Deborah: A Woman Used by God

Recently, I heard someone say that Deborah was called to lead as a judge and prophet only because no men were willing to step forward. I didn’t really think much of it at the time because I’ve heard it many times. But then I remembered that I had recently read Deborah’s story in Judges and how struck I was by the way God used her so mightily.

And I wondered, Did God use Deborah because she was convenient? Was she only there because there was no willing man to lead?

So I decided to dig into the story a little more. And here is what I found. When we first meet Deborah in Judges 4:4, the text simply says:

“Now Deborah, a prophetess, the wife of Lappidoth, was judging Israel at that time.”

The text does not give a reason for why God chose her. The author doesn’t tell us that she was God’s “backup plan” or even that no man was willing to lead. In fact, before Barak even enters the story, Deborah is already established as a prophet and judge. Judges 4:5 tells us that the people of Israel came to her for judgment.

The text does tell us that Barak hesitated when Deborah summoned him and told him what God had commanded. His response was, “If you will go with me, I will go” (Judges 4:8). Deborah agreed to go, but told him that the honor of the victory would go to a woman (Judges 4:9).

The text also doesn’t tell us exactly why Barak wanted Deborah to go with him. We can say that he hesitated, but we shouldn’t assume he would not go. Later in Hebrews, Barak is among those who acted by faith (Hebrews 11:32–34), it seems clear that his story is more nuanced than simply labeling him a man who was unwilling to lead.

So what can we actually say about Deborah? God chose her, and she was faithful to her calling. Today, it seems so much of the conversation about women in leadership focuses on whether or not they can lead. But that isn’t the focus of Deborah’s story.

Deborah wasn’t out there pushing for a title or a position. She wasn’t trying to prove herself. She was simply faithful with what God had entrusted to her. She listened to God. She spoke what He told her. She gave wise counsel. She encouraged Barak to obey. And when the moment came, she went with him. She didn’t appear to be asking, “How much authority am I allowed to have?” She simply responded to what God had placed before her.

And I think there is something here that women today need to remember. That I need to remember.

God is not limited in the ways He can use women.

He gave Deborah wisdom. He gave her discernment. He entrusted His word to her. He gave her influence among His people. And when the moment came for courage, she did not shrink back.

Before I continue thought I wanted to be sure I’m not misunderstood. We should be careful not to make Deborah’s story say something Scripture itself does not say. Deborah was a prophet and judge in Old Testament Israel. Her story does not establish that women should serve as elders or pastors in the New Testament church. Those are distinct roles, and the New Testament gives specific qualifications for the office of elder (1 Timothy 3:1–7; Titus 1:5–9).

But in saying that, we should not miss what Deborah’s story does teach us. We don’t have to spend our lives proving what women can do. We don’t have to compete with men. We don’t have to seek positions simply to say we have them. And we don’t have to shrink back from the gifts God has given us.

Instead, perhaps the better question is:

Am I being faithful with what God has already placed in my hands?

Am I listening when He speaks?

Am I willing to obey when He calls me to something difficult?

Am I using the gifts He has given me to encourage, teach, serve, disciple, and strengthen others?

Am I willing to step forward in faith when He allows me to do good?

Deborah didn’t need to prove her worth.

She simply needed to be faithful.

And so do we.

A Legacy Worth Leaving

 I have been thinking a great deal about the legacy I want to leave behind.

Not the kind of legacy measured by accomplishments or possessions. Those things have their place, but they are not what people carry with them long after we are gone. The legacy that endures is almost always found in people.

Much of our culture tells us that once we've raised our children, we've earned the right to live however we please. We are encouraged to chase our dreams, protect our freedom, fill our calendars, and finally do all the things we never had time to do. There is certainly nothing wrong with enjoying retirement. There is nothing wrong with traveling, pursuing hobbies, or cherishing time with your spouse. These are gifts from the Lord.

But as I've reflected on the kind of legacy I hope to leave, I've realized I don't want those things to define this season of my life. I want my grandchildren to know me. I want to know them. I want to be part of their lives, not merely an occasional visitor in them. I believe Scripture offers us a far richer vision for our later years than simply pursuing personal fulfillment.

Somewhere along the way, many of us have adopted that cultural vision without realizing it. We begin to believe that after years of sacrifice, we’ve earned the right to focus primarily on ourselves. Yet the Christian life has never been about arranging our lives around ourselves. It has always been about loving God and loving people, and that calling does not end when our children become adults.

Family changes as children grow, but it never ceases to matter. Throughout Scripture, we see generations connected to one another. Older believers teach the younger. They tell of God's faithfulness. They pass down wisdom, encourage weary hearts, and leave behind more than an inheritance; they leave behind faith.

I sometimes wonder if we underestimate the holy privilege of being a grandparent.

No one else can fill that role. Parents carry the daily responsibilities of raising children. Grandparents have the unique opportunity to come alongside them—not to replace parents or rescue them from every difficulty, but to offer something only they can give: faithful presence. We have the opportunity to pray, listen, cheer from the sidelines, to tell stories of God's faithfulness in our life and to remind them that they belong to something much bigger than themselves.

