On This Foundation

by Lynn Austin

  “Thank you for coming tonight, Malkijah. I know we all enjoyed having you.”

  He acknowledged her words with a slight bow and said, “Let me step inside for a moment and say good night to your father and sisters.” She followed him back to the courtyard, where her sisters had cleared the table and stacked the dishes. Abba still sat in his place at the head of the table, sipping the last of his wine, but he looked up at them as they walked inside together, a hopeful smile spreading across his face.

  “Shallum, my friend, thank you for a most enjoyable evening,” Malkijah said. “Next time you must all come to my home in Beth Hakkerem and share a meal with my sons and me. I’ll show you my vineyards and winery.”

  “Your vineyards?” Chana asked. “What about the drought? Hasn’t it affected your crops?”

  “Of course. Everyone is feeling the effects. We must continue to pray for rain.”

  “We would be very happy to come,” Abba said, rising from his seat to clap Malkijah on the shoulder. “Thank you, my friend.”

  “Excellent. I will talk to my servants and make the arrangements, then send you the details.”

  When he was gone, everyone turned to Chana, waiting for her reaction to the evening and their guest. She didn’t know what to say, unwilling to raise everyone’s hopes—especially her own. “He’s very nice,” she finally said. “I’m glad we invited him. I’m glad we’ll see him again.”

  She was in bed, almost asleep when Yudit whispered, “Chana? Are you awake?”

  “Yes . . . What is it?”

  “I don’t want you to feel obligated to marry Malkijah—especially for my sake. I just wish . . . I wish you were yourself again, you know? . . . That you were happy again. Abba and Sarah and I . . . we just want you to be the way you used to be before . . .”

  “Before Yitzhak died? You can say his name, Yudit.” She recalled what Malkijah had said about people being afraid to mention lost loved ones, and how sometimes we need to talk about them. He truly did understand. “I’m sorry for being so sad, Yudit. But each day gets a little better. I’m happier today than I was yesterday or the day before. And I believe I’ll be a little happier tomorrow.” She hoped it was true.

  “That’s good. I’m glad. . . . Good night. ”

  “Good night, Yudit.”

  Chapter

  6

  THE CITADEL OF SUSA

  MAY

  Nearly a month had passed since Nehemiah said good-bye to his brother, but the weight of sorrow he felt over Hanani’s description of ruined Jerusalem never lifted. On a warm spring morning when the king called for wine, Nehemiah carried it up to the throne room himself, passing through the familiar succession of hallways and inner chambers and security doors. King Artaxerxes sat on his throne with his queen beside him, conducting state business and listening to petitions from a seemingly endless parade of courtiers. As Nehemiah poured out the king’s wine and placed it in his hand, his thoughts were on Jerusalem, and he silently asked God to show him what he could do.

  “Are you ill, Nehemiah?”

  He looked up, startled from his thoughts. King Artaxerxes was speaking to him. Nehemiah’s heart sped up. “No, Your Majesty. I’m not ill.” He had never been sad in the king’s presence before. It went against all the rules for a servant to allow his emotions to show. In fact, Nehemiah had warned all of his staff members that no matter how serious their personal problems were, they must keep their feelings to themselves and display a cheerful disposition in the king’s presence. A servant’s duty was to be positive and encouraging. But today Nehemiah’s heavy heart prevented him from keeping up the façade.

  “Then why does your face look so sad when you are not ill?” the king asked. Nehemiah’s heart slammed harder against his ribs. The queen, seated beside Artaxerxes, also looked concerned. Nehemiah knew from Esther’s story that a Persian queen could be very influential. But having the king’s attention was so surprising, so unexpected, that he couldn’t seem to find his voice.

  “This can be nothing but sadness of heart,” Artaxerxes said.

  Nehemiah nodded. Should he tell the king that his brother had recently returned to Jerusalem? That he would never see him again? It would be the truth. But what if this was a God-given opportunity to intercede for Jerusalem? Nehemiah sent up a quick, silent prayer. O Lord, give your servant success today by granting me favor in the presence of this man. Then he cleared the knot of fear from his throat.

