by Mesu Andrews
Jehoiada wiped his face slowly. Stared at the ceiling. Counted to ten. “No. I’m learning to give Yahweh time to work with her alone before I try again. Please, sit down.” He directed them to the small table. They seemed especially cooperative at the moment—which was good. “This may sound odd, but extend your arms straight out, from north wall to south wall.” Puzzled, both men did as they were asked, and Jehoiada measured the empty space between Zabad’s fingertips and the north wall. “Less than a cubit on either side.”
Nathanael fidgeted, a smile lurking. “I think we all agree that our chambers are small. If Zabad or I were to marry, we’d need more space.” Hope tinged his tone.
“I’m not getting married.” The horror in Zabad’s voice lightened the mood, and Jehoiada clapped his shoulder, offering a little brotherly encouragement.
“I thought I noticed a longing look pass between you and the midwife Gadara. Are you sure—”
Nathanael burst out laughing, and Zabad nearly drew his sword on the high priest. “That’s not funny!”
Jehoiada chuckled, calming both men with upraised palms. “I’m simply saying we need more living space.” And he stopped there, offering no explanation or reason.
Their silent waiting grew awkward. Zabad finally leaned forward, studying the high priest like a map. “The chambers have always been this size. Why change now? You hate change.”
Nathanael grinned. “Is someone else getting married?”
Jehoiada ignored him. “Zabad, we need to renovate the chambers in the northern wall of the outer court. All five chambers on the west side of the Sur Gate will become my home, connected by adjoining doors with a single public entrance. The same configuration on the east side of the wall will be designated for the second priest.” Jehoiada held Zabad’s gaze, feeling Nathanael’s heated stare. The second priest didn’t like being ignored.
“Those chambers haven’t been used in years—not since our workforce was depleted after King Jehoshaphat’s death. We’ve moved all the on-site priests to inner-court chambers because none of the priests have families with children.” His eyes nearly popped from his head. “Is there something you and Sheba aren’t telling—”
Jehoiada’s heart tore in two. “No, Zabad. No.”
His gatekeeper’s neck instantly grew crimson. “I’m sorry, Jehoiada. Truly. Please forgive—”
“I want a tunnel dug under those chambers, Zabad. One like the secret tunnel that already exists—under the Ark.”
“Under the Ark!”
Zabad’s enthusiasm coaxed a grin from Nathanael, and he finally rejoined the conversation. “I think it’s time you told our chief gatekeeper about Obadiah’s secret quarry and your plan for escape if Athaliah attacks the Temple.”
Jehoiada reviewed the history of the quarry from the night he discovered it with King Jehoram to the moment he found the tunnel entrance in the Most Holy Place. Then he asked his Kohathite gatekeeper, “You would have been a mere boy when King Jehoshaphat built the expansion of the outer court, but do you remember the name of the Kohathite engineer who supervised the project?”
Zabad’s grin foreshadowed Yahweh’s hand at work. “His name was Jonadab, and his son, Jehozabad, is my best friend. Our imas were foreign women—Jehozabad’s ima Moabite and mine Ammonite—making us outcasts among the children in our clan. We grew up having to prove ourselves, and Jehozabad helped his abba lay every piece of limestone in the Temple’s outer court.”
Jehoiada clapped his hand on Zabad’s shoulder. “If he’s half as good a man as you are, he’ll be twice the man of most.”
Nathanael had grown quiet, distracted again, as Jehoiada laid the groundwork for his news. “It’s important that the tunnel is directly under those new chambers by the Sur Gate. I fear we’ll have little warning if Athaliah attacks the Temple compound.” Nathanael nodded absently, fidgeting with the thread on his sleeve.
Zabad’s brow furrowed. A reasonable man with logical concerns, he asked, “Since you’re the only one who’s married, why not build the tunnel under our current chambers?”
“Two reasons,” Jehoiada said, leaning back, resting his hands behind his head. “Digging the tunnel near the outer Temple wall will place our escape route closer to the city wall and quicken our flight from Jerusalem if the Temple falls under attack.” He glanced at Nathanael. Still no response. “Secondly, someone else at this table will likely be married by then. In fact, that someone should run now to my bedchamber and ask his waiting bride.”
