by Lynn Austin
He had done the same when he returned home after celebrating the Feast of Pentecost-but no Jerusha.
When harvesttime ended and Jerimoth had stored away the last of his crops, he and his family traveled to Jerusalem again for the Feast of Tabernacles, bringing the tenth portion of all his crops as a sacrifice for Yahweh. Once again they stayed with Hilkiah, and, like the other pilgrims, they slept outside on the rooftop in rustic booths to celebrate the long wanderings of their forefathers in the wilderness. The Feast of Tabernacles was a joyful feast, and on the last night the men sang and danced and waved branches in joyful praise to Yahweh.
But Jerimoth couldn't rejoice as the other men did. He was eager to return home, to be reunited with his daughter. He knew she would be waiting for him. And as his feet moved in rhythm beside Hilkiah's, Jerimoth's dance became an endless, silent plea to God for his daughter Jerusha's return.
On the last night of the feast, Eliakim returned home from the festivities with the other men long after sunset. His feet hurt from dancing in his new sandals, and he was ready to sleep. But his father and Jerimoth seemed oblivious to the late hour. Instead of heading to bed, they settled down in the large main room of Hilkiah's house, lighting all the oil lamps, talking together.
"It's hard to believe that the festival is over already," Jerimoth said.
"Yes, it has gone quickly, hasn't it?" Hilkiah agreed. "Tomorrow is the final convocation already. I suppose you'll need to start for home afterward?"
"That's when our caravan is leaving."
"I hate to see you go, my friend. I can't tell you how much I enjoy our visits together." Hilkiah's eyes twinkled warmly in the lamplight. "Naturally, Eliakim and I will look forward to seeing you again in the spring for Passover. Right, son?"
"Absolutely!" Eliakim replied. As much as he hated to admit it, his father had been right once again. Eliakim had grown very fond of Jerimoth and Hodesh and their little girl. Only the ghost of their lost daughter, Jerusha, who intruded into every conversation, made Eliakim uncomfortable.
"Then it's settled, yes?" Hilkiah asked. "You will come to see us again in the spring?"
Jerimoth gave a tired smile, a rare sight on his mournful face. "Thank you. I'm honored to stay in your home. And next spring you will meet my older daughter, Jerusha."
"She will be our guest of honor!" Hilkiah said. "We will bring our thank offerings to the Temple and hold a huge feast, won't we, son?"
Eliakim didn't reply. The other two men didn't seem to notice as they talked on and on, making elaborate plans to celebrate Jerusha's homecoming next spring. Eliakim wanted to go to bed, but as he listened to them, he made up his mind not to sleep another night until he had a serious talk with his father about Jerimoth's unrealistic expectations. He didn't want to belittle his father's faith in Yahweh, but discussing Jerusha had become unbearable for Eliakim. It was time that Hilkiah admitted the truth: she was never coming back. Eliakim gazed sullenly at the floor, his head in his hands, until finally Jerimoth bade them goodnight and retired to the roof.
Hilkiah yawned and stretched. "My, it's late. I guess I'll go to bed, too."
"Abba, wait. There's something we need to talk about first."
"What is it? What's wrong?"
"Abba, I don't know how to say this.... I don't want to hurt you, but we can't say good-bye to Jerimoth tomorrow until we straighten a few things out."
"Straighten out? What's to straighten?"
"I can't sit through any more evenings like tonight, Abba. I just can't."
"What are you talking about? We had a wonderful evening."
"Don't you understand? I can't bear to hear you talking to that poor man about this fantasy you've created and nurtured for so long. You keep encouraging Jerimoth as if-as if Jerusha could walk through our door any minute."
"Fantasy?"
"Yes, that's what it is-a fantasy. Jerusha isn't coming back, Abba. Not now, not next spring, not ever."
Hilkiah wore a look of incomprehension and confusion, as if Eliakim were speaking a foreign language. "How can you say such a thing?"
"No, Abba. The question is-how can you keep saying such a ridiculous thing? Jerimoth will never see his daughter again. Surely you know the truth in your heart." He rested his hand on his father's shoulder.