  “Your Majesty is very perceptive,” he replied. “It is sadness of heart.”

  “Go on . . .”

  Nehemiah’s legs felt limp. Might the king interpret his unhappiness as disloyalty? After all, a discontented servant had murdered Artaxerxes’ father. Nehemiah’s mouth felt as if he’d swallowed sand as he said, “May the king live forever! Why should my face not look sad when the city where my fathers are buried lies in ruins, and its gates have been destroyed by fire?”

  He was careful not to name Jerusalem. And he didn’t know where the idea to mention his ancestors’ graves had come from, but he knew the Persians had a deep respect for ancestral burial grounds. The king frowned slightly, gazing intently at Nehemiah as if really seeing him for the first time—as a man and not simply a servant who worked in the background. Nehemiah tried to read his thoughts but couldn’t. He waited, weak-kneed, recalling the words of Solomon’s proverb: “A king’s wrath is a messenger of death.”

  The throne room fell silent, the mumbling chatter of the courtiers stilled as if a gong had rung. How dare a mere cupbearer speak his mind or reveal his feelings? Nehemiah could hear birds chirping outside the palace windows and the rustling of the wind. He felt as if he hung suspended over an abyss as he waited for King Artaxerxes’ reply. Would he plunge to his death or be hauled back to safety? O Lord, grant me favor in the presence of this man, he prayed again. His fate wasn’t in this king’s hands but in his heavenly King’s.

  “What is it you want?” Artaxerxes finally asked.

  Nehemiah breathed another silent prayer and replied, “If it pleases the king and if your servant has found favor in his sight, let him send me to the city in Judah where my fathers are buried so I can rebuild it.”

  Artaxerxes took a sip from his golden rhyton of wine before replying. Nehemiah thought he knew the king’s moods and idiosyncrasies well after spending so much time in his presence and watching him respond to hundreds of petitions and requests. He didn’t think the puzzled frown on his face was a look of anger, but of curiosity. Even so, Nehemiah couldn’t seem to breathe.

  “How long will your journey take, and when will you get back?” the king finally asked.

  “You mean . . . it pleases the king to send me?” Nehemiah asked.

  “Yes. It pleases me. You’ve served me faithfully all these years, and you have my complete trust. I know the servants you choose to replace you will also serve me well until you return.”

  Nehemiah’s breath came out in a rush of relief. It was a miracle! The Almighty One had answered his prayer. The king’s unexpected praise fueled Nehemiah’s courage, and he quickly set a time period for his mission. But then his mind raced ahead to the dangers he would face and the precautions he would need to take to ensure success. Judah’s adversaries might try to prevent him from arriving safely. And Hanani had explained how their enemies had halted construction on the city once before. “If it pleases the king,” he said, “may I have letters to the governors of The Land Beyond the River, so they will provide me with safe conduct until I arrive in Judah?”

  “You may.”

  It still didn’t seem like enough. Nehemiah remembered Jerusalem’s history and how the northern approach to the city where the temple stood was vulnerable to enemy attacks. He would need to build a fortified citadel on that side. And he would need to rebuild all of Jerusalem’s gates. “May I also have a letter to Asaph, the keeper of the king’s forest,” he added, “so he will give me timber to make beams for the gates of the citadel near the temple, and for the c
ity wall, and for the residence I will occupy?”

  “Your requests are granted,” Artaxerxes replied. “In fact, I’ve decided to appoint you governor of Judah during your time there.”

  Governor? It was more than Nehemiah could have dared to ask for. He bowed his head. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “I’ll assign an army officer and cavalry to accompany you. . . . And, Nehemiah—good luck.” The king nodded to his administrator to take over. Nehemiah followed the official from the throne room, feeling light-headed with joy and astonishment. Had Moses felt this way when the waters of the Red Sea miraculously parted for him? The gracious hand of the Almighty One had done this! He had answered Nehemiah’s prayers.

