Three random fictitious conversations between Elisabeth and Deborah about Being a girl. That might have taken place at various times in history… But did not!
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Three random fictitious conversations between Elisabeth and Deborah about Being a girl. That might have taken place at various times in history… But did not!
[The full conversations are visible in the custom fields below]
Elisabeth: Good morning, Deborah! I brought bread. Not that I need to tell you — you always demand a fair share of justice first, then carbs.
Deborah: Bread is always welcome. Justice can wait until the last crumb is gone. Besides, a settled stomach helps one pronounce wise sentences. How fares your household of small miracles and bigger laundry piles?
Elisabeth: Faithful as ever. The laundry piles pray for mercy and the pots practice patience. Sometimes I think my prayers get answered in the form of one fewer spilled jar. That must be progress, right?
Deborah: Progress indeed. In my line of work, a jar unspilled is a small treaty. Tell me, how do you keep your hair so calm through all of it? Mine tends to rise when a neighbor’s dispute begins.
Elisabeth: It’s the secret—daily hymns and occasional threats to spin wool into arrowheads. Works surprisingly well. Also, I whisper a verse and braid in a little courage. What about you? How does a judge stay composed when everyone expects a thunderbolt?
Deborah: I learned early that thunderbolts are dramatic but messy. I prefer a measured scowl and a decisive nod. Also, I sing afterward. A good song clears the courtroom faster than anyone’s testimony.
Elisabeth: A song? You should hear my lullaby—one line and the baby drifts off; the other parents come to copy it. There should be a law about lullaby copyrights.
Deborah: If there were, I would judge in favor of sharing. Music is public good. Speaking of laws, what’s your favorite rule for being a girl in your time?
Elisabeth: Hmm. Always keep a spare apron and an extra prayer. The apron mops up spills; the prayer mops up worries. Which is nobler? Depends on how much oil you just dropped.
Deborah: Wise. My rule: carry a spare proverb. When words fail, a well-placed proverb makes the arguing parties remember there are better things than being right—like peace, or lukewarm stew.
Elisabeth: You and your Proverbs. I try them on toddlers, too. “A gentle answer turns away wrath” usually works unless the toddler has discovered how to open jars.
Deborah: Toddlers are persistent litigants. In my last dispute, both sides wanted the same field. I offered them a partition AND a parable. They were baffled, then content. Parables are underrated negotiation tools.
Elisabeth: Parables, proverbs, and lullabies—clearly the essential toolkit. Do you ever feel awkward being a leader? I mean, there are expectations, and sometimes expectations are like visiting relatives who never leave.
Deborah: All the time. Leadership can be like wearing sandals that are slightly too small—at first, you limp; then, you learn the route so well you can run. Being a girl doesn’t mean staying in the shade. It means walking where your feet are called to go, even if the sun is hot.
Elisabeth: That’s lovely. In my corner of things, being a girl sometimes means being the quiet backbone—stitching, listening, remembering where the family left its faith. People think quiet is small, but it’s actually full.
Deborah: Quiet can be loud when it’s wise. A woman who listens often holds the best counsel. They come to you, and you give them water and a story and suddenly they remember who they ought to be.
Elisabeth: And if listening doesn’t work, there’s always more bread. You can fix almost anything with hospitality and extra barley.
Deborah: Hospitality is a clever tactic. Feed them, and they start hearing reason. Also, never underestimate a woman with a sharp tongue and a softer heart. She’ll tell the truth in a way that makes everyone grateful afterward.
Elisabeth: Is that how you end a verdict? Sharp tongue, softer heart, and then a song?
Deborah: Precisely. Verdict, song, dance—metaphorical dance, not the literal kind unless the victory is spectacular. Then the literal kind.
Elisabeth: I applaud that. We should swap skills: you teach me decisive nods; I’ll teach you how to calm a crowd with a pot of stew.
Deborah: Deal. I can already picture it—Judge Deborah wielding a ladle of mercy. Very effective. Also, bargain for one: whenever in doubt, tell a child a story. They will take the moral and leave you the peace.
Elisabeth: I have a story for you: once there was a girl who thought she must be only one thing—quiet, or bold, or gentle, or fierce. She tried each hat and discovered all of them fit when stitched with faith.
Deborah: And the audience?
Elisabeth: Wept, laughed, and demanded second portions of bread.
Deborah: Then it was a successful parable. I have one, too: a judge listened to two women who claimed the same thing. Instead of choosing sides, she reminded them they were made in the image of their Maker and had work to do together. They left with the field divided and also with two new friends.
