They mistook him for ordinary, but that was the mistake that always played to his advantage.
He was not crafted in the mold of the crowd. He had lived among them, yes – moving through thirty-four homes before a roof finally felt like his own – but his path had never been theirs. The world wanted him to bend, but he had chosen instead to bow only before the commandments of Yahuwah.
Every day began and ended with discipline. His body, once scarred by hardship and excess, had become a temple: lean, toned, cut from effort and sweat. To outsiders, it was for vanity’s sake, but for him, it was obedience. If the body was the house of the spirit, then his would stand firm, not broken by indulgence or decay.
His meals were measured, herbs blended with care, teas brewed from the roots and leaves that carried memory and the exclusion of processed sugars . That became Benji Brews – not just a business, but a mission. Bottles of oil lined up like soldiers. Capsules pressed with precision. Every label told a story of resistance, of survival, of honoring the earth that the Most High had given.
Yet he was not content with survival alone. Knowledge was his hunger. He read the scriptures until the words burned themselves into his mind, then turned pages of history, trade, and craft. He sought wisdom like treasure – not the empty glitter of quick success, but the kind that built kingdoms from ashes.
He worked in silence, like the wolf he claimed as his emblem. Not the roar of a lion demanding applause, but the quiet strike of patience and strategy. His people were scattered, asleep in chains of forgetfulness, but he believed one howl could stir a pack awake.
Still, it wasn’t easy. Shadows from his past whispered to him, tempting him back to lust, to recklessness, to pride. However, he had chosen a narrow way, carved by commandments that cut sharper than any two-edged sword. “Walk in it,” they said. And so he did.
By day, he tallied the digits and verify payments. By night, he wrote and brewed. In between, he sharpened his body like steel and sharpened his mind with books and prayer. His life became rhythm, discipline, covenant. He was building not just a business, but a legacy — something rooted deep enough to outlive him.
And though the world saw him as one man in Treadways, he knew better. He was a wolf of Benjamin, moving in shadows until the right time came to step into the light.
Because wolves do not beg for followers. They do not plead for recognition. They live by instinct, loyalty, and law.
And when the wolf howls, those with ears to hear will rise.
Mordecai Amon Israel
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