A miracle and an offering of thanks.

In the rugged hills of the Golan, just three months before Passover, a family from the tribe of Benjamin received a miracle. Little Miriam, with her wide, curious eyes, tugged at her father’s robe as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson. “Abba, God has been so good to us. Are we going to thank Him for it?” she asked, her voice brimming with wonder.

Her father, Yosef, smiled down at her, his weathered hands resting on her shoulders. “Yes, Miriam. Soon, the lambs will be born. Perhaps there’ll be one special enough to offer as thanks to God. It must be perfect, a male, at least eight days old, without blemish. We’ll see what the spring brings.”

Two months later, as the wildflowers began to dot the hills, a perfect male lamb was born. Its wool was soft and white, its eyes bright and clear. Yosef knelt beside it, inspecting every inch, then turned to Miriam. “This one’s for God,” he said. “Will you care for it? Keep it safe and spotless? It’s a big task.”

Miriam’s face lit up. “Oh, yes, Abba! I’ll watch over him every day!” She named the lamb Tov, meaning “good,” because it reminded her of the goodness God had shown her family. She was determined to keep it perfect, her heart full of gratitude for the blessing they’d received.

The weeks that followed tested her resolve. One stormy night, wolves crept down from the hills, their howls cutting through the wind. Miriam woke to the sound of bleating and snarling. Grabbing a staff, she ran to the pen, her nightdress whipping around her legs. The pack had already killed Tov’s mother, but Miriam shouted and swung her staff, driving them off. Tov stood trembling but unharmed, his wool still pristine. Tears stung her eyes as she hugged him close. “You’re safe,” she whispered. “You’re still perfect for God.”

Another day, a merchant stopped by, chatting with Miriam’s older brother, Eli. “That lamb there,” the man said, pointing at Tov. “It’s a fine one. How much to buy it?” Eli hesitated, but before he could answer, Miriam marched over, hands on her hips. “No! Tov’s not for sale. He’s set apart for God. Once Abba chose him, he’s not ours to give away.” The merchant chuckled at her fierceness, and Yosef, overhearing, nodded proudly. “She’s right. Take another lamb instead,” he said, and the deal was struck.

As Passover neared, the family prepared to journey to Jerusalem. Miriam stayed pure, avoiding anything that might disqualify her from the pilgrimage, and she kept Tov spotless. They stopped at the local registrar to officially sign up for the Passover meal. The clerk, a wiry man with a bushy beard, squinted at Tov. “Name?” he barked.

“Yosef ben Ezra,” her father replied.

“No, no, the lamb’s name!” the clerk quipped, looking at Miriam. “Gotta record it proper-like.”

Miriam giggled. “His name’s Tov!”

The clerk peered at the lamb, then scribbled furiously. “Tov, eh? Looks like he thinks he’s the king of the flock. Better not let him sign the scroll—he’d demand a whole page!” The family burst into laughter, even as Tov bleated indignantly, adding to the absurdity.

The city buzzed with pilgrims. Miriam clung to Tov, her heart pounding with excitement and a touch of sadness. At the Temple gates, Yosef turned to her. “It’s time, Miriam. Give me the lamb.” She swallowed hard, tears welling up—not from loss, but from the deep bond she’d formed with Tov and the joy of giving him to God. With a trembling smile, she placed Tov gently into her father’s arms. He stroked her hair, then walked past the Chel, the sacred boundary, into the Temple courts.

Miriam stood with Eli and their mother, gazing in awe at the wonder of the Temple The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat, prayer and incense. Smoke rose straight to the heavens, a silent prayer of thanks. She felt small yet part of something vast, her heart swelling with reverence.

That evening, within the city walls, the family gathered at their assigned place for the Passover meal. The table was set with bitter herbs, unleavened bread, and the roasted meat of Tov. As they ate, Eli asked, “Abba, why do we do this? Is it for our sins?”

Yosef leaned back, wiping his hands. “No, Eli. Passover isn’t a sin offering. It’s a thanksgiving offering. We give thanks to God for delivering us, for His goodness. Back in Egypt, it was about redemption, not atonement. If I need to make a sin offering—say, for that time I lost my temper with the neighbor—that’s a different matter. But personal sin offerings aren’t brought at Passover. This,” he gestured to the meal, “is our gratitude.”

Miriam piped up, her voice soft but firm. “That’s why I wanted to thank God, Abba. When Tov was born perfect, I knew he was for this. Because of what happened three months ago.”

Her mother smiled. “Most sitting here do not know. Tell them, Miriam.”

Miriam took a deep breath, her eyes shining. “Three months ago, I was so sick. The fever wouldn’t break, and the nurse said I was not breathing right and would not make it. But Ima and everyone prayed and God healed me. I woke up the next morning, and the fever was gone. I felt strong again. That’s why I’m so thankful.”

The family sat in silence for a moment, the weight of her words settling over them. Yosef reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “And that’s why we offered Tov. Not for sin, but for joy. For life.”

As the meal continued, the flickering lamplight danced on their faces, a family bound by gratitude, their Passover a testament to God’s enduring goodness.

Author: Victor Schultz