Elisabeth: That’s beautiful. It sounds like the essence of being a girl—many roles, one heart.
Deborah: Indeed. Strong enough to lead, gentle enough to heal, wise enough to laugh at herself when necessary.
Elisabeth: And faithful enough to trust that every day brings a chance to do something kind.
Deborah: Even if that something is hiding the last piece of cake from the family with a stern face and a secret smile.
Elisabeth: Guilty. But in the name of justice and good taste.
Deborah: Then we are both virtuous women of our time. Raise your cup of stew—er, water—and let us pledge to keep weaving courage and tenderness together.
Elisabeth: To courage, tenderness, and more bread than troubles.
Deborah: Amen to that.
Moaral of the story:
Being a girl means you can be many things at once—strong and gentle, wise and warm, bold and servant-hearted. Grounded in faith, guided by love, and full of the fruit of the Spirit, every woman’s gifts bless her family, her community, and the world.
Elisabeth: Ladies and—well—ladies, let me begin. Being a girl in my time is a divine multitasking certificate. I can calm a crying baby, broker peace between two squabbling sisters, knead bread that could make a Roman weep, and pray in the same breath. You call it quiet service; I call it covert leadership. If kingdoms truly turn on gentleness, I should be nominated for a throne.
Deborah: Covert, she says. Oh, how quaint. In my era, when we say “leadership,” we mean decisions that make people stop what they’re doing and look worried. Being a girl here means you don’t just settle disputes over loaves—you settle disputes that require maps, drums, and a raised hand. I sit and people come to me for judgment. I don’t braid hair and whisper advice; I hand down decrees and then try not to sigh when the men argue over the details.
Elisabeth: Ah, decrees. Fancy! But tell me, Deborah, who gets the most visitors bearing gifts? The woman with a warm hearth or the one with a stern face at a palm tree? Hospitality is a diplomatic tool—wine, bread, a soft place to rest—and yes, leverage. I can win over neighbors with a good stew. Try doing that with a gavel.
Deborah: Try doing that without being interrupted by practicalities. Hospitality is lovely until the lamb refuses to roast and three men arrive unexpectedly. And while you charm neighbors, someone must decide where to put the tents, which banners fly, and who goes first in battle formation. Someone has to be loud enough to be obeyed. Spoiler: it’s usually me. Also, stew is negotiable; justice is not.
Elisabeth: Loud enough to be obeyed? You make it sound like a market argument. There’s real power in patience and influence. A woman who manages a household manages resources, loyalties, education, religion—do you know how many seeds a small pantry can save? Do you know how many prayers whispered at dawn avert crises you only fix with proclamations later? My hands are full of more than loaves, Deborah. They’re full of futures.
Deborah: Futures, yes, but sometimes the future needs a gavel, not a prayer shawl. When a people are stuck between cycles of indecision, someone must stand where everyone else kneels—at least figuratively—and say, “This is the way.” Being a girl doesn’t prevent you from being authoritative. It just means I have to explain the plans twice—once to the men and once to the camels.
Elisabeth: Twice? Lucky you. I have to explain things seven times: to my children, to the neighbors, to the visiting in-laws, to the synagogue elders, to the markets, to my conscience, and—most importantly—to the one who insisted that adding cumin would improve the bread. Also, my authority comes with zero public applause. I practice humility like it’s a fine art. Ever tried negotiating peace over a broken cooking jar? Subtlety wins wars of attrition.
Deborah: Subtlety is charming when diplomacy is well-baked. But when decisions come with long shadows—territory, safety, law—you cannot win with a casserole. You need someone who will get up, muster forces, and make noises with horns. Also, I have the best view of a battlefield. From my vantage, you learn quickly who is brave and who just brought extra sandals for show.
Elisabeth: War stories aside, there are perks to our “invisible” labor. We keep memories alive—songs, childhood names, the correct way to mend a ripped cloak without anyone noticing. Culture, Deborah! Someone must pass on the recipes, the prayers, the lullabies. Men might sign treaties, but who remembers the lines of the song they hum as they sign?
Deborah: I do appreciate a good lullaby. It keeps men from muttering during meetings. Yet, if the lullaby doesn’t come with a strategy for water supply in dry seasons, it’s merely pretty singing. Being a girl here means you bridge the sacred and the civic. You might soothe, but you also advise with counsel that carries weight—if people are wise enough to listen.