Hilkiah appeared stunned. Then the laughter always present in his eyes turned to anger, a rare emotion for Hilkiah. He shrugged Eliakim's hand away. "I know nothing of the sort. What I know in my heart is that Yahweh answers prayer!"
"Yes, yes. Yahweh answers some prayers-but not all prayers. Not one hundred percent of the time. Surely you know how impossible this situation is, Abba. You're asking for a miracle."
"And surely you know that Yahweh is the God of miracles! Haven't I taught you anything at all about faith?"
"Abba, be reasonable. Think about it. She was captured more than a year ago. The Assyrians killed all the other girls-"
"But not Jerusha. They never found her body."
"Yes, but even if she's still alive, the Assyrians never set their slaves free. Never! And no one has ever escaped and returned home, least of all a woman. How can Yahweh possibly answer your prayers?"
Hilkiah's face was flushed with controlled fury. "I don't care if no one has ever escaped from the Assyrians before! There's a first time for everything! And as the Torah says, `Is anything too hard for Yahweh?"'
"But you're not being fair to Jerimoth. If you're his friend, you should help him face the truth so he can get on with his life. It's not fair to encourage this irrational hope that-"
"And you think it's fair to deprive him of that hope? Is that what you're asking me to do?"
"No, Abba, but-"
"What, then?"
Eliakim exhaled. "Jerimoth has a fine wife and another daughter to live for. I'm saying we should help him see that, help him accept the truth that Jerusha is gone. She's dead. He needs to admit it and get on with his life."
"Jerimoth has a right to have faith in God!"
"All right, then! All right!" Eliakim shouted. "Let Jerimoth believe what he wants to, no matter how irrational it is! But you don't have to encourage him, Abba. You can't honestly believe he'll ever see Jerusha again, so how can you go to the Temple with him all the time and offer a bunch of useless, pious prayers? You're a hypocrite!"
The expression of rage and shock on Hilkiah's face was frightening. He drew his hand back as if to strike Eliakim-the first time he had ever done so in his life-then he stopped. He could barely speak through his anger. "I offer my prayers for Jerusha in faith! Because I believe that Yahweh answers prayer! And if there's any hypocrisy in this household, Eliakim, I might ask why you attend morning and evening prayers every day if you don't believe any of it!"
"Then why did Mama die?" he shouted. "We both prayed, we both believed, but she died anyway, Abba! She died! And so did my brothers! Where was Yahweh then? Why didn't He answer our prayers?"
Eliakim stopped, stunned by the bitterness in his voice, alarmed at the look of horror and pain on his father's face. Things had gone too far. They had both said things to hurt each other, words that could never be taken back. But before Eliakim could speak again, he heard Jerimoth's trembling voice behind him.
"Please ... don't let there be angry words and discord in this household because of me."
Eliakim's stomach knotted in shame. "Jerimoth, I'm sorry ... I-"
But Jerimoth held up his hand to silence Eliakim. "Forgive me, my friends. I never intended to eavesdrop. I came back to tell you something and heard you shouting." He sighed heavily, and his melancholy green eyes seemed more sorrowful than ever. "If I had known that I would cause a rift between father and son, I never would have set foot in your house. So listen to me, please. Eliakim, I'll go to my grave believing that God is able to answer my prayer. Somehow, someday, He will do the impossible and bring Jerusha home to me. Even if Hilkiah agreed with you-and I know that he doesn't-he could never talk me out of this conviction. Never. And, H
ilkiah, my dear friend-I beg you not to be so hard on your son. Let him question his faith. Let him voice his doubts. You've taught him well, both with your words and by your example. His questions will make his faith stronger in the end. I know that his love for you is very, very deep. How I envy you, Hilkiah! How I wish that Eliakim were my son.
Agonized silence filled the room. Eliakim stared mutely at the floor. Never in his life had there been such a terrible, irreparable rift between him and his father. Hilkiah's faith was the most important thing in his life, and Eliakim had challenged that faith. Worse, he had called him a hypocrite.
