She lived millennia before Peter Jackson brought Tolkien’s lovely Eowyn to the screen and had her do what otherwise seemed impossible, wielding a sword to defeat an other-worldly enemy while magnificently declaring, “I am no man!”

And she carried out a feat equally necessary for the good of her people and surrounding nations, but she did it almost silently, in the privacy of her own personal space.

Her name was Jael, and she lived in a time and space where her only other identifying characteristic was the name of her husband. Still, we have a gift in the fact that one chapter of her life was preserved for us to learn from.

When the leader of the opposing forces escaped the army led by Deborah (mentioned in my first courage post from last month) and fled for his life, he came across the place where Jael and her family had pitched their tents. Exhausted, and believing she was a harmless, friendly woman, he entered her tent to rest and hide from those pursuing him.

But Jael knew who he was and knew that his reign of terror needed to end. So while he was sleeping deeply, she crept back into the tent and used a mallet to drive a tent peg all the way through his head, from his temple to the ground beneath him.

What a woman.

The ancient text memorializing her brave deed does not tell us exactly how she felt beforehand, in the midst of the act, or afterward. Some would say it doesn’t matter; all that mattered was that she stopped a ruthless leader from hurting more people.

But I believe it matters. Because she was a woman and feelings matter to women. (And, to be honest, so many of our own heroes living today who struggle with physical or mental health issues after they have had to carry out roles of justice have often had to shut off their feelings in the moment and don’t know how to fully deal with them afterwards.)

If I were Jael, I think my heart would have started pounding as Sisera approached and I recognized him, even as I worked up a small smile and pulled a mask of calmness over my face. And I am sure my hands would have shook at least a little as I poured the milk for him to drink and pulled a soft wool blanket over his prone, breathing form. And I might have had to set the mallet and peg down to wipe my sweaty palms before I could finally move to strike. And I might have stepped to the other side of the tent to muffle my tears in a cushion after the deed was done so that I didn’t startle my husband or children. And I might have stepped outside to throw up after I had to return to the body and show another that this enemy was indeed dead.

Yes. Postulating about her feelings matters. Because it reminds us that when human beings serve as channels of God’s justice in our world, they are still human. And the price they may pay in order for justice to be done is not only measurable if they pay with their own life. Sometimes it is actually in the surviving that a greater price must be paid. Because they did what they knew they had to do — what we needed too — but now they would have to live with the memories of it.

So when I read this account of Jael, I am simultaneously filled with empathy and gratitude. Empathy for how what she did was by no means easy (and I am not just talking about the physical strength required). And gratitude for all those, down through the ages, who have delivered justice when it was needed.

They, too, have been channels through which God worked different types of miracles. And they have reminded us that He Himself is just.