Love’s Sacred Song

by Mesu Andrews

With a sad shrug, he turned toward home, dreading the news he must give Arielah. She would be disappointed that the treaty bride announcement must wait, but she would understand. Leaving the crowd behind, he saw only a delicate silhouette in the moonlight, waiting by his courtyard gate. He could hear gentle sniffing and knew his daughter was crying. Of course, he thought. She must have heard everything from her hiding place in the market.

  Approaching in the darkness, Jehoshaphat spoke only when close enough to whisper. “Your ima chose your name rightly.” Tilting her chin up, he said, “Truly, from the womb you have been our lion of God, and tonight is yet another circumstance in which you must stand strong.”

  A new wave of tears overtook her, and she melted into his arms, releasing giant, heaving sobs.

  “I’m so sorry, little one,” he said, holding her tightly. “I could not pronounce you as Israel’s treaty bride tonight—as the one who will salve the wounds of Abishag’s disgrace. In light of King David’s death, I felt in my spirit that Solomon should hear the proposal first, before the northern tribes approve it.” Arielah’s tears quieted, and he whispered to his daughter’s broken heart, “I ask you the same question I asked the elders of Israel’s northern tribes. Can you trust me to do what is best for you without knowing all the details?” Jehoshaphat held her at arm’s length, awaiting her response, searching her eyes for the truth.

  “I trust you wholeheartedly,” she said. “I know you will do what is right for me—and what is best for Israel.”

  Jehoshaphat felt the dampness of her sleeve. She must have wet it with her tears, he thought. Then a cool breeze blew, and her robe fluttered. The clouds cleared, and the moonlight revealed the complete trust on Arielah’s face—and something more.

  Blood.

  Jehoshaphat was stricken. He studied her torn robe and for the first time noticed the bloodstains on her head covering and mantle. The control he’d displayed as Shunem’s judge vanished, the restraint of his emotions evaporating like morning mist.

  “Arielah, are you all right?” He gathered her in his arms again, grief nearly choking him, and his heart was torn in two. “What happened?” he whispered in her ear. But in his spirit, he knew. Arielah’s silence confirmed her brothers’ involvement. From the time they were children, she had yearned for their acceptance, hoped for their repentance, but only reaped their wrath.

  Jehoshaphat squeezed his eyes shut. Jehovah, wisdom fails me when it comes to these rebellious sons of mine. What am I to do? He had been praying for his sons’ transformation for years and loved all three of his children deeply; yet how does one separate hatred for deeds from the persons themselves?

  Arielah pulled away to meet his gaze. “I thought tonight would be the beginning of my escape from my brothers’ cruelty. I thought I could hold on as long as I knew the treaty bride plan was in place, as long as I knew God had a plan for me . . .” Her voice trailed away into quiet sobs, muffled in her abba’s shoulder.

  Jehoshaphat felt a tear slide down his cheek. Surely his heart would break in two. “Oh, my precious lamb,” he said, “Jehovah does have a purpose for all this.” As he held her tightly, their shoulders shook, unified in sorrow.

  When their tears had ebbed, she nestled her head against him. “I believe it is as you said, Abba. From the womb, Jehovah has called me to be a lion of God, but when my brothers’ hatred flares, I feel like a frightened lamb.”

  “My precious girl,” he said, “I have tried to protect you—”

  “Abba, this is not your fault!” she said, stepping away, passion in her tone. “You can’t change their hearts. And you can’t protect me every moment.”

  Gathering her into his arms again, he continued. “I know I can’t watch over you all the time, but if you were married . . . sometimes I wish you were called to an ordinary life, to marry a shepherd and give me a multitude of grandchildren.” His words were choked by the tightness in his throat. When he could speak again, he did so in a whisper. “But when one is called to great heights, Arielah, the pathway up the mountain is often riddled with deep ruts.”

  Just then, Jehoshaphat felt a hand on his shoulder. Releasing Arielah, he slipped his arm around his wife’s petite waist. Jehosheba must have heard the elders’ meeting adjourn and saw the two standing by the courtyard gate. She melted into her husband’s side and looked tenderly at Arielah.

