“That is not true, master.” Nava spoke up, something she never did. “Hannah did as much work as Peninnah. More, even.”
“You listen to a servant? Your wife is worthless. She goes off to visit Hophni’s wife and never once invited me to meet her, and then returns expecting the work to be done. But let her have five children to look after—some of whom should have gone with you!” She pointed at Elkanah. “See how much she complains then!”
“Enough!” Elkanah felt heat burn his cheeks, and the twisting in his gut turned white-hot, his anger nearly impossible to hold in check. He glanced at Hannah, whose tears streamed down her cheeks, and suddenly he could not stay angry with anyone. “Hannah?” He came to kneel at her side. “Why do you weep? And why do you not eat?” He had noticed her food untouched, though everyone else seemed to find reason to feast despite the volley of words. He touched her shoulder, but her tears fell faster. She covered her face with both hands. “Hannah, why is your heart sad? Am I not more to you than ten sons?”
Hadn’t he assured her of his love over and over? Couldn’t she have learned to be happy without a child as long as she had him? Adonai, what do I say to her?
He grasped her hand and brushed the tears with a linen cloth, then cupped her cheek. “Please, Hannah.” He met her gaze. “Eat? Let us all calm down and worship Adonai together. Can we do that?”
She gave him a slight nod, but she did not smile. When he felt certain she would not run from them back to her tent, he sat at his place again and dipped his bread in the olive oil and sopped up a portion of the lentils. His gaze shifted around the table. His sons had watched the exchange, and he could see his oldest boys’ clenched jaws and frowns.
Peninnah’s expression remained sour, and she spoke only to her sons and daughters, while Hannah ate very little in silence.
Elkanah took a drink of the wine Nava poured each of them and wondered how he ever thought himself blessed.
Hannah listened to the conversation and picked at the food Elkanah had put on her plate, but she had no desire to touch the wine. Not when her stomach was so knotted with anxiety and empty of nourishment. Not when she was clenching so tight to keep her emotions in check that she could barely hear the words above the roaring in her ears.
She needed to leave this meal. But one look at Elkanah watching her kept her seated and attempting to swallow a few more bites.
“If you cannot eat it all,” Nava whispered, leaning toward Hannah’s ear, “when no one is looking, I will scoop most of it into a bowl and we will take it to your tent. You can eat it later when you are hungry.”
Hannah half smiled at her maid’s conspiratorial grin. “I shouldn’t,” she whispered. “It isn’t right.”
“It isn’t wrong either,” Nava countered. “It is better than sitting here pretending.”
Hannah glanced at her maid and offered a brief nod. She picked up her cup but did not bring the liquid to her lips. When Elkanah and Peninnah were looking the other direction, Hannah slipped Nava her bowl. Moments later she returned to her plate and took one last bite of the bread. Elkanah looked her way, noticed what she had “eaten,” and smiled. Nava excused herself to get more wine to pour for the others, a decided lump beneath her robe. But no one paid attention to a servant, and Hannah’s heart surged with gratitude for the one person who seemed to understand.
If only she felt the same. But she didn’t understand, couldn’t fathom why God, Maker of heaven and earth, the Giver of life, would choose to forget her and bless her rival. Was it her battle with bitterness toward Peninnah? Had she been ungrateful to Galia or Elkanah or her parents or . . . someone?
Tears came again and she could not sit a moment more. She stood. “If you will please excuse me.” She looked at Elkanah, whose brows knit, but he gave a nod.
“So she gets to run off and not help clean up after I did all the work preparing?”
Peninnah’s words trailed after her as she hurried away, tears now coming from a place deep within. She gulped on a great sob, unable to stop the pain.
Enough, Elkanah had said. Indeed, she had taken all she could bear. She had tried without success to be patient, to be kind when she was accused, to be forgiving even when she had to forgive over and over again.
She picked up her skirts and ran through the camp, past other tribes, until she reached the gateway to the tabernacle. The area was dark except for the menorah aflame behind the curtain where she could not go. The high priest, Eli, sat on a bench beside the doorpost of the tented enclosure that housed the holy things. He was obviously watching the courtyard, where sacrifices were made and those in service carried out various duties, and where singers offered hymns of worship, something she and Elkanah had once loved.
The thought brought more tears. She and Elkanah had once loved Adonai above all things. They had been drawn to each other because of their mutual love of God and their longing to worship Him. But now . . . so much life had come between them. So many unmet expectations of the future they had planned. Did Elkanah still love Adonai as he once did? Did she?
She walked the length of the tent, to the side and in front where Eli sat, unable to stop herself from weeping. I can’t live like this, Lord. I feel like a little part of me dies inside every time I see Peninnah, and I feel even worse when she opens her mouth. And all I can think is . . . what have I done? Surely I have sinned against You. Surely I have withheld something, have put something in my life above You. But I cannot see what it could be.
She wept more and fell to her knees some distance from Eli, rocking back and forth, her tears, like her words, silent. Had she withheld something from Adonai? She had given Him her trust, had done all she could to obey the commands to love Him with all of her heart and mind and strength. What more must she do?