“Keilah is—I mean, she’s not—” Nathanael half knelt, half stood, paralyzed, it seemed.
“Go!” Jehoiada said, and Zabad laughed at their friend’s hurried retreat.
The door of the neighboring chamber slammed amid squeals, and both Zabad and Jehoiada laughed at the happy sounds.
“So, when will this wedding take place?” Zabad asked.
Jehoiada’s heart twisted as he remembered the hurt to be healed with his wife. “I’m not sure. That’s part of a discussion I need to have with Jehosheba. Why don’t you go plan a tunnel, and I’ll plan a wedding.”
Zabad stood to leave and nearly plowed into Jehosheba, who stood in the doorway. He apologized on his way out, and she closed the door behind him.
Alone again. The sight of her stole Jehoiada’s breath. She’d changed into a simple blue robe with a gold-braided belt cinched at her waist, her face freshly washed and her hair neatly tucked under her headpiece. Had she tucked away her emotions too—as she so often did when she felt threatened? Yahweh, make me a mirror of Your love—giving, serving, honoring my wife, offering her peace and safety unconditionally.
“Did I hear Zabad mention the tunnel?” Her voice was small, her hands fidgeting.
“May I explain the tunnel after I apologize for my outburst?”
“It was my fault. I was defensive about Keilah’s past and didn’t give you a chance to explain.”
He offered his hand but didn’t move toward her. The fear he’d seen earlier was more than he could bear.
Timid but obedient, she took four steps toward him, accepting his grasp but maintaining her distance. No more trembling and no tears. Was it progress or hidden emotions?
Jehoiada rubbed his thumb across her hand. “It was my fault too. I had hoped for a few intimate moments alone—without words.”
She looked up then, startled. “Oh, Jehoiada, I didn’t realize you wanted . . .”
“I know.” He brushed her cheek. “I miss my wife, but my frustration poured out on the object of my desire.” Her features softened, and he pushed off her headpiece, revealing the silky, ebony tresses he adored. “I don’t sleep with an idolater or a priestess, Jehosheba. You’re Yahweh’s beloved and my most precious treasure. I will remind you of that every day we’re together, but you must also believe it. Let it soak into your wounded soul.”
She buried her face in his chest, shaking her head. “Why? Why did Yahweh save me from Baal? Will I ever feel worthy of Him, of you?”
“We can never be worthy of Yahweh, my love, nor can we fully know His mind or the answers to our whys.” He gathered handfuls of her hair, drinking in her liquid-brown eyes. “But by our covenant of marriage, an oath taken in His presence, we are worthy of each other. Don’t you think I wonder how a beautiful young princess could love an old goat like me?”
He smiled, trying to soften the truth of his own insecurities, but she captured his face in her hands. “No, don’t tease me. You’re the best man I’ve ever known, and I love you more than life.” She kissed him then, fully, passionately, as they’d known before the days of commotion and crowds and confusion in their chamber. “I’m sure Nathanael will talk to Keilah for a while,” she whispered, nodding toward the bedchamber only steps away.
“Don’t you want to plan Keilah’s wedding?”
“Yes,” she said, sending his heart to his toes. Then she brushed his cheek with a kiss and whispered, “Later.”
The glowing brazier crackled and popped, sending t
he scent of grapevine ash into the air, while the three women sat in Sheba’s chamber, enjoying their spinning. A light snow had crowned Jerusalem with added splendor, the rare occurrence a lively topic for three friends who had wrung out every drop of chatter about Keilah’s wedding day four Sabbaths past.
“I think I was fourteen the last time it snowed in Jerusalem.” Sheba whirled her spindle, drafting the wool mindlessly now. All three of them had spun almost enough yarn to weave their first cloth. “I remember trying to catch some of the flakes outside my palace window, and one of the palace guards rushed in with Ima Thaliah screaming, ‘Get away from there! You’ll fall and kill yourself!’”
Zibiah and Keilah laughed, but the memory rubbed at a raw place in her heart. “Ima Thaliah locked me in a storage closet for three days after that.” The laughter died, and Sheba stared into her friends’ shocked faces. In truth, she was equally surprised she’d confided anything about her childhood.
