Jeremiah was his slave name. He towered at six feet five inches, broad shoulders, powerful arms, and hands as rough as a gravel road. Jeremiah was strong, and worked like a horse; no, a team of horses. The hot sun didn't slow him, difficulty didn't discourage him, and pain didn't stop him.
But there was another side to Jeremiah. Deborah had given him two rambunctious boys and one little princess, and Jeremiah was putty in their hands. His hard work gained favor with the slave owner, therefore providing safety and security for his little family.
Nonetheless, Jeremiah's strength and work ethic made him valuable in trade. And one fateful day in the fall, the news of such a trade had come. He was given a day to say goodbye to his family, but instead Jeremiah retreated to the barn. He paced back and forth across the dirt floor, fighting back the tears, shaking his head, his pulse thumping in his ears. Perspiration poured from his body, his hands shook violently, then he collapsed to his knees.
Jeremiah raised his head to spot the axe hanging on the wall. Surely it hadn’t come to that. It went against everything he believed as a man, but he couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. He couldn't allow himself to be taken from his family who depended on him for everything.
He took the axe from the wall, tested its edge with his thumb. He laid his muscular forearm across a stump used to kill chickens. With his other arm he raised the axe over his head.
He looked toward Heaven. “Lord, forgive me, but I see no other way to keep my family together.”
Enough said.
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