She felt as though she had fallen into a river and was being dragged beneath the surface, the waters rushing over her, until she sat up gasping for air. But it was only the strength of her violent sobs.
Oh Adonai, do You even hear me?
She looked around at the empty courtyard, saw the brazen altar, and caught the outline of a man ushering a woman around a corner into the darkness. The sins of Hophni and Phinehas had spread to too many Levites living in Shiloh, and the mistreatment of women and children had to stop. Raziela’s face surfaced in her mind’s eye, and the horror of what she and those children and their mothers went through sickened her.
“We need a deliverer,” Elkanah had said many times. Hadn’t she agreed, even prayed for one? Elkanah claimed that deliverer could not be him, and Hannah could not imagine one of Peninnah’s spoiled sons filling such a role.
But a child raised to love Adonai from his birth would be different.
The ability to breathe returned as she pondered that thought. To devote a child to Adonai meant leaving him here. If Eli raised him, he would be no better than Eli’s two corrupt sons. Raziela and Irit might look after the child, but they could not keep him. That would put the boy under the direct influence of Hophni and Phinehas.
The thoughts warred within her. She had wanted to do something to make things better, to bring the nation back to where they should be. Like Deborah of old had done. But Hannah was no Deborah, and she was not fighting a war with foreign peoples.
No. The war is within your own household, your own nation.
The realization was not new, but she saw it suddenly in a different light. How could one woman possibly help save her home, her place of worship, the land and people she loved?
I have nothing to give You, Adonai. More tears came as she stared up at the stars.
“Look up at the sky and count the stars—if indeed you can count them,” Adonai had said to Abraham. “So shall your offspring be.”
She couldn’t count them and doubted her forefather could have either. But all nations would be blessed through the man who had fathered their nation because he had obeyed God, even when it meant he thought he would lose his only beloved son.
Hannah swa
llowed hard as thoughts churned through her. Could she obey God even at the cost of losing an only beloved child? Could she give back what God had given?
A shudder worked through her as she fought with the very idea. I can’t. Not that she had anything to offer . . . but what if she did? To offer a child as Abraham had done—his only son . . .
She doubled over, face to the earth. Oh Adonai Tzva’ot.
She wept at His very name, unable to speak for a lengthy breath. Her heart warred with a promise she could make but was not sure she could bear to keep. And yet . . .
The battle raged as she rose to her knees, letting the tears fall from her cheeks to the dirt. She looked once more at the stars and clasped her hands.
O Lord of Hosts, if You will indeed look on the affliction of Your servant and remember me and not forget Your servant, but will give to Your servant a son, then I will give him to the Lord all the days of his life, and no razor shall touch his head. He will be a Nazarite all the days of his life, and I will teach him to observe all of Your commands before I give him back to You.
She glanced at Eli as she prayed, her lips moving but no sound coming out, noticing his gaze fixed on her. How ridiculous she must look to him. She wiped her wet cheeks and straightened her disheveled robe.
Eli leaned forward and called out to her, his tone stern. “How long are you going to stay drunk? Put away your wine.”
“Not so, my lord,” Hannah said, stepping closer and kneeling before him. “I am a woman who is deeply troubled. I have not been drinking wine or beer. I was pouring out my soul to the Lord. Do not take your servant for a wicked woman. I have been praying here out of my great anguish and grief.”
Eli looked at her, his brow furrowed, then sat back as if satisfied with her response. “Go in peace, my daughter, and may the God of Israel grant you what you have asked of Him.”
Hannah’s heart lifted at his blessing, and lightness filled her whole being. Peace and a sense of surprising joy washed over her like refreshing rain. “May your servant find favor in your eyes,” she said.
31
Hannah walked slowly back to camp, her step light, her heart lifted. She paused to gaze at the stars more than once, feeling as if God Himself stood among their far-off lights and looked down on her with kindness. Did she find favor in His eyes? Had she had His favor all along, or was it her promise that brought this feeling of rightness to her heart?
Do You see me?
Yet she knew. She knew He not only saw but He had heard.
A smile slowly filled her face, and she suddenly wanted to laugh and jump and dance and sing. Energy bubbled within her, and she quickened her pace to the camp, to Elkanah.
Elkanah. A sigh escaped as she recalled the many times they had spoken of Adonai Tzva’ot, the Lord of Hosts. The days they had pondered together the things they found difficult to understand. And other times when they had served and worshiped Him as one.
Images of Peninnah skipped through her thoughts as well, but she pushed them aside. Despite Peninnah’s presence, she loved Elkanah. She had always loved him. Did he know it? Truly?
She must tell him. Must show him that he did matter more to her than ten sons. That she trusted God to give them a child, and if He did, she would return the gift, loan him back in service to the Lord. But Elkanah must agree, for her vow meant nothing if he did not support her.
Would he support her? A twinge of doubt slowed her step, but a moment later she banished it. Unless God provided the child, there would be no vow to keep. She could trust Adonai to handle Elkanah’s feelings on the matter when the time came.
The familiar tents came into view and Hannah hastened her step. The lights had dimmed near Peninnah’s tent, the food put away—probably something she would hear about in days to come—but the torch stood like a waiting beacon outside of her tent. She entered to find Elkanah and Nava sitting, waiting.