Zibiah’s pallor matched the limestone walls. “I had no idea, Sheba. I’m sorry.”
Keilah, too, appeared ready to lose her morning meal, and Sheba regretted her transparency. “Why dwell on the past? It’s not important. I’m sure I’m a stronger person because of Ima’s discipline.” She noted the unconvinced glance between her friends and felt her stomach roll. “I think I need some mint tea.” The spinning could wait.
Before she’d placed the water over the fire, both Zibiah and Keilah had set aside their work as well. “Maybe some mint tea would settle my stomach,” Keilah mentioned as she placed her half-full spindle in her shoulder bag.
“Oh no.” Zibiah pressed her hand against her forehead. “Are we getting sick? My stomach is upset too.” She dropped her hand to her side like a pouting child. “This is my week with Hazi. I can’t be sick.”
“Well, Jehoiada said some of the priests from the southern clans have sent word of a stomach—”
“Ladies!” Keilah shouted, her mouth agape. “Is your red moon late in coming?”
Sheba watched Zibiah do a quick and silent count and then turn to Keilah with joy. The two grabbed each other, giggling and hugging, adding up the weeks since Keilah’s wedding and the last time Hazi visited Zibiah’s chamber. It seemed to fit. Keilah and Zibiah were with child.
Sheba couldn’t breathe. “I have to get some air.” She ran out the door into the cold, forgetting her wrap. How could she be pregnant? Jehoiada couldn’t have children. He and Anna had tried for years. Sheba didn’t even pay attention to the dates of her bleeding because they didn’t matter.
Panic welled inside her. “Yahweh, I can’t be pregnant. Please.” It was a whisper, but the snow amplified the sound, making her words seem all the more horrific. What kind of woman prayed that? You’re Athaliah’s daughter, the kind of woman who will lock her child in a closet. Sheba covered her ears, blocking out the silent voices in her head. “No,” she said through tears.
“Jehosheba?” Jehoiada’s warm embrace captured her. “What are you doing out here? You’ll freeze.” He lifted her into his arms like a child, and when he saw her tears, he curled her into his broad chest—so close she could hear his heartbeat.
Somehow he opened the door while still holding her. She heard Zibiah and Keilah gasp but knew they’d understand her need to be alone with Jehoiada. True friends didn’t always need an explanation right away. “Come back tomorrow,” he was saying to them, and she heard the click of the door. And then silence.
He lowered her to the goatskin rug by the brazier and removed his winter wrap. “I see you have water on to boil. Were you preparing tea?”
She nodded, staring into the brazier. “Mint.”
He prepared the tea, a cup for each of them, handed one to her, and sat beside her on the rug. “Are you ready to talk?”
How should she begin? How could she tell him that the one gift he’d yearned for his whole life had finally been given—but she was too afraid to be happy about it?
“Zibiah and Keilah seemed happy when they left. Did they hurt you in some way that you don’t want them to know?”
Good guess, but no. He was so wise, so patient. Perhaps he could be a good enough parent for them both.
“I’m pregnant.” The words toppled out before she planned how to say them.
Jehoiada looked as if he’d stopped breathing. Completely still.
“Did you hear me?”
He blinked once. Then again. Finally, he breathed deeply and studied his tea. “Are you sure?”
It wasn’t exactly the response she’d anticipated. “When women spend as much time together as Zibiah, Keilah, and I, their cycles tend to align. All three of us were feeling nauseous this morning and realized we were two Sabbaths beyond our due time.”
He took a sip of tea. “So, you’re all three with child?”
Sheba noted his hand shaking as he lowered the cup, and a tiny spark of something eternal lit deep within. “Isn’t it amazing that we’re all three pregnant at once?”
Gently he reached for her hand but kept his gaze on the tea. “Will you tell me why I found you outside crying while the others were inside rejoicing?”
She tried to pull away, shame searing her cheeks. But he lifted her hand and kissed her palm, holding her gaze. “I love you, Jehosheba, and you have the heart to love a dozen children. Now, tell me why you were crying.”
His commanding voice broached no argument, but his tenderness laid bare her deepest shame. How did you know? she wanted to scream. Instead, she let the balm of his love soothe the old wounds this news had opened. “I’m afraid I’ll ruin your child.” Tears strangled her, and she added on a sob, “As I’ve been ruined.”
