Sons of Encouragement

by Francine Rivers

  God demanded that His people live holy lives and not intermingle with those who had corrupted the land. All his sons could see were the healthy vines, the orchards, the houses, the wells of water. They failed to uproot and destroy every enemy of God, and now Canaanites were springing up here and there, like poisonous weeds, and their evil ways with them.

  His sons and the other men of Judah had yet to take Kiriath-sepher. The fortified city was still infested with Canaanite vermin.

  Caleb’s twelve sons and their many sons plowed and planted, tended and harvested, believing their efforts made the difference between prosperity and poverty. And each year, they had to work a little harder.

  “It is not by your strength and power that you conquered this land, but by the Spirit of the Lord!” Caleb told them.

  “Someone has to plow, Father. Someone has to plant the seed.”

  “But it is the Lord who waters, my sons. It is the Lord who gives the sunlight and makes things grow.”

  “Things grew here long before we came. Canaan was a treasure trove before we entered it.”

  Caleb felt his skin prickle with alarm. He had heard that some of his sons were going after other gods. Mesha’s words confirmed it. “God made it prosper. He prepared this land for us.”

  “So you say.”

  They listened less with each passing year. And like this morning, they prayed the same prayers they prayed every day, and then went off to live life on their own terms.

  “Good morning, Father.”

  Startled from his grim thoughts, he turned. Acsah, his only daughter, the last child of his loins, came to him and slipped her arm into his. She had Maacah’s dark eyes and olive skin and his red hair. Edom, some called her when they thought his back was turned and he couldn’t hear. Had her mother sent her to tend him?

  “Do you think I need help to the rock?”

  “You have that look again.”

  Annoyed, he shook off her support and made his way toward his destination. Every joint in his body ached. His legs felt like tree trunks sending roots into the ground. Stooped, he gritted his teeth against the grinding pain and jabbed his walking stick into the ground. One deliberate step at a time.

  Acsah strolled at a leisurely pace beside him, her hands clasped behind her back. He glowered at her. “Don’t hover like a mother hen!”

  “You’re in a fine mood this morning.”

  Because he had fixed his gaze upon her, he stumbled. He caught himself, but not before he had seen her quick movement. His heart thundered in fury. “What would you do? Throw yourself on the ground to cushion my fall?”

  “Should I stand by and watch my father dive headfirst into the ground?”

  “You have work to do. Go do it.”

  She looked away and blinked. “I’ve been to the well.”

  Women were always too quick to tears. He didn’t soften. “There are other things to do besides water the sheep and goats.”

  Eyes flashing, her chin came up. “Then give me the sword and let me do it.”

  He gave a derisive laugh and hobbled on. Maybe if he ignored her, she would go away. He groaned as he eased himself down on the flat boulder.

  Lord, I can’t get my sons to sit for an hour and listen to me, but this girl digs in like a tick.

  Sighing deeply, he hunched in the shade of the ancient olive tree. Acsah sat within the cool circle of shade. He peered at her, still irritated. “It’s time you were married.” She would scurry off at that. She usually kept her distance for a few days when he mentioned her future.

  “There’s no one worthy enough to marry me.”

  “Oh!” He laughed outright at that. “You don’t think much of yourself, do you? A half-caste Canaanite whelp.”

  Her olive skin reddened. She turned her face away.

  Caleb clenched his teeth. “It’s time you covered your hair.”

  She looked back at him. “It’s time for a lot of things, Father.”

  “You’re not a child anymore. You’re—” he frowned—“how old are you?”

  She stared at him without answering.

  Anger bubbled up inside him. “Don’t think my arm isn’t long enough to deal with you.”

  Acsah rose gracefully and sat near enough that he could backhand her. “Anything to make your life easier, Father.”

  He raised his hand. She didn’t draw back. He watched the pulse throb in her throat. Anger or fear? What did it matter? Releasing his breath slowly, he lowered his hand. He ignored her. The silence lengthened, but not comfortably. He cleared his throat; the sound came like a low growl. She raised one brow. He closed his eyes. Maybe if he pretended to nap.