  “Come, daughter. I’ve heard enough and seen enough to know that our sons have again dealt with you harshly.” Jehosheba turned and stroked Jehoshaphat’s cheek. “And I can see from the look in your eyes that the meeting with the officials must not have gone well.” She reached for Arielah’s hand without waiting for her husband’s confirmation. “The news of the meeting can wait, my love, but our daughter’s wounds cannot. Come, precious one.” Arielah cast a backward glance at him while Jehosheba guided her to the back corner of their courtyard for privacy.

  Jehoshaphat gathered the water jar and stool, followed the women, and positioned the stool so that Arielah could sit between them. Jehosheba reached for the rag to tend the head wound, but Jehoshaphat stopped his wife’s hand and gently reached for the cloth. He met his wife’s gaze, united in their grief as only parents of suffering children can be.

  Caring little about the propriety of his actions, he removed his daughter’s mantle and tenderly unwound her blood-caked headpiece while Jehosheba tended Arielah’s side and leg. When he lit a clay lamp to see the cut on her head, a soft groan escaped his lips.

  “It’s not so bad, Abba,” she said, squeezing his hand. “It will heal quickly.” Love and tears formed an unbroken circle as two weeping parents ministered to their beloved girl. Finally, Arielah stood, ready to go inside for fresh clothes.

  “Arielah,” Jehoshaphat called. She stopped, waiting for him to speak, but his throat was clenched tight. Washing her wounds had magnified the very real dangers that awaited Arielah as Israel’s treaty bride. Did she fully understand, or was she blinded by her dreams of Solomon? “My lamb, as Israel’s treaty bride, you will experience great joy, and our nation will reach unparalleled unity.” He paused, emotion constricting his throat. “But joy and unity come at a price. You’ll face great danger in Jerusalem. This commitment could require enormous sacrifice.”

  Eyes glistening, she nodded. “As I said, Abba, I believe the hardships I’ve borne have prepared me—”

  Jehoshaphat stepped toward her, taking her hands in his. “But here I’ve been able to provide some protection for you. In Jerusalem you’ll be alone in the king’s household.”

  “Abba, I am never alone.” She reached up to brush a tear from his cheek. “When I was a child, you protected me from Kemmuel and Igal. I am not a child anymore, and now only Jehovah can protect me—whether in Shunem from my brothers or in Jerusalem as Israel’s treaty bride.”

  Jehoshaphat’s resolve shattered into a thousand teardrops. “Are you sure you want to do this? Do you want to give your life to Solomon—knowing the turmoil of our country and the fate of life in a king’s harem?”

  Arielah fell silent, her eyes searching. “I admit that I’m afraid of what awaits in Jerusalem. But I have loved Solomon all my life, and because of what I suffer at my brothers’ hands, I am learning to call on Jehovah as my only helper. It is a good lesson, Abba.” Arielah turned toward the house but was stopped abruptly by a figure from the shadows.

  Even Jehoshaphat’s breath caught as Kemmuel’s dark presence dimmed the light of hope in their midst.

  Fear strangled Arielah and threatened to rob her of air. She exhaled slowly, and her heart stilled as she recalled the words she’d spoken moments ago. Only Jehovah can protect me. She recalled that unveiled glimpse of vulnerability in Kemmuel’s eyes, a hatred rooted in his belief that she’d stolen their abba’s love. Kemmuel wasn’t a leviathan; he was her brother. And for the first time in many years, she met his dark, foreboding gaze. She saw hate and the pain beneath it.

  Igal rounded the corner with the king’s messenger and stopped short i
n awkward silence. His eyes darted from the bloody rags in his parents’ hands to Arielah, and then to Kemmuel. His gaze fell to his sandals and lingered there. Arielah wondered, as she so often had, if her impressionable second brother would do the right thing if Kemmuel weren’t there.

  “Arielah seems to have met with some ill fate this evening,” Kemmuel said with a sneer. “How fortunate that she has an ima and abba to fawn over her like servants.” Then, as though disgusted by their presence, he began marching toward the house while Igal and Reu shifted nervously at the courtyard gate.

  “Kemmuel!” Jehoshaphat’s shout split the silence, but rather than turn to face Abba, Kemmuel merely stopped, forcing Jehoshaphat to address his back. “Your disrespect will not go unpunished forever, my son. The sins you’ve committed against your sister will return to you one day.”

  Kemmuel whirled around. “And who will punish me, Abba? You? Do you have the strength to fight me? What can you do to me, you weak and foolish old man?”