Again Jerimoth broke the silence. "Please ... forgive me for interfering-but I beg you to reconcile, for my sake."
Eliakim slowly looked up, afraid to face his father, afraid to ask for the forgiveness he didn't deserve. "Abba ... I'm so sorry-" he began, but Eliakim's words were silenced by the strength of his father's embrace.
Hephzibah awoke while it was still dark, and at first she wasn't sure what had awakened her. But then she felt the dull, cramping ache inside and drew her knees up to her chest to ease the pain. When it died away, she lay still for a moment, listening in the darkness to Hezekiah's breathing as he slept beside her. A few minutes passed; then suddenly the pain returned, stronger than before. It was how she'd imagined labor pains would feel-but the baby shouldn't be coming this soon. Fear overwhelmed her.
She waited for the pain to ease, then slipped quietly from the bed. As she paused to pull the covers over her sleeping husband, she saw blood soaking the sheet. She cried out and sank to the floor beside the bed.
Hezekiah stirred, then sat up. "Hephzibah, what is it? What's wrong?" Another pain twisted through her before she could answer, and she cried out again. Hezekiah threw the covers aside and bounded out of bed. "Merab! Somebody-come quickly!" he shouted.
Merab tottered from her room, wrapping herself in a robe. When she reached Hephzibah's side she gasped. "Oh no-my lady-my lady!" More servants rushed into the room and lifted Hephzibah onto her bed. She saw Hezekiah standing over her, looking shaken and stunned. Merab took his arm and hustled him to the door.
"You'd better leave now, Your Majesty."
Hephzibah felt another pain intensifying. She began to scream.
Hezekiah returned to his chambers, but he couldn't sleep. "Dear God, please-don't take Hephzibah, too," he whispered.
He stared out of his window into the dark night, worrying about her, remembering the blood, pleading with Yahweh not to take her from him. Adjusting to Zechariah's death had been so difficult that he couldn't bear to think about losing Hephzibah. She was so much a part of his life now that he wouldn't be whole without her. Hephzibah was more to him than any other person had ever been-confidante, companion, lover, friend. How could he live without her laughter, her songs, her beauty, her love? He loved her. He had never acknowledged it before, but he knew it was true, and he was seized with the terrifying thought that she might die. With his hands bunched into fists, Hezekiah fell to his knees and prayed.
As the sun rose, he could no longer bear the agony of waiting. He returned to Hephzibah's room and tapped on the door. Merab opened it a crack.
"Is Hephzibah all right?" he asked.
"Yes, my lord. She's asleep. She'll be fine in a few days"
"Oh, thank God." His knees went weak as relief surged through him.
"But the baby is gone. I'm so sorry, Your Majesty."
For a moment Hezekiah didn't comprehend what Merab had said. In his concern for Hephzibah, he had never thought of their baby. Suddenly he understood.
"Let me see her, Merab. I won't wake her."
Hezekiah crept into the room and stood beside the bed. Hephzibah looked so fragile and pale as she lay against the pillows that he had to remind himself of Merab's words. Hephzibah would recover. She wasn't going to die. Yet the terrible fear that he might lose her was still too fresh.
"I love you," he whispered. He was surprised to realize how deeply he did love her. Hephzibah's eyelids fluttered open; then tears began to flow silently down her cheeks.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he whispered. "I'm sorry."
"No, I'm glad you're here"
"How do you feel?" It was an absurd question, but he didn't know what else to say.
"Empty. I feel so empty-as if all the life has drained out of me and I'm just a hollow shell."
"Don't cry ... there will be others. We'll have more...." His words sounded glib and artificial. He groped for better ones but couldn't find them.
"I can't stop thinking about our baby," she said softly, "and wondering what he would have looked like-if he had your hair ... your
"Hephzibah, don't."
"They told me it was a boy."
Her words stunned him. For the first time he understood that the child had been a person, a living baby boy, his son. Now he was dead. Hezekiah knew that Hephzibah's grief far surpassed his own, but at that moment he shared a small part of it with her. Their son was dead.
"Can I do anything, Hephzibah?"