He gathered her into his arms, cradling her, rocking her, cherishing her. Oh, how she loved this man.
When her tears were spent, he looked into her eyes. “You are no more ruined than I am by this life, my love. I am broken in ways you must help me fix, and I’ll help you when you are in need.” He captured her chin and whispered, “And together we’ll teach our child of Yahweh.” He looked almost giddy, his eyes suddenly growing wide as if he’d been struck by some grand new thought. “And it’s a good thing our new living chambers are almost finished, because who knows how many children the Lord will give us!”
36
2 CHRONICLES 21:20
Jehoram was thirty-two years old when he became king, and he reigned in Jerusalem eight years. He passed away, to no one’s regret, and was buried in the City of David, but not in the tombs of the kings.
The cases of central court should have been decided earlier in the day, but Hazi’s disruptions delayed proceedings all afternoon. Jehoiada pounded the scepter of Solomon on the platform again, resorting to the only nonverbal hush tactic he knew to quiet the raucous prince, his disrespectful noblemen, and the spoiled cousins. When their drunken laughter drowned out the herald’s announcements, Jehoiada leapt to his feet, ready to jerk a knot in someone’s tail, as his abba used to say when Jehoiada was a child in need of a spanking. Hazi was too old and well protected for physical violence, but the Carite guards were about to earn their mercenary wages.
“Jehoiada, don’t.” Zabad blocked his path, moving left and right with each step as if they were maidens in a dance.
“As the Lord lives, Zabad, if you don’t get out of my way, I’ll take your sword and cut you off at the knees!”
“There’s a young messenger approaching who resembles Obadiah’s aide.” Zabad nodded to the back of the sparse crowd.
Jehoiada recognized the lad and motioned him forward. The boy hesitated, his big eyes as round as camel hooves.
“You’ve scared him to death,” Zabad whispered. “Smile a little.”
Considering the dispersing crowd and Hazi’s drunken inability to form a sentence, Jehoiada conceded the day’s end and offered his kindest smile to the boy. “You there. Are you waiting to see me?”
The approximate ten-year-old with deep-set brown eyes seemed to regain a spark of confidence, propelling him
against the flow of the exiting crowd. “Yes, my lord. Master Obadiah requests your presence immediately to speak of urgent matters.”
“Well, lead us to him then.”
“Yes, my lord. Follow me.” The boy turned and cleared a path through the crowd like a warm knife through butter. “Make way. Make way for Yahweh’s high priest, please.”
Jehoiada raised his eyebrows at Zabad, both men duly impressed at the fine young man in Obadiah’s employ. They exited the palace and followed him south through the city streets.
“Where exactly does Obadiah live?” Jehoiada asked. Strange, but he had never considered the old nobleman living anywhere except his palace chamber.
“Master Obadiah’s home is in the City of David, though he maintains a chamber on palace grounds for late nights.”
“And how long have you served Obadiah?”
“I was born in his house. My abba serves as Master Obadiah’s stableman.”
As they passed through the marketplace, Zabad pointed out the direction of the brothel where they had found Gadara and Keilah a mere eight new moons ago.
Isn’t it amazing how life can change so thoroughly in such a short time? Jehoiada thought. Gadara now visited Sheba and Keilah regularly in their new living chambers, checking on their pregnancies and even learning how to spin. Zibiah’s child would, of course, be delivered by the palace midwife, but Hazi had given permission for both Sheba and Keilah to attend the birth.
Jehoiada inhaled deeply, feeling the warm, dry air bake him inside and out. Winter had been cold, the spring cool and damp, but summer descended like a rough camel-hair robe, the skies stingy with rain even before the early grapes ripened. Athaliah’s scrolls came to Sheba less often—only two since the last new moon—and seldom held any news they hadn’t heard through merchants’ gossip or palace rumor.
“Here we are.” The boy opened a vine-covered gate and led Jehoiada and Zabad through a terraced garden to a lovely estate overlooking the Kidron Valley. He then stopped, bowed, and extended his hand toward an arched doorway, where a bundle of blankets lay on a low-lying couch.