  A collective gasp rose from the courtyard. Kemmuel’s brazen disrespect—especially shown in the presence of a guest—was unthinkable. Arielah glanced at the royal messenger; his cheeks and neck were crimson. Even Igal looked horrified.

  Arielah saw Abba’s inner battle through the windows of his soul. Something shifted in his eyes, and she knew Abba’s response would be different this time. He had given his firstborn countless opportunities to repent. Kemmuel, the boy, had squandered them all. Now Kemmuel, the man, would answer to Abba’s firm—but merciful—hand.

  “Kemmuel, you are no longer welcome in my home,” Jehoshaphat said. “You may sleep in my barns or my sheepfolds, but from this day forward, you will be to me as a hired hand until you repent of your rebellion. I love you, my son, but I cannot allow you to destroy yourself and this family.”

  Kemmuel looked dumbstruck.

  Jehoshaphat turned to his younger son and said softly, “Igal, you have always followed your brother’s evil ways. Choose now the way you will go.”

  Arielah could feel her heart pounding. Lord, please give Igal the strength to break free from Kemmuel’s influence.

  Igal’s face was ashen. Turning toward Jehosheba, Arielah witnessed the silent exchange between a loving ima and her lost son. Jehosheba stood beside Arielah but held out her hand to Igal. The second son smiled faintly, but when his eyes met his sister’s, his deadly glare was accusing. This is all your fault, he seemed to say.

  Igal looked to Kemmuel then, his older brother’s expression as hard as the bricks in Egypt.

  “Yes, Igal, choose which way you will go,” Kemmuel taunted.

  Igal squeezed his eyes shut. A decision of this magnitude seemed to cause the slow-witted brother physical pain.

  “Now! Choose now!” Kemmuel screamed, bullying his brother as usual. Like a confused lamb, Igal looked from Ima to Abba and then to his older brother who had always held an invisible strap around his neck. It was only a moment—just a brief hesitation. Then he walked into the house with Kemmuel to gather his things and move to the barns.

  Ima buried her face on Arielah’s shoulder. “How could our sons treat their abba like this? Don’t they realize they could be stoned for such rebellion?” Arielah moved Ima to the farthest corner of the courtyard. She didn’t want to be near the house when her brothers returned.

  Jehoshaphat extended his hand to his guest, guiding him to join the women. “Reu, I’m sorry you had to witness the shame that stains my family.”

  Reu’s sincerity was evident as he placed his hand on the judge’s shoulder. “My lord, I will not pretend to know the difficult relationships between abbas and sons since my own abba died when I was a young boy. But I have never seen a man love as you love your sons.”

  Arielah’s heart warmed at the kindness of this stranger. His words seemed like a balm to her abba’s wounded spirit.

  “The law says you could have Kemmuel and Igal stoned for the way they cursed you tonight. In fact, I don’t know any other Israelite who would allow repentance after being treated this way.” Then, nodding at Jehosheba and Arielah, he said, “I believe the house of Jehoshaphat is not a house stained with shame but one made of mercy.”

  A loud crack! sounded as Kemmuel tried to slam the cedar door closed, but its corner caught on the dirt floor and splintered. Arielah’s brothers rushed by, their belongings in sacks slung over their shoulders. Neither offered a word of farewell, nor did they look back.

  The little band in the courtyard watched in silence until the two silhouettes faded in the moonlight. Arielah felt the cool spring breeze and suddenly remembered her torn robe. Thankful that Ima Jehosheba stood beside her and blocked Reu’s view of her injuries, Arielah would allow Abba and his guest to enter the house first, while Ima brought a new robe and headpiece outside.

  Jehoshaphat offered a sad smile to their royal guest. “Reu, you have been more than patient. Now let me show you the hospitality of Shunem. My honorable wife is a fine cook, and my daughter plays beautifully on her shepherd’s flute.” Abba wrapped his arm around the messenger’s shoulders and guided him to the house, casting a backward glance at his wife and daughter. “Jehosheba and Arielah will be along in a little while.”

  Reu patted his ample middle. “I thought I remembered you promising food before we began our journey back to Jerusalem.”

  As the two men made their way into the house, Arielah whispered through tears, “Ima, why must Kemmuel and Igal continue to hurt themselves and others, when all we want to do is love them? How can we make them understand?”