  Nehemiah worked steadily in the weeks that followed, making all the arrangements for his journey: a caravan to transport the supplies he would need; the official letters of authorization with the king’s seal; the military escort; and the details of the long trip itself with regular stops along the way. The distance from the Persian capital to the Promised Land was about one thousand miles, and he calculated that if they averaged twenty miles a day, the journey would take fifty-five days. After adding an additional eight days for resting every Sabbath, he concluded that it would take him sixty-three days to reach Jerusalem. But even as he planned and prepared, Nehemiah continued to wonder what he would find when he arrived. Were any sections of the wall salvageable, or would he have to begin with new foundations? Where would he find building stones and tools and workers? He knew he would have to build quickly, before Judah’s enemies had a chance to sabotage his efforts or send a negative report to Susa and try to halt construction. Once the king sealed his decree it couldn’t be rescinded, of course, but a king could issue a second order to cancel the first one’s effect—as King Xerxes had done to halt the slaughter on the Thirteenth of Adar. Or what if a new king came to power before Nehemiah had a chance to finish Jerusalem’s wall? Persian monarchs had a long, bloody history of power struggles and intrigues.

  In spite of all these worries, Nehemiah could barely contain his excitement. The Almighty One had faithfully answered Nehemiah’s prayer and granted him much more than he had dared to imagine. He longed to share the good news with someone, but who? There was no one. And besides, the fewer people who knew about his mission the better. It would be disastrous if news of it reached Judah before he did.

  Late one night when Nehemiah lay in bed too excited to sleep, a new thought occurred to him. After all these years, after a childhood that had ended much too quickly and sorrowfully, might he finally find meaning in the loss of his parents on that long-ago night? Was it possible that the Almighty One had used the pain he had suffered to shape him into the man he’d become—and that the pain had prepared him for this very purpose?

  For the first time, Nehemiah could think of his parents and accept consolation for their loss.

  Chapter

  7

  DISTRICT OF BETH HAKKEREM

  JUNE

  The sun hadn’t risen yet above the surrounding hills as Nava stood with her parents and two brothers in their wheat field, surveying their crop. The stalks looked dry and spindly, the kernels small compared to other years. Nava remembered wheat crops so thick she could barely push her way between the stalks, their ripe heads drooping beneath their weight. But this drought-stunted crop would be very small in comparison. Abba broke off one of the ripened ears and tasted it, chewing slowly. Nava couldn’t bear the suspense. “Is it good, Abba? Is the wheat ready to harvest?”

  He nodded. “It’s ready.” But the expression on his weather-wrinkled face betrayed his worry and disappointment. The whole family had risen early to avoid the summer heat and were waiting to begin. As soon as Abba pronounced the crop ready, he and Nava’s brothers began making their way across the field with their sickles, cutting the ripened stalks and laying them on the ground. Nava and her mother followed behind, tying the stalks in bundles with pieces of straw. Bending over in the field all day was backbreaking work, but practice had taught Nava how to quickly tie the sheaves without scratching her hands on the brittle stalks. She was thankful that Abba had a crop to harvest, even if it was a meager one. Maybe he and Dan’s father would reap enough grain to repay what they owed the man, with enough left over to feed their families in the coming months. Enough left over so she and Dan could be married.

  The scorching sun rose quickly in the cloudless sky and before long, sweat dampened Nava’s clothing and face. Her family was making good progress, the harvested sheaves were drying in the June sunshine—then she looked up and spotted two figures approaching on donkeys. One of them was the wealthy man in the snow-white turban and linen tunic trimmed with bands of scarlet, the man with the slightly crooked nose who had come three months ago. The other was his son, who had come the following day to take away her herd of goats. Nava dreaded the sight of them. Abba also spotted the men and for a moment he seemed to sway on his feet. “Sit and rest while I talk to them,” he said, wiping his brow with his forearm. Nava watched him walk across the field to meet the men, carrying a sheaf of wheat for them to sample.