One day our grandchildren will not remember every gift we bought them. They probably won't remember the size of our house or how many vacations we took. But they may remember sitting on the porch listening to stories about God's goodness. They may remember how we always prayed with them. They may remember feeling safe, seen, and deeply loved. Those ordinary moments often become the memories that shape a lifetime.

When my grandchildren remember me years from now, I don't want them to remember someone who was simply busy enjoying life. I want them to remember someone who made room for them. Someone who knew them. Someone who prayed faithfully for them. Someone who reflected, however imperfectly, the self-giving love of Christ. Because in the end, the legacy we leave is rarely built through grand gestures. More often, these are formed by thousands of ordinary moments of faithful presence.

May we never become so busy pursuing the life we want that we miss the people God has already entrusted to us.

After all, one of the greatest investments we will ever make is not in the places we go, but in the people who will one day tell the stories of our faith long after we are gone.

Reflection Questions:

What story is my life telling the next generation?

Do my grandchildren know I loved Jesus because they heard me speak of Him? 

Do my grandchildren know I loved them because I made room for them?

Years from now, when they tell stories about my life, what will they say mattered most to me?

Bringing My Loneliness to God

 

For quite some time, I have wrestled with a question I am almost too ashamed to ask:

If I know who God says I am through Christ—loved, valued, seen, accepted—why does loneliness still hurt so much? Why do I still wrestle with needing people? Why can I know these truths deeply, and yet still ache when no one reaches out? Why does being left out sting? Why does the silence of others feel heavier than it should?

I have always thought this was a faith problem. I am beginning to understand that it is not necessarily a faith problem. It is often a human one.

God created us for relationships. We were made not only to be loved by God, but also to experience His care through people. We need to be known, remembered, pursued, encouraged, comforted, and understood. These desires are not weaknesses. They are part of how we were designed.

Sometimes I have believed that if my faith were stronger, I would not feel the pain of relational lack. I have even thought that perhaps I wouldn’t need people at all. But that is not true.

God’s love establishes our worth, but human connection often helps that love become felt.

Here is what I am learning: for some of us, loneliness cuts deeper because it touches older wounds. If you grew up unseen, emotionally alone, carrying burdens too young, or learning that your needs came last, then adult loneliness may awaken more than present sadness. It may stir old grief that has never been healed.

When no one reaches out, now something deeper whispers: No one comes for me. No one notices. I am alone again.

That pain is real—but it is not the whole truth.

Sometimes what we call loneliness is actually a longing for two specific things:

To be pursued. To be understood.

Not just invited somewhere. Not just surrounded by people. But to have someone think of you first. To have someone ask how you really are. To be known beneath the surface and still wanted there.

That kind of longing is not you being too much. It may simply reveal the kind of love you needed as a child but did not receive.

And perhaps healing is not found in shaming yourself for needing people, but in bringing that ache honestly before God and allowing Him to heal that wound.

Maybe the answer is not pretending I no longer need people, or shaming myself for the ache when loneliness rises. Maybe it is bringing that need honestly before God, trusting that He understands both the wound and the longing.

I do not have all the answers for loneliness. I only know that God is not ashamed of my need, and He is not distant from my ache. Somehow, even in this season, He is teaching me that I can bring it all to Him. I am still learning this, but I believe He can meet me even here.

The Smallest Seed of Faith

Every person on this planet carries a story. And if we take the time to truly listen, we realize how much there is to learn from one another.

There are stories of triumph and tragedy, and everything in between. Stories marked by beauty, by loss, by endurance. Every single one matters. Every single one is worth telling.

I believe that. I really do.

And yet, when it comes to my own story, I struggle to see it the same way. It makes me wonder if others feel this too. If they look at their own lives and see something less meaningful, less compelling, less worthy of being told.

Because I have lived through a lot.
Moments I walked through well, and moments I didn’t.
Seasons of deep darkness and long, dry deserts.
And also, seasons so full of light, I felt like I could almost catch a glimpse of God.

And then there were the other times.
The ones that felt like walking through hell.

Looking back, I think what marked most of those seasons wasn’t clarity or confidence. It was simply this: I held on to hope. I didn’t always know God. I didn’t always understand Him. And if I’m honest, I didn’t always trust Him.

But I held on to the smallest hope that He was there.

Because to trust God is to believe that He is good, that He sees you, and that He is working for your good. And there were many years when I wasn’t sure I believed that at all. There were times I was convinced He didn’t care about me.

And maybe that’s where the beauty of a story really begins.

Not in having it all figured out.
Not in unwavering faith.
But in the quiet, stubborn refusal to let go completely.

In the smallest, almost imperceptible seed of faith.

The kind that barely whispers, what if He is good?

The kind that survives.

Because that’s what our stories hold—
Not perfection, but perseverance.
Not certainty, but endurance.

We made it through.
We didn’t give up.

And somehow, even when our grip was weak, we were still being held—not because we held on tightly, but because God never let go.