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.

There was a time when the energy sources so widely used in our lives today were unknown or unharnessed and people in the developing world sought light, warmth, and industrial materials from the natural world around them. This included (much to the chagrin of today’s environment lovers) the harvesting of whale oil and related byproducts from those massive creatures.

No one can deny sadness in the fact that specific whale populations dwindled as a result. Yet, today I will not condemn the hunters for their eager pursuit. Instead, I will praise them for their courage.

Who among us would be brave enough to take a “sleigh ride” with them? Having our tiny wooden boat dragged over waves at breakneck speeds until the whale grew tired? Then approaching the whale to try and spear it through the heart before it could potentially destroy our boat or drown us with a flick of its flipper or a thrash of its tail?

Certainly not me.

But for all the bravado and upfront bravery displayed by the men, there was a different kind of courage being displayed at the same time.

Who among us would be brave enough to hold down the fort back home? To take care of all the family’s needs without knowing when one’s husband or father or neighbor or friend would return? Or if he would come home?

Certainly not me. (Though I might be more likely to succeed in that latter scenario.)

This was the courage displayed by the women of Nantucket, New Bedford, and many other communities throughout the development, growth, and heyday of the whaling business.

We still know a few of their names presently: these brave men and women who inspire us with their stength and tenacity, with their faith and their faithfulness. But so many of the other names, and stories, have been lost to the passage of time.

Yet, while their stories may now mostly be lost to us, their courage is still worth emulating.

A brilliant courage that stands up to the impossible and even runs right into the face of it.

And a beautiful courage that stays put, firmly committed to those we love through all the storms of life.

He lived so long ago that the details of his life story are now spun for us in a tale of various hues and colorful climaxes. Yet today, even the youngest school children know his name and couples across cultures celebrate their devotion to one another in his honor.

But do we recognize what we are really celebrating when we remember the man who was called Valentine?

Some accounts say that he not only healed a young blind woman but that he also fell deeply in love with her.

How romantic.

Yet ultimately tragic, and ironic, because all accounts say the reason for his execution came in his refusal to deny his belief that every man and woman who wanted to marry should marry, something the emperor of his time had forbidden for the sake of maintaining a stronger army.

Some people think it beautiful that he left his young love a note of eternal affection before he was led to his death.

But if we focus only on that, we miss the greater beauty of his courage. What he lived for. What he died for. What he believed in so unwaveringly.

And we miss the beauty of courage a man and a woman display when they commit to a binding covenant with each other…and the courage they display when they choose to weather many storms and see the promise they made as not only their responsibility but also as their gift to give through and to grow through. Together. For the sake of the other.

For the word marriage may, in English, begin with a “m” and end with an “e” …but it has never been about the good of the individual. It has been about the good of the unit, and by extension, the good of the community, the nation, the world. And even the good of Heaven’s pleasure.

Ironic, as well, because in a day and age when we have more rights and freedom to marry than ever, so many people choose to disregard that right. It takes courage to take up that yoke. And it takes courage to appreciate the beauty and defend the worth of each couple who pulls together well, no matter what life throws at them.

This Valentine’s Day, I will celebrate the man who had the courage to do what was right until the end. And I won’t be receiving a dozen roses or a diamond ring or be whisked away to a fancy steak dinner. But I won’t mind. I will be happy to sit at home, sipping chocolate, and praying for my married friends to press on courageously and faithfully.

I have heard some people distinguish between happiness and joy (especially in the Christian sense) as happiness being temporary, fixed on momentary circumstances and joy being something deeper, keeping our hearts set on what is better even in hard circumstances.

But what about hope?

Is hope only true and real when it never wavers? Is hope only given to the deserving or earned by the highest achieving, or can if be present in any heart? If hope is lost or diminished, has it vanished or is it weakened forever?