  Jehosheba cupped Arielah’s cheek and wiped away her tears. “We are all given stones with which we build our lives, Arielah. Love is the cornerstone upon which your abba has chosen to build this family. When Kemmuel refused to make it his cornerstone, his life became unsteady, unstable—and his character unsound with it.” She gently kissed Arielah’s forehead. “Kemmuel must choose his cornerstone, my little lion of God. We cannot build his life for him.”

  Ima brushed her arm and then disappeared into the house, leaving Arielah to meditate on her words. Indeed, her parents’ love had been the bedrock of her life, that unshakable, sacred cornerstone upon which Arielah had grown in safety and confidence. Her brothers had been offered the same love but had rejected it. Why? How could anyone resist it?

  She suddenly remembered Solomon. He had just lost his abba. Was King David his unshakable cornerstone?

  Jehosheba reappeared with a fresh robe and head covering. Arielah exchanged her tattered garments and donned her clean woolen robe, wondering, On what cornerstone will Solomon build his life? His nation?

  5

  • GENESIS 49:1, 8 •

  [As Jacob lay dying, he] called for his sons and said: . . . “Judah, your brothers will praise you; . . . your father’s sons will bow down to you.”

  Professional mourners began wailing the moment King David’s eyes closed in death. But in the depths of the palace dungeon, screams melted into the incoherent mumblings of the tortured. It was here in this dark kingdom that Ahishar, the palace high steward, reigned supreme. After Prince Adonijah’s failed attempt to steal the throne, Ahishar was the highest-ranking palace official still undetected in the covert Sons of Judah. Fear was Ahishar’s greatest weapon, and he wielded it expertly in his underground kingdom.

  Holding a clean white cloth over his nose and mouth, he examined his most recent betrayer. “How long, Mahlon, have you been a scribe in my service?”

  The man reeked of blood and excrement, but the sweet smell of his fear seeped through Ahishar’s cloth. “Twenty . . . years, my . . . lord.” The scribe slumped between two guards, his face and lips swollen after long hours of torture.

  “And in those twenty years, how many times have you spoken to Elisheba the cook about matters of politics in Israel?”

  “Lord Ahishar,” Mahlon said, “truly, I . . . I spoke to Elisheba . . . of palace matters . . . very few times . . . hardly ever.”

  At Ahishar’s nod, one
of the guards seized Mahlon’s hair and jerked his head back. “Tell me, my friend. Recount the exact words you found necessary to gush to the palace cook.”

  “Please, my lord, I offered no details. I just said you wished Judah to rule the northern tribes of Israel.” He paused as though considering whether to tell all.

  Ahishar smiled. Smart fellow. Consider carefully. “I can bring Elisheba down and ask her if you’d prefer.”

  Mahlon’s eyes were wild. “No! I told her the Sons of Judah planned to . . . conquer the Israelites in the north . . . to make Judah a nation . . . royal and powerful.” His begging and hysteria deteriorated until Ahishar’s once refined scribe became a babbling idiot.

  But the high steward felt no compassion. How ridiculous that a highly respected scribe would risk his position, his reputation—even his life—to impress the palace cook. Compassion? No. He felt disgust. This flawlessly dutiful scribe threw away a lucrative career for a few moments of boasting.

  Stroking his patchy beard, Ahishar considered his own carelessness. He should never have conducted the business of the Sons of Judah in the presence of someone like Mahlon. A scribe who mingled with servants was unworthy to enter the secret society’s membership of select palace officials and influential Judean leaders. It was a tight circle of trust, and too much talk could forfeit generations of planning. King Solomon must never discover their existence. He, like King David, was under the impression that Israel should remain a nation of equality among the tribes. If only Adonijah’s coup had succeeded. As leader of the Sons of Judah, he would have immediately declared war on the northern tribes.

  A slow smile crept across Ahishar’s face. Now that Adonijah is gone and I command the Sons of Judah, who would dare challenge me for Judah’s new throne? Perhaps it was to his benefit that Adonijah had failed.

  Mahlon’s piteous moan drew the high steward’s attention, and the scribe resumed his pleading. “As you know, my lord, I too am of the tribe of Judah. I applauded your loyal support of the tribe of Judah to Elisheba. So please, master, have mercy on me, your brother Judean.”