Elisabeth: Listen? There’s the rub. In my circles, listening is our specialty. Men might make the proclamation, but women are the ones who remind them why it matters. We keep them honest with a look, a question, or an unasked-for slice of bread. And let me tell you: the look is mightier than your gavel on occasion. Try issuing a decree while someone stares at you with the “you’ve forgotten salt again” look. It’s disarming.
Deborah: The infamous “salt look.” I recognize it. I wield the “you miscounted the warriors” retort. We both have weapons—mine are more public, yours are more personal. We both win, depending on whether the crisis involves pickling or plotting.
Elisabeth: So perhaps that’s the point. Being a girl is not a single role. It’s a ridiculous buffet of responsibilities specially designed to keep us creatively tired. We influence, we comfort, we lead when necessary, and we intercept most household catastrophes before anyone notices.
Deborah: And we judge, we counsel, we lead in the open, and we make sure the world keeps moving when it forgets which way is north. Being a girl means wearing many hats—sometimes literally—and not being surprised when each one requires a different skill set.
Elisabeth: Hats, gavel, apron, palm leaf—call it fashion. Call it function.
Deborah: Agreed. We may argue, and we may disagree about whether prayer or proclamation gets the job done, but clearly: neither of us should be sent to fetch the water when an important decision needs making.
Elisabeth: Noted. But if you ever need someone to soften the speech before you deliver it, I have an excellent recipe for persuasion—and for bread.
Deborah: And if you ever need someone to make the men stand in a row so they actually listen, I have a whistle. Trade?
Elisabeth: Deal. But you boil the stew next time. I need photographic evidence that you can.
Deborah: Only if you promise not to glare at my counting. I have feelings.
Elisabeth: Fine—one glare, no more. But the next time someone asks “Can a girl do this?” we should both chime in: “Watch us.”
Setting: Late afternoon in Elisabeth’s cozy kitchen. A teapot steams between them. On the counter, a small pile of biscuits. Elisabeth, a warm, expressive housewife in her fifties, and Deborah, a composed judge in her early sixties with an amused glint, decide to play “Never Have I Ever” — all prompts will be about experiences tied to “being a girl.”
Elisabeth: Alright, your honor. You start. Never have I ever… been told to “smile more” by a stranger.
Deborah: Oh, that’s one I’ve definitely heard in a courtroom parking lot. (She shakes her head and puts a finger down.) Your turn.
Elisabeth: Never have I ever… faked liking a dress just because someone gave it to me.
Deborah: Guilty. (Two fingers now.) My mother gave me an awful sequined thing when I was twenty-three. I wore it once to a Christmas party and burned the memory forever. Your turn.
Elisabeth: Never have I ever… been catcalled.
Deborah: (A small, rueful laugh.) Sadly, yes. Fingers down again. It’s funny how it turns up in the most civilized settings. You?
Elisabeth: (She taps her finger.) Oh yes. Once in the grocery store by a man with a cart full of items I was supposed to be using for a casserole. I still remembered the recipe.
Deborah: (Smiles wryly.) Practical revenge.
Elisabeth: Never have I ever… pretended I knew how to fix something around the house when I didn’t.
Deborah: (Raises an eyebrow.) Me? Never. Of course I have. (Both laugh.) My ex-husband used to insist on doing things like changing a light fixture. I’d supervise and then read the manual. Finger down.
Elisabeth: Never have I ever… been told I was “too emotional” in a professional setting.
Deborah: Oh, that one resonates. (A slow, indignant smile.) I have been called “passionate” but also “too emotional.” People forget you can be both. Finger down. You?
Elisabeth: (She nods seriously and puts a finger down.) I had a PTA meeting where my concern about budget cuts was labeled “drama.” Spoiler: I later became drama.
Deborah: (Laughs.) Necessary drama.
Deborah: Never have I ever… worn high heels when they hurt just because they looked “appropriate.”
Elisabeth: (Glances at her sensible shoes.) Oh yes. For weddings, funerals, graduations. My feet have opinions. Finger down.
Deborah: (Slyly.) Finger down. I once presided over an evening session in six-inchers. Learned a lot about balance.
Elisabeth: Never have I ever… been paid less than a male colleague for doing the same job.
Deborah: (Her expression goes serious for a moment.) Yes. More than once. It led me into my work on equal pay long before it became a headline. Finger down.
Elisabeth: (Softly.) Same here, across my volunteer board work. Finger down.
