my son in my arms. Judah found a shepherd in Josiah, but I — I found redemption.
I was once an outsider, a stranger tethered to idols. Yet the Lord, in His mercy, called me through the voice of a prophetess and gave me a son whose name would be spoken with honor among kings. And though I could not foresee the pain that would one day pierce my heart, I knew then, as I know now: whatever path the Lord chooses for His servants, He never leaves them without His presence. For that, I give thanks — even when my prayers end in tears.