  “What were you going to say to my brothers?”

  His mouth tightened. He opened one eye. “Ask them. They could tell you word for word what I was going to say. The same things I always say; the same things they always ignore.”

  “If you were going to tell them about the plagues of Egypt and the wandering in the wilderness, you tell the stories better than they do.”

  “They are not stories! I lived through those times.”

  “I wish I had.”

  He ignored the longing in her voice. “Did your mother tell you to come out and humor me?”

  “Do you think I need my mother to command me to sit with you? I love you, Abba!” She looked at him, unblinking, and then bowed her head. “If I heard your stories a thousand times, Father, it would not be enough.”

  He said nothing and she looked up. He saw the yearning in her dark eyes, the intensity of her interest. Why was it that this girl, daughter of his concubine, had such a passion for God when his sons had so little? Overcome by despair, he cried out bitterly, “Go away. Leave me alone.” What use was a girl?

  She rose slowly and walked away, shoulders slumped.

  Caleb regretted his harshness, but did not call her back.

  The day wore on, the same as every other. Everyone had things to occupy their time and their minds. Except Caleb. He sat and waited for time to pass, waited for the sun to cross the sky and dip red-gold, orange-purple into the west. Right now, it was overhead and beating down. He wished for a cooler place, but was too weary to get up and make his way back to the house.

  Caleb watched Acsah work with the wives of her brothers and half brothers. She did not seem interested in their conversation. They talked around her. They laughed. Some leaned close and whispered, eyes upon her. Caleb tried not to think about it. He tried not to let it bother him that his daughter was treated like an outsider. Even after all these years, he remembered how he had felt.

  When he dozed, he dreamed of Egypt. He stood before his father again, arguing. “This is a God of gods, a Lord of lords. Wherever He leads, I will follow.” When he awakened, he felt an ache in his heart so deep he had to breathe around it.

  Acsah came with bread and wine. “You haven’t eaten since early this morning.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  She left it for him anyway.

  After a while, he dipped the bread into the wine. When it was softened, he chewed slowly until it was a sodden mass he could swallow.

  Acsah came again, bringing his great-grandchildren with her this time. “Come, come, children. Listen to Abba tell of the plagues of Egypt and the opening of the Red Sea.” She sat them around him and took a place herself on the outer edge of the gathering. Gratified, Caleb spoke of the events that had shaped his faith and molded his life. It was not a quick telling, and one by one, the children rose and went away to play, until only Acsah remained.

  He gave a weary sigh. “You’re the only one who cares to listen.”

  Her eyes filled. “I wish it were not so.”

  His sons were returning from the fields, their hoes across their shoulders, hands draped over them. They looked weary, discontent. He looked at Acsah, still waiting, hope in her eyes. “How is it that you alone hang upon every word about the Lord our God?”

  “I don’t know, Father. Where did your faith c
ome from?”

  Acsah’s answer remained in Caleb’s grieving mind. How had he come by his faith? Why was it he could not instill faith in his sons?

  He lay awake upon his cushions all night, thinking. How was it that he alone among all his family members had known there was only one God with power, that all the others were counterfeit? He had grown up with the idols of Egypt, given libations and prayers as did his mother and father and his brothers and their wives. Yet, the moment Moses had returned from Midian, Caleb had known his life would never be the same. He had witnessed the plagues and known without doubt that the God of Moses, the God of Abraham was all-powerful. All the gods of Egypt could not prevail against Him, for they were nothing more than the pathetic conjuring of men’s imaginations.

  Faith had come to him like a flash of sunlight, a joy in his heart. Here is a God I can worship! Here is a God I can follow with confidence and rejoicing!