Deborah: Never have I ever… lied about my age.
Elisabeth: (Smiles sheepishly.) I’ve shaved off a couple of years more than once. Finger down.
Deborah: (Shakes her head.) I file my papers with my real birthdate. It confuses young lawyers, but I don’t hide it. Never have I ever… cried at something that had nothing to do with me — like a commercial or a story.
Elisabeth: (Laughs and wipes at her eyes theatrically.) A commercial? Always. The one about the dog and the little girl—every time. Finger down.
Deborah: (Relaxes and puts a finger down.) I cried during a documentary about old schools. Put me in front of a piano and I’m a soft mess.
Elisabeth: Never have I ever… been told I “talk too much” in a room full of men.
Deborah: (Leans forward.) Yes, and the irony is one of those men was a judge. Finger down. Also: it’s a favorite phrase for cutting women off instead of addressing substance.
Elisabeth: (Nods.) Been there. Finger down.
Elisabeth: Never have I ever… had a girly hobby that surprised people — like stamp collecting or knife sharpening.
Deborah: (Amused.) I collect pocket watches. Tiny, orderly things. Finger down. It’s my quiet rebellion against chaos.
Elisabeth: I do miniature quilting — dolls and tiny patchwork. My neighbors were astonished until they saw the detail. Finger down.
Deborah: Never have I ever… been mistaken for a secretary when I was the person in charge.
Elisabeth: (Throws her hands up.) Oh, yes. At a homeowners’ association meeting, a man asked me for coffee and then directed his question to me like I was the assistant. Finger down.
Deborah: (Smirks.) As a judge, I’ve been called “Ma’am” and “Honey” by a litigant who then addressed the opposing counsel with “counselor.” (Finger down.) It’s awkwardly selective respect.
Elisabeth: Never have I ever… kept a secret the family thought I shouldn’t keep, and it turned out to be right.
Deborah: (Interested.) Yes — I once didn’t tell my sister about a job opening I suspected she’d be pressured into. She later thanked me for giving her time to decide. Finger down. You?
Elisabeth: I didn’t tell my mother about my divorce until it was final. She was angry at first, then relieved I saved her worry. Finger down.
Deborah: Never have I ever… been asked when I was “going to settle down,” even though I was clearly settled.
Elisabeth: (Laughs.) I get that whenever I mention hobbies. “When are you going to settle down?” I am folding towels; how much more settled can I get? Finger down.
Deborah: (One finger down.) I’ve been married for thirty years; I still get “settle down” comments as if I’m a stray dog.
Deborah: Never have I ever… lied to avoid going on a date.
Elisabeth: (Winks.) Ooh, petty white lies are my specialty. “My cat is having surgery.” Finger down.
Deborah: (Grins.) “I’m double-booked.” Finger down. It’s efficient.
Elisabeth: Never have I ever… been expected to do emotional labor — like remembering birthdays, soothing tensions — and then thanked for it like it’s nothing.
Deborah: (Softly, with a tired smile.) That’s my everyday. Finger down. But I’ve learned to delegate the thankless tasks to calendars and reminders. They don’t judge.
Elisabeth: (Nodding.) I put everything on a shared app now. The app gets the gratitude.
Deborah: Never have I ever… been afraid to speak up about harassment because of what it might do to my reputation.
Elisabeth: (Silence, then a slow exhale.) Yes. Finger down. It’s a heavy calculus.
Deborah: (Firm.) Me too. I finally spoke up in my thirties and it changed a lot. Finger down. It’s why I mentor young women now.
Elisabeth: Never have I ever… told a young girl she could do anything and meant it.
Deborah: (Smiles warmly.) Oh, yes. Finger down. I tell the truth now: you can, and there will be obstacles, and we’ll help you through them.
Elisabeth: (Eyes bright.) Finger down. I tell my neighbor’s daughter the same thing, and I bake her cookies when the obstacles come.
Deborah: (Lifts her teacup.) To girls — and to the women who show them the map and hand them the keys.
Elisabeth: (Clinks her cup against Deborah’s.) To that. And to honesty in small games.
(They count fingers: both have put down more than half. They laugh, the mood a mix of levity and quiet solidarity.)
Deborah: One last one — never have I ever… felt proud of some small, undeniably “girl” thing that society might have minimized.
Elisabeth: (Without hesitation.) I feel proud when my kids call me by my first name in a proud tone. Little victories. Finger down.
