Song of Redemption (18 page)

“I already do love you,” she whispered.

Jerusha lay in her tent for hours, exhausted but unable to sleep. She stared at her baby by the fluttering light of the oil lamp, marveling at this miracle of perfection. It had been a long time since she had felt the power of love, and the emotion overwhelmed her as if she was feeling it for the first time. For more than a year her life had been a mere existence, her only emotions fear and hatred. Now, as if raised from the dead, Jerusha had a reason to live. She had someone who needed her, someone to love and who would love her in return. Her baby brought her family back to life, and she offered Jerusha a future, as well.

At last Jerusha slept, hugging her baby close to her side.

A sudden flood of light through the open tent flap awakened Jerusha. She squinted into the glare, groggy with sleep, and saw Iddina standing over her. Before she could react, he bent down and snatched the sleeping baby from her arms, then left.

“No!” she screamed. “Oh, please, God—no!”

She tried to scramble off her pallet, tried to run after him, but Marah stood in the doorway of the tent, blocking her path.

“Get out of my way!” Jerusha screamed. She beat Marah with her fists, trying to push past her and save her baby, but Marah was as immovable as stone. “My baby! He took my baby! Make him bring her back!”

Marah slapped Jerusha’s face as they struggled. “Stop it! If you don’t shut up he’ll come back and give you a beating to remember.”

“I don’t care! My baby—he took my baby!” Marah struck Jerusha again, and Jerusha slumped to her knees, trembling from exhaustion and shock.

Iddina and her baby were gone.

“Oh, dear God … where did he take her? What’s he going to do with her?”

“Don’t ask. You don’t want to know.” Marah’s harsh face betrayed no sympathy as she gripped Jerusha beneath her arms, dragging her toward her bed.

“O God, please—don’t let him kill her! Make him bring my baby back!”

“Shut up!” Marah shouted. “Your baby is
gone
!”

“No … no …” Jerusha found the baby’s blanket, which Iddina had left behind, and buried her face in it. It still carried her daughter’s soft, sweet scent. “My little girl … my baby …”

Jerusha wept in anguish, pouring out all her grief and hatred. For one brief night she had felt love again, only to have it snatched away. God hadn’t come to her baby’s rescue, and now Jerusha knew that there was no God. She would never pray again.

Hours later Jerusha had no tears left to shed. It seemed as if her heart had stopped beating, leaving only a dull ache in her chest. Gradually she became aware of Marah sitting beside her, stroking her hair. Jerusha turned to look at her, and the harsh lines of Marah’s face seemed softer, her eyes moist.

“Little fool,” Marah whispered. “Did you really think they’d let you keep her? Look around you. Do you see any children in this place? Any love or compassion? Any joy or happiness? No, only hatred and killing, brutality and death. That’s all they know. That’s why I destroy my babies before they’re born into this godforsaken place. I tried to tell you. I offered to spare you from this, but you wouldn’t listen.”

Marah swiped impatiently at her tears, as if sorry for showing emotion. She rose to leave, then paused at the tent door. “We’d better start their noon meal. They’ll be wanting it soon.”

Jerusha watched Marah go. She didn’t care about their noon meal. She didn’t care about anything. In the stifling semidarkness, Jerusha crawled like a beaten animal into the farthest corner of the tent and crouched into a tight ball. She hugged her knees to her chest and clutched the tattered blanket to her face, then rocked slowly back and forth, staring through vacant, unseeing eyes.

15

K
ING HEZEKIAH MOURNED DEEPLY
for his grandfather, dressing in sackcloth day after day, trudging up to the Temple in a daze of grief to recite prayers for the dead. The daily sacrifices became a painful ordeal for him. Zechariah had played such a visible role in them that Hezekiah expected to see his grandfather there, standing beside the sacrificial altar or the Bronze Sea. His absence was conspicuous; the void he left could not be filled. Zechariah’s deep love for God had been the spark that had set the Temple worship ablaze, and without him the ritual seemed empty and flat.

Hezekiah knew he was angry with God. Why hadn’t God given him more time with Zechariah after separating them for so many years? He needed his grandfather’s strong, reassuring faith more than ever now that he had made the dangerous decision to rebel against Assyria. He felt as if God had cut him adrift, condemning him to sink helplessly below the rising tide of doubt. He had relied on Zechariah’s support in order to govern. Now he had no one. Even Isaiah was too busy doing Yahweh’s work.

Yahweh’s work
. First it had caused his grandfather’s long imprisonment, and now it had killed him. Zechariah had labored too hard for a man his age, restoring Yahweh’s Temple, organizing all the sacrifices and feasts. Now God hadn’t even allowed him to enjoy the fruit of his labors. Death seemed an unjust reward. Hezekiah raged at God, asking,
Why?

More than a week passed before Hezekiah returned to see Hephzibah. When he did, he was unable to share his staggering burden of grief with her. Even her singing couldn’t comfort him. As he plodded through his daily routine, he knew his leadership was faltering, but there was little he could do except hand the burden of government to Shebna. The Egyptian quietly took over, covering for Hezekiah and helping him hide the truth of how serious his depression really was.

