Everybody was always doing it.
They’d been hiding in the mountains in caves and dens for seven years, trying to avoid their enemies. And why not? Who could blame them? Their farms were ruined and they were all hungry. They couldn’t even fight back. What was the point in trying to hold on to what belonged to them if every time they sprouted anything it was stolen again? Whether by fear or starvation, one way or another they were all enslaved. There was no food even for their animals. Every night he could hear the cry of children, sent to bed with empty stomachs, and the weeping of their mothers who did the sending. It was cruel. Hopeless. Frustrating.
Somehow, he’d managed to grow a small patch of wheat, unseen by the people of Midian. But he couldn’t risk letting them discover it. Here inside the wine-splattered walls of a rock pit, practically underground, the sweat rolled off his face while he worked in secrecy to free the wheat from the chaff, the good from the worthless.
How ironic, he thought, leaning against the winnowing fork while he caught his breath. It was always about freedom, even in nature, but he couldn’t even free himself.
Or anyone else.
The only thing he grew these days was bitter. Life sucked. Nobody had the strength or heart to fight, or the weapons to do it. Even if a leader were to finally stand up against the tyranny that held them captive, they’d be outnumbered four to one. Nobody was dumb enough to try an overthrow with odds like that. Especially not him.
He was too hungry to care anymore. He’d lost everything.
They’d even stolen his self-respect, those locusts, leaving him as a weak, hungry, emasculated, pathetic excuse for a farmer. A relic who barely remembered better days. With any luck at all, the rocks from the hills above would let loose and cover him in this pit of sour grapes, sealing his doom in a wine-soaked tomb.
Another breeze shook the branches of an oak growing defiantly through the cracks in a boulder above the winepress. It was getting late. He’d better finish soon and get back to his family. They needed what little nourishment he’d been able to scavenge here in the dark.
Squinting at the shadows above him, he strained to make out the shape of the tree. Was there . . . someone sitting there? His heart leapt in his throat and he shrank back against the rock walls behind him.
“Who’s there?” he called, his voice cracking in fear.
“You’re not alone,” came the confident reply.
Yeah, that’s what he was afraid of. His hands tightened around the handle of the winnowing stick. Like that would provide any kind of weapon. He was a sitting duck down here in this round pit and whoever was up there surely knew it. They were probably all smirking at his impotence this very minute.
“The Lord is with you,” the voice continued.
Now he knew somebody was pulling his leg. The Lord had deserted him and his people seven years ago. For all he knew, the Big Guy was asleep on a big cloud somewhere, fed up with all the losers down here who couldn’t overcome their addiction to self-reliance. Ha, he thought, almost laughing out loud. The joke’s on us—look what self-reliance has done for us. We’re all starving to death, scrounging for scraps of wine flavored bread.
There was another rustle near the giant oak. “You, down there, you’re a mighty man of fearless courage,” the voice proclaimed.
Gideon looked around to see if the voice was referring to somebody else, but the only body odor he smelled was his own. This must be some kind of a bad joke. They knew he wasn’t fearless or mighty. He was a target with no chance of escape. Somebody was calling him out, taunting him with compliments before they finished him off. Maybe if he filled both hands with flour and then climbed the ladder leaning against one round wall, he could throw it at his attacker and they’d be blinded long enough for him to run away.
But no arrows flew. No spears impaled. There wasn’t even the solo sound of one piece of falling gravel. Just the wind in that God-forsaken oak tree and the creepy knowledge that he definitely was not alone.
And he was also definitely not a mighty man of fearless courage. The puddle at his feet had just made that very clear.
Thanks to Lea Miller for the use of the familiar fowl above. Lea's original photo can be viewed at the following link: https://www.flickr.com/photos/leamiller/albums/72157622364637257