Deborah: (Softly.) I feel proud when a young woman I once judged on the bench writes to say she became a lawyer. Finger down.
Elisabeth: (Reaches across to squeeze Deborah’s hand.) That’s something.
Deborah: (Squeezes back.) It is. Thank you for the tea and the truths.
Elisabeth: Anytime, Your Honor. Same time next Tuesday?
Deborah: (Smiles.) It’s a date. And next time, I bring the biscuits.
(They laugh and finish their tea as the afternoon light softens, the game ending in understanding rather than competition.)
Elisabeth (Elizabeth) is a faithful woman of the New Testament remembered for her role in God’s unfolding plan of salvation. She was married to Zechariah, a priest, and Luke tells us she was “of the daughters of Aaron,” indicating her priestly heritage. Though righteous in the sight of God, Elisabeth and Zechariah had no children because Elisabeth was barren and both were advanced in years (Luke 1:5–7).
Their lives were dramatically changed when the angel Gabriel appeared to Zechariah and announced that Elisabeth would bear a son who would be filled with the Holy Spirit and would prepare the people for the Lord. This child, John the Baptist, was to “turn many of the children of Israel to the Lord their God” and herald the coming of the Messiah (Luke 1:13–17). When the promise was fulfilled, the neighborhood rejoiced at the birth (Luke 1:57–58).
Elisabeth is also remembered for her humble faith and spiritual discernment. When her relative Mary visited after the angelic announcement of Jesus’ conception, the baby in Elisabeth’s womb leaped, and she was filled with the Holy Spirit; she blessed Mary and spoke words of blessing over Mary’s faith: “Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her from the Lord” (Luke 1:39–45; Luke 1:45).
From a Christian perspective, Elisabeth is a model of patient faith, humility, and openness to God’s unexpected work. Through her motherhood of John the Baptist she became an instrument in preparing the way for Jesus, and her story testifies to God’s faithfulness in fulfilling his promises (Luke 1:67–79).
Deborah is one of the most remarkable leaders in the Old Testament. The book of Judges introduces her plainly and powerfully: “And Deborah, a prophetess, the wife of Lapidoth, she judged Israel at that time” (Judges 4:4, KJV). As both prophetess and judge, Deborah exercised spiritual discernment and civil authority during a time when Israel was under the yoke of Canaanite oppression.
When the LORD commanded deliverance, Deborah summoned Barak and proclaimed God’s promise of victory, saying that the Lord would give Sisera, the Canaanite commander, into their hands (Judges 4:6–7). Though Barak hesitated and insisted Deborah accompany him, she agreed and went; her faith and leadership helped bring about a decisive victory (Judges 4:8–9). The final overthrow of Sisera — accomplished through God’s providence and the unexpected instrumentality of Jael — underscored the theme that God raises up deliverers and uses unlikely people to fulfill his purposes.
Deborah also composed and led Israel in a hymn of praise after the victory (Judges 5), an inspired poetic account that celebrates God’s power and Israel’s deliverance. Her closing words echo the devotional hope of God’s people: “So let all thine enemies perish, O LORD: but let them that love him be as the sun when he ariseth in his might” (Judges 5:31, KJV).
From a Christian perspective, Deborah stands as a model of faithful obedience, courageous leadership, and dependence on God. She shows that God equips and calls leaders—women and men alike—by his Spirit to speak, judge, and lead his people for his glory.
Being a girl, in the Christian understanding, is a gift and a calling. Girls are made in the image of God, bestowed with unique gifts, tenderness, strength, and creativity to reflect His glory. Scripture and the lives of faithful women — like Mary’s obedience, Ruth’s loyalty, Esther’s courage — show that God uses women in many ways to shape His story.
To be a girl means to grow in wisdom and character, to love sacrificially, to serve faithfully, and to pursue holiness through prayer, Scripture, and community. It means cherishing dignity and setting a course toward the purposes God has given, whether in family, work, leadership, or witness.
Ultimately, being a girl is about identity rooted not in appearance or achievement but in Christ: beloved, chosen, and called to shine His light in the world.
![interview-6962519_1280[1]](https://bibletronic.com/wp-content/uploads/elementor/thumbs/interview-6962519_12801-e1680110754794-r03x4x3cgmubufi57hfkheek5u3u5soz2vg670mo74.png "interview-6962519_1280[1]")
Have fun creating a conversation between two Bible characters. One in the Old Testament and one in the New Testament and see what happens!