"Please hold me" She held her slender arms out to him. She looked so sorrowful, so lost in the piles of pillows and covers, that Hezekiah's heart twisted inside him. He could see how much she needed him. But he hesitated, remembering something else.
"Hephzibah, I can't. I'm sorry."
"Why not?" Her eyes pleaded with him, and he had to turn away.
"Because the Torah forbids it until ... until you're better. Then for seven more days after that." He was aware of how much his words hurt her. They sounded cold and unfeeling to him as he spoke them. "Afterward, you must go to the priest and offer two doves, one for a sin offering, the other a burnt offering"
"But why? How have I sinned? Is wanting our baby to live a sin?"
Hezekiah didn't know why the Torah required it. He only knew what was written. "The Torah says-"
"Our baby is dead and you're telling me I've sinned? Is that the kind of God you worship?" The anguish in her voice cut him deeply.
"No, Hephzibah. Yahweh isn't like that."
"Then why did He let our baby die? Can you tell me why? And why does He want more blood from me? How have I sinned?" Hezekiah couldn't answer. He didn't know. "I won't bring a sin offering," she said bitterly. "I have not sinned!"
Hezekiah's stomach churned as he wrestled with his own doubts. He still didn't understand all of Yahweh's laws, and he knew how it felt to be angry with God, to have someone very precious snatched away by death. But he had finally adjusted to his loss and had accepted it as the will of God whether he understood it or not. Hephzibah would have to do the same.
He stared at his feet, ashamed to face Hephzibah, afraid she would see through his facade of legalism and discover the doubts and questions beneath it. He ached to go to her, to take her in his arms and comfort her, but if he held her he would become unclean until evening. He wouldn't be able to worship in the Temple today. And as the King of Judah, he had the responsibility to lead the final convocation of the Feast of Tabernacles.
He stood beside Hephzibahs bed, torn between love and duty. Then, as the distant shofar trumpeted the call to worship, Hezekiah turned and left the room.
Part Two
So the Lord was very angry with Israel and removed them from his presence. Only the tribe of Judah was left, and even Judah did not keep the commands of the Lord their God. They followed the practices Israel had introduced. Therefore the Lord rejected all the people of Israel; he afflicted them and gave them into the hands of plunderers, until he thrust them from his presence.
1 KINGS 17:18 20 NIV
17
DARKNESS SETTLED OVER HEPHZIBAH'S soul as night fell and the pale light of oil lamps flickered to life in the houses below her palace window. She recalled tender family scenes from her own childhood and imagined them taking place in homes throughout the city. Families would gather for the evening meal, and their faces would glow in the lamplight as they shared the day's events with each other. Then the childre
n, scrubbed and sleepy, would be tucked into their beds for the night.
If her baby had lived he would be nearly three years old, and perhaps she would be rocking him to sleep, singing him a lullaby. But her baby was dead, and Hephzibah's arms remained empty.
"My lady, that cool evening air isn't good for you," Merab said. "You'll catch a chill. Here-let me light a fire for you."
Hephzibah closed the shutters and turned away from the window. She watched her handmaiden fuss with the charcoal brazier, blowing noisily on the coals until they caught fire. "There. Maybe it'll warm up in here before the king arrives." Merab bustled around the room, plumping pillows and straightening rugs, then stopped when she glanced at Hephzibah. "What is it, my lady? What's wrong?"
"Oh, Merab, I hope my husband is too busy to come tonight."
"My lady! Why would you wish for such a thing?"
Hephzibah's grief spilled over in tears. "Because my monthly time has come again"
"Oh, don't start crying, honey. Your eyes will be all red and puffy. And he'll be here any minute." Merab dabbed at Hephzibah's eyes with a handkerchief.
"I don't want to tell him, Merab. I'm so afraid...."
"Afraid of what?"
In her despair Hephzibah voiced her greatest fear. "What if he divorces me?"
Merab stared at her in disbelief. "What? Divorce you? But the king is in love with you! Can't you see the way he looks at you-the way his eyes never leave your face? He'd sooner cut off his right arm than divorce you!"