Elkanah jumped up and hurried to her side. “You’re back.” He pulled her close. “I was worried,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s not safe to go off alone.”
She leaned against his chest, taking in the feel, the scent of him. How she missed him! Really missed him in heart and soul, not only because she had been gone a few hours. She felt as though she had been away from their relationship for a long, long time.
Laughter rose from deep within, and she took a step back, smiling as she took Elkanah’s hands in hers. “I am sorry for worrying you, my love. But I am glad that I went, for now I know that God hears and answers prayers. And I know that I can trust Him with our future.”
He looked at her, his brow lifted in that skeptical gaze he had, but a moment later he smiled in return. “You are no longer sad.” He must have realized that her smile reached her eyes and her laughter was not forced, for he picked her up and swung her around, laughing with her.
“No, I am not.” She hoped he could read the love in her gaze. “But I am hungry!” She grinned and glanced around, noting Nava had risen and retrieved the bowl of food she had left mostly untouched.
Elkanah looked from Hannah to her maid, then back at Hannah again. “What is this?”
“I have a very sneaky maid,” Hannah said, pulling him down with her to sit while she accepted the food and wine from Nava. She offered bites to Elkanah, who accepted them freely.
“And a wise one,” Elkanah said, mouthing a quiet thank-you to Nava. She blushed and slipped away into the other part of the tent, leaving them alone.
“Who cleaned up the food? I suppose I will hear complaints about that tomorrow.” Hannah ate a piece of the meat that no was longer warm.
“I put the older boys to work helping Nava. I gave Peninnah the night to go into her tent and rest. She took the youngest children with her and didn’t look back.”
“I doubt she was happy about it.” Suddenly Peninnah’s happiness did not matter, except where Hannah might offer her kindness. Peninnah’s bitterness seemed to have lost its strength in her own newfound joy.
“She will get over it.” Elkanah took her hand. “Let’s not talk about her tonight. I want to know what took my favorite wife from weeping to laughter.” He searched her face. “Tell me?”
Hannah set her food aside and took a sip of wine. She held the cup for a moment, then set it aside as well. “I went to the tabernacle and I prayed.”
Elkanah’s brows knit. “That’s it?”
She nodded. “It was a long prayer with much weeping.”
“But you have prayed before. We have offered sacrifices and prayed together.” He scratched his beard.
“This was different. It was something I had to do alone.” She paused, debating with her earlier resolve. “It involves a vow.”
This time Elkanah’s surprise equaled his skepticism. “What kind of vow?”
She played with the belt of her robe. He could undo the vow. He could declare it null. “It was a vow to God.”
“What kind of vow?” he said again, more gently this time.
“I vowed that if God would give me a son, I would give him back to the Lord all the days of his life and no razor would touch his head.” She slowly released her breath, watching him.
He stared at her for so long she wondered if he would speak.
“Well?” she said at last. “Can I keep the vow?”
“You would give your only son back to God’s work after all this time, knowing you would not get to raise him or see him often?” Incredulity filled his expression.
“You have often said we need a deliverer from the evil of the tabernacle. Our son will be that person.” As she said the words, certainty filled her. She would have a son. And that son would grow up to lead Israel back to Adonai. She knew it as well as she knew her own heart.
Elkanah still stared at her, and she recognized that he could not quite accept her words. He did not have the certainty she did.
“I will not nullify your vow. If Adonai sees fit to bless you with a son, you may do as you have said.” He smiled, and she saw beli
ef in his gaze. Deep down they shared the same faith. But Elkanah would need time to share her certainty and trust.
Peninnah trailed behind Elkanah and Hannah and some of her oldest sons, even avoiding Galia’s company. Something had happened to change Hannah. And it was drawing Elkanah even closer to her side than he had been throughout the years.
She scowled at her mother, who had hold of Yemima’s hand. “Your advice is worthless to me,” she said through gritted teeth. “You tell me to make her miserable, to taunt her and goad her, and look at her now! She is singing and Elkanah is joining in, and it’s all your fault.”
Her mother lifted her head and looked into Peninnah’s eyes. “I will not accept that from you, my daughter. Show some respect for your mother.”
Peninnah’s cheeks flushed hot. Anger, always so close to the surface, brought the unexpected sting of emotion. She could not speak. She would not cry.
But she had lost him as surely as she had lost her father. Was this her lot then? To be like her mother? Married but not really married? Not abused as her mother had been, but surely unloved? Never wanted and never loved?
She glanced at her daughters skipping beside her, held by the hand. Such life. Such energy. The babe squeezing inside of her had taken too much out of her this time. She was weary of fighting. Weary of children and sharing a husband.
Why couldn’t Elkanah at least care for her? She had spent years giving him children and offering herself to him whenever he desired her. But those times were so few. He came to see the children, but they barely spoke unless she found something to complain to him about. He never asked her questions. Never would have cared if she had been the one weeping at the feast.
She slowed her step, not caring if she fell behind the others. Pain filled her middle, but she knew this was not from the babe. This pain ran deeper than something physical, and she struggled to understand. Why had her whole life been one of misery?
A Passionate Hope--Hannah's Story Page 20