  But faith had not come to his family members in the same way—reason and necessity had drawn them. Crops beaten down by hail and burned by lightning, animals dead from disease, boils making the Egyptians moan in agony, Caleb knew it had been fear that made his family listen at last to his reasoning and follow him to the Hebrew encampment. They’d never shared his excitement or joy at being in the Presence of the cloud or pillar of fire. They’d never stood in wonder and stared at the swirling canopy of light and shadow.

  They followed in dread.

  They obeyed out of fear.

  They gave offerings because the Law required them to do so.

  Surely my faith came from You, Lord, and I can’t boast in it. It was born in an instant. My eyes and ears were opened. My heart beat as though for the first time. My lungs filled with the air of thanksgiving. I wanted to be counted among Your people. I wanted to live a life that would please You.

  Why not my sons? Why only Acsah, a girl, last and least among all my offspring?

  He wearied himself asking the questions. Whatever the reason, Acsah believed as strongly as he did. She yearned to be close to God the way he yearned. But instead of encouraging her faith, he had assumed she was patronizing him. He had been irritated at the thought of his concubines and sons humoring him, thinking he was an old man and should have someone to watch over him.

  But Acsah’s faith was genuine.

  Only last year, when they had gone up to Jerusalem to the solemn assembly of Atonement Day, Caleb had watched her gather olive and myrtle branches and palm branches while his sons were off celebrating with their friends.

  “Where is Acsah?”

  “Am I my sister’s keeper?”

  Maacah slapped Sheva. “Go and find her. And you, too, Tirhanah.” She gestured to her sons.

  “She is building a booth,” Caleb said.

  Maacah had looked at him, perplexed. “Did you send her?”

  He could see that his concubine wondered if he had lost his mind. “No. She went of her own accord.”

  “But why?”

  He looked at his sons. “Atonement Day is followed by the Festival of the Booths.”

  “We haven’t lived in booths since Joshua died, Father.”

  “No one does that anymore.”

  Caleb roused. “It would be good for you to remember why we wandered in the wilderness for forty years and had to live in booths!”

  Into the tense silence that followed, Maacah spoke gravely. “An unmarried girl has no business living outside her father’s house.” His sons went to bring her back. He remembered how Acsah had fought and then, defeated, had wept.

  Now they lived in a garden of God’s making, and the wilderness was forgotten. So, too, were the lessons they had learned there.

  Caleb knew he must do something before it was too late.

  I am an old man, Lord, and I cannot fight anymore. My words no longer fire men’s blood. The sin in our lives is a greater threat than our enemies! We have not completed the work You set before us. I look around me and see how complacent my sons have become, how complacent the people.

  We rebuild towns, but step over the rubble in our lives. We make friends with those who despise Your Name. I don’t know what to do. I’m tired, worn down by despair, worn out by age. I can barely rise from my pallet now or eat my food. Servants tend me. But my mind, Lord, my mind still races. My heart still pounds out praises to Your name!

  “He’s crying again.”

  Caleb sat with his back resting against cushions propped up to support him. Was he crying? Tears seemed to come without warning these days. His body was feeble. Did they think his mind was as well? He listened to his sons talk around him. He hadn’t spoken in days, his thoughts focused on God. Perhaps his silence now would cause them to open their ears when he did decide to speak again. If he did. He would say nothing until the Lord told him what to do. For now, let them wonder. He was beyond explanations, weary of trying to convince them to pursue God’s will.

  I wait upon You, Lord. Until I take my last breath, I wait upon You. Tell me what I am to do about my sons.

  Acsah came near. She rested her hand upon his shoulder and knelt beside him, a bowl of brown muck in her hand. He scowled as he looked at it. The few teeth he had left were worn down and caused him pain. He was reduced to eating finely chopped meat and mashed vegetables. He couldn’t even tell what she was offering him.

  She placed the bowl in his hands. “Please, Father, eat a little. You need it to keep up your strength.”

  It would do no good to tell her that he had lost his sense of smell and taste and that to eat this slop tested his will.

  “What ails Father?” Hur studied him from across the room.

