The Trumpet, the Cry, the Call

A story that still echoes
From Israel to the Nations —
The Trumpet, the Cry, the Call 

by Yariv Goldman from Hands of Mercy | www.israel-handsofmercy.org

It was over twenty years ago in a tiny village inside a village in Mexico—dust roads, tin roofs, and the kind of quiet where you hear a truck long before you see it. Late afternoon, someone knocked. I opened the door to a thin, weathered farmer in a sweat-darkened shirt, a big hat casting his eyes in shadow. His face was serious—stone serious.

“¿Eres judío? Are you Jewish?”

I froze for half a breath. How do I answer—who else is listening? “Sí. Yes.”

“¿Eres israelí? Are you Israeli?”

The second question tightened the air. Why does he need to know that? Is this safe?
“Sí. I am.”

He studied me, searching for something in my face. 
“¿Tienes un cuerno? Do you have a shofar?”

 Now I was puzzled. A shofar? Here?
“Sí, tengo. Yes, I do.”

His whole expression softened—like a door opening. The sternness gave way to an urgent kindness.

“Entonces, por favor… Then please—would you come to my farm in the mountains and blow it over my land?”

Relief washed over me. The tension drained; the fear melted into a strange joy. I said yes.

I went up there fasting and praying. It was the season of atonement—Yom Kippur—and in the middle of that week I took an extra stretch of fasting, even without water, because I wanted my heart clear. The mountain air was thin and clean; the silence was a kind of sanctuary. We walked the rows. We stood by the animals. I lifted the shofar, and with as much humility and faith as I knew, I sounded the trumpet—not as a performance, but as a prayer: Father, bless this land, this family; let Your mercy speak louder than any accusation; let Your presence mark this place.

Weeks later, the testimonies came: unexpected fruitfulness—livestock thriving, fields producing beyond expectation. But what marked me even more than the reports was the hunger I saw in that man’s eyes. He somehow knew—without a theology class—that the ancient memorial of the trumpet (זִכְרוֹן תְּרוּעָה) still matters. He wasn’t trying to be Jewish; he was reaching for the God of Israel—the One whose voice shook Sinai when the shofar sounded. That day in the mountains, I realized again: people everywhere—Jew and Gentile—long for the sound of redemption.