This week, we step back into British history, over 200 years ago, to glimpse the pendulum-like life of poet William Cowper. In sum, he went from the brink of insanity and multiple suicide attempts early on to a revelation of new life and purpose in the Christian faith. And then, another horrid breakdown when he was even convinced God was disgusted with him and wanted to condemn him to death. Followed by amazing hymn and poetry writing periods that have left us with some most cherished verses and songs (and anti-slavery pieces that have even inspired civil rights activists generations later). And then, in the end, several years of sadness after the loss of a dear, long-time friend before Cowper’s own passing.

Some would look at Cowper’s deep doubts and (ironically) doubt that his spiritual conversion was real or that his productive bursts of hope were anything more than rantings and creative delusions.

I am not an expert on his life and inner struggles. But I will attest to the unique struggle faced by souls naturally gifted with high sensitivity and creativity. In order to observe the world and produce wonderful works of art, we must be sensitive to notice and synthesize so much going on inside us and around us at the same time. To maintain this ability, we must remain open to feeling. But we feel so deeply, it is truly a challenge to not live life swinging between extremes in thought and emotion and productive ability.

Sometimes, in the ebbs or the valleys, hope (while it has not left us completely) can certainly seem invisible or chased away.

That is when, as Cowper so famously introduced the thought into our psyche and vocabulary, “God moves in mysterious ways, His faithful wonders to perform…” And, by grace, we come to sense that hope again, the hope that was there to some degree all along.

I bless the name of the God who created each temperament and knows each temperament intimately, the name of the God who does not give up on us when we honestly and understandably struggle to hold onto hope.

I thank God that Cowper did not succeed in taking his own life. And that he discovered, with the help of John Newton, the only true source of grace he could possess to save him from God’s wrath and the only true source of hope that could help anyone withstand any storm.

Then, he wrote, “There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Immanuel’s veins, and sinners washed beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains.”

In many cases, especially for those who were not of royal birth, we know very few details about individuals from ancient history. Yet, somehow, what we know about one such person has made him something of a poster child for hope in our modern world. Here are a few of the key things history records…

He lived in a culture when identity was found in sonship and genealogy, so he is only known as Jeremiah, son of Hilkiah.

After entering an exacting, demanding profession, he was called at a very young age to take on a new job that terrified him, but a job he would do faithfully for many years afterward nonetheless.

He was beaten, publically ridiculed, threatened with death, imprisoned in a dungeon, and held captive in a muddy cistern while following his calling.

And he was freed from all of that in time to see his beloved city and homeland overrun by enemies who would carry most of his people away into political exile.

Hope?

This same man would go on, out of his sorrow, to pen some of the most beloved words cherished by followers of his God. But let us not divorce those latter words from the former, a rich contrast from which the latter spring.

He pierced my heart with arrows from his quiver. I became the laughing stock of all my people; they mock me in song all day long. He has filled me with bitter herbs and sated me with gall. He has broken my teeth with gravel; he has trampled me in the dust. I have been deprived of peace; I have forgotten what prosperity is. So I say, “My splendor is gone and all that I had hoped from the Lord.” I remember my affliction and my wondering, the bitterness and the gall. I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me. Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.” The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him to the one who seeks him. It is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord. (Lamentations 3:13-26, NIV).

In a triad of the most foundational virtues, love is what we long to give and need to live, and faith sees invisible promises as tangible cords to grasp. But hope?

Hope is the metaphorical sparrow flittering around us in Dickinson’s short, classic poem and the magnificently fragile moth meeting Gandalf in his moment of utmost dispair in Tolkien’s sweeping, epic masterpiece. It is a pillar of stone that grows in strength through each trial, holding up every burden that would otherwise crush the life out of us.

It is in the sun rising again every day as a blessing from the Maker who whispers, “Here it is: My gift for a fresh new start and your chance to trust My mercy again.” It is in the acceptance of that gift, the reflection of that Maker’s light.

We can look back on Jeremiah’s life and see all the events of his life after they happened. But in the moment, in each of those days, he certainly couldn’t understand all that was to come, for though he was a prophet, he was a completely human one.

He was honest about his struggles and feelings, but he still held onto the new dawn waiting over each horizon.

May we do the same.