  Moza shrugged. “He’s old; that’s what ails him.” He called to Acsah and held his cup up so she could replenish his wine.

  Haran ate a date. “He hardly eats.”

  “He’s not leading an army anymore.”

  “He hasn’t said a word in days.”

  Acsah poured wine into Caleb’s cup. “Perhaps he’s tired of speaking and being ignored.”

  Her older brother Sheber scowled. “Go about your business, girl, and leave the men to theirs.”

  Caleb clenched his jaw. It wasn’t the first time he had heard his sons speak to their sister with such disdain. Even some of his sons’ wives treated her like an outsider, a servant at best. And Acsah had more faith than all of them combined.

  “Perhaps his mind is going.” Sheber did not appear much distressed at the possibility.

  “The people still revere him. If his mind is going, we should keep quiet about it and not shame him.”

  Caleb felt his sons studying him. He didn’t raise his head or look at them, but ate slowly with a trembling hand.

  “He’s praying.” Acsah again, quietly, tenderly.

  “For seven days straight? No man prays that long.”

  “Moses was on the mountain forty days and forty nights.”

  Sheber waved his sister off. “Moses. Yes. Our father believes in God, but Father was a warrior, not a prophet.”

  “God chose him after Joshua—”

  “Hush, girl! Go feed the goats.” Shaaph gestured. “Go card wool. Get out of our hair.”

  Caleb heard the clatter of crockery and stomping feet.

  “Maybe Acsah is right. Maybe he is praying.”

  “We’re at peace. We’re prospering. What is there to pray about now?”

  Caleb lost what little appetite he had. Shaking, he leaned forward to put his bowl down.

  “You’d better take that from him or he’ll spill it all over himself.”

  Hebron took the bowl and set it aside.

  “I’ve never seen him pray longer than a few hours at one sitting.” Tirhanah squinted at his father.

  “We should do something about Acsah.”

  “What about Acsah?”

  “We should find her a husband.”

  “Mesha’s youngest daughter is a year younger than our sister, and she’s married and has a son. Acsah needs sons.”
/>   “She has four brothers. She doesn’t need sons.”

  “Besides, she’s needed here.”

  His sons were silent just long enough for Caleb to know they were looking at him. The heat of anger surged into Caleb’s face, but he did keep his silence.

  Replete from the sumptuous meal, Sheber leaned back with a belch. “She’s content.”

  Content? How little they knew or cared about their sister.

  “Just leave her be. If she wants to get married, she’ll say something to Father about it and he can decide what to do about her.”

  It was easy to see they all assumed he would do nothing because of the convenience of her tender care. He kept his head down, pretending to doze. Let them think he was a tired old man, hardly able to chew his bread. One by one, his sons rose and went out to whatever work or pleasurable activities they had planned for themselves.

  Acsah returned and knelt beside him. She tore off some bread and dipped it into the wine and held the morsel to his lips. “Just a little, Father, please. Don’t give up.”

  He looked into her eyes. The others no longer needed him. They were moving on with their lives, moving ahead without any thought of him. But she was different. She was determined to keep him going. Why? Oh, Lord, I’m tired. I’m sick at heart. Don’t let me live long enough to see my sons all turn away from You. Let me die before that day comes. Unable to stop the tears, he bent his head and let them come, shoulders heaving.

  “God of mercy and strength . . .” Acsah spoke softly, weeping as she prayed fervently. For him. “Give Father back his strength, Lord. We need him. If he lays down his head now, what will become of our people? Who will rise up to shout Your name? Who will . . . ?”

  Caleb’s tears ceased as he listened to his daughter. His mind opened wide, as though a hand drew aside a curtain so that he could see clearly. Did his sons love him as she did? Did they listen to him with open mind and heart, absorbing the lessons he had to teach as though his words came from the Lord Himself? Acsah. Sweet Acsah. A future and a hope lay before him. This girl was more like him than all his sons combined. They caused him endless grief; she lived to please him. She alone stood straight among others who bent with the wind.