  She sat down on the stubbly ground with the others for the first time all morning and took her turn sipping from the water jug. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. They had shared a meager breakfast just before dawn but it hadn’t been enough to silence the ache in her gut. Her mother and older brothers must be hungry, too.

  At first she watched from a distance as the man sampled the kernels and Abba gestured to the section of field they’d already harvested. Would it be enough to repay him? Nava stood up, unable to wait a moment longer. “I’ll go see if they would like a drink or some water for their donkeys.”

  She hurried across the field to fetch the water jar and quickly filled it at the well, then poured it into the trough for the animals. She offered a cup to the strangers but they both declined. The son hadn’t bothered to dismount, and she could tell by the expression on Abba’s face that the discussion wasn’t going well. He looked exasperated, his cheeks flushed with emotion, his voice hoarse with it. “It’s the best we could do in this drought,” he said.

  “I know, my friend. But what you need to understand is that I own the mortgage on your vineyard and fields. You borrowed money using them as collateral.”

  “And now I can repay you with this crop.”

  “I’m very sorry, but your wheat harvest won’t be enough to repay your debts because two-thirds of the crop already belongs to me. The loan was an advance against your future crop. The third that belongs to you will help pay back a portion of the second loan I gave you when you borrowed money for food. But not all of it.”

  “I gave you my herd of goats in repayment.”

  “Yes, you did. But the debt still isn’t paid in full. I’m sorry.”

  Nava’s hand shook as she tried to pour more water into the trough, splashing it on her bare feet. It wasn’t fair! After all their hard work, it still wasn’t enough for this greedy man? She wanted to shout at him in outrage.

  “Please forgive me if I failed to explain all of this to you when you asked me for the loans,” the man continued. “And again when you mortgaged your land. Perhaps I wasn’t very clear.”

  “You explained it, but . . . but I hoped this harvest would square things between us, and I would get my wheat field back.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can already see that this crop won’t be enough. If only your barley crop hadn’t failed, then you may have been closer to repaying what you owe me. But for whatever reason, the Holy One has withheld rain for a second year.”

  “You say only a third of this wheat is mine?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “But I’ll never get my land back unless I repay you. And if I give you my third to repay the loan, I’ll have nothing left to eat. I’ll be forced to borrow even more money from you or watch my family starve. I can already see that my olives and grapes aren’t going to amount to much this year.”

  “I’m n
ot demanding repayment, my friend. I understand that the drought isn’t your fault and that you’re working as hard as you can. I’m more than willing to extend your credit for as long as necessary. Perhaps the crops will do better next year.”

  Abba ran his fingers through his sweaty hair and shook his head. “Even with rain, this cycle of debt will go on forever if you keep taking two-thirds of my crops year after year. There’s no way out of this. I’ll never get my land back. The debt will keep adding up if I have nothing left to give you in payment.” He waved away the cup of water Nava offered him, saying, “Not now.”

  Nava ached for him as he battled his emotions. She longed to set down the jug and the cup and cling tightly to him, but she feared he would be unable to control his tears if she did. “I don’t know what else to do,” Abba said. They stood in the road for a long moment, the summer sun beating down on them, the donkeys swishing flies with their tails.

  “Listen, my friend,” the man said softly. “There is another way out of this dilemma that some of your fellow farmers have chosen to take. But I’m afraid it’s a costly decision.”

  “What could possibly be more costly than losing my land or watching my family starve?”

  The man exhaled. “I would be willing to make sure your family has enough to eat without adding another loan to your account . . . but your daughter would have to work for me and become my bondservant.”

  The proposal was so unexpected, so horrible, that Nava felt the panic of not being able to breathe. A bondservant?

  “No!” Abba shouted. “No! Never! Take me as your slave, not her. No!”

  “If I took you, then who would work this land and bring in next year’s crop? Don’t you see? The land technically belongs to me until the mortgage is paid, so you’re already working for me.”

  “Take one of my sons, then. Not my little girl. She’s too young.”