Several weeks after Passover, Hezekiah stood in his private chambers, staring sadly through an open window as streams of pilgrims flowed into Jerusalem for the Feast of Pentecost. He knew he would never be able to take a leading role in this joyful feast of thanksgiving. He had no reason to be thankful. He glanced over his shoulder as Shebna entered, then gazed out the window again.

“What is it, Shebna?” he asked dully.

“There seem to be even more pilgrims for this feast than for Passover.”

“Maybe so.”

“That should please you, my lord.”

“I wish my grandfather could have lived to see it.”

Shebna sighed, then drew a deep breath. “Your Majesty, at the risk of angering you, I have something I need to say.”

Hezekiah turned to his friend and saw the concern in Shebna’s dark eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You have brought this nation a long way in a short time, but now I am afraid it will all be in vain. All your reforms may be lost unless you begin to put your grief aside.”

“The government is functioning smoothly enough. What’s your point?”

“I have taken over many of your duties these past few weeks, but I cannot take your place at the festival. You know that I am forbidden to go beyond the Court of the Gentiles. Your Majesty, you must lead these pilgrims in thanksgiving.”

Hezekiah turned away from Shebna to stare out of the window again. Shebna’s tone had been that of a tutor admonishing his pupil, and it irritated Hezekiah. Yet in his heart he knew that Shebna spoke as a friend.

“I’m not sure I can do that,” Hezekiah said at last.

“But you must. You’ve led these people to discard their idols and renew their covenant with Yahweh. You reminded them of their history at Passover and urged them to follow the laws of your God. Now they have come in obedience to those laws, bringing their tithes and offerings. You have led them this far, Your Majesty. You have brought them to this day, a day of great rejoicing for your people. If you do not lead them and encourage them in what they are doing, then all that your grandfather worked for will be lost.”

Hezekiah knew Zechariah would want him to continue leading the spiritual revival. But how could anyone expect him to lead a feast of joy and thanksgiving when there was anger and bitterness toward God in his heart? Hezekiah had the overpowering conviction that he didn’t owe God a thank offering. Instead, God owed him a debt for taking away his grandfather a second time.

“I can’t do it, Shebna. It would be a lie.”

“Very well,” Shebna said quietly. “But will you come for a short walk with me, please? There is something I need to show you at the Temple.”

“At the Temple?” Hezekiah recognized the bitterness in his voice. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes. Please.”

Neither of them spoke as they climbed the steps of the royal walkway to the Temple Mount. When they reached the Court of the Gentiles, Shebna stopped. “I can go no farther, but look …”

He pointed beyond the Temple to the side chambers and storehouses. Hezekiah shaded his eyes in the brilliant sunlight and saw several huge piles of sand, heaped in mounds near the storehouses.

“What is all that?”

“Please—I urge you to go look, Your Majesty. I cannot go with you.”

Hezekiah strode impatiently across the courtyard toward the mounds, leaving Shebna behind. As he drew closer, he saw a huge layered pile of clay storage jars and more golden piles of sand behind the first ones. He was astonished to realize that it wasn’t sand, but grain. Azariah and several other Levites stood near the mounds, taking inventory.

“Where did all this come from?” Hezekiah asked the high priest.

“These are the tithes, Your Majesty.” Azariah seemed equally amazed. “We have been eating from these stores of food for many weeks, and still they grow bigger. God has blessed our land with a bountiful harvest, and He has moved the people’s hearts to give Him the tenth portion in gratitude.”

“And this isn’t all of it, Your Majesty,” Conaniah added. “Not only have the people given a tenth of their grain, but also their new wine, olive oil, cattle, sheep, silver, and gold. We can’t keep track of it all.”

“And since it isn’t going to Assyria anymore, the people are giving more than their tithes,” Azariah said. “They’re giving freewill offerings, too. I’ve never seen anything like it—certainly not during your father’s reign, or King Jotham’s reign, either. This is just like the golden age of King Uzziah.”

Hezekiah carried an awareness of his loss with him wherever he went, but suddenly it became an acute pain as he remembered sitting in the olive grove near the Gihon Spring with Zechariah, discussing the kings who had reigned before him.
“There’s a lot of Uzziah in you,
son,”
his grandfather had said. Then Hezekiah remembered what else Zechariah had said—King Jotham had been destroyed by his bitterness.

Slowly Hezekiah began to see what Shebna had been desperate to show him. All his religious reforms, all the economic prosperity he saw before him stood at risk of being lost because of his own bitterness. He was doing exactly what King Jotham had done, allowing resentment toward God to bring his reign to a standstill. Hezekiah still didn’t understand why Zechariah had to die, but he suddenly knew what these heaps of tithes really meant. This was the beginning of God’s blessings on his nation. God had renewed his nation’s prosperity as His part of their covenant, just as Zechariah had assured him He would. The evidence of Yahweh’s fulfilled promises lay before him, too plentiful to fit into the storehouses.

Then Hezekiah remembered what else he had talked about with Zechariah that cold, wet morning: taking back the land that Ahaz had lost to the Philistines and Ammonites.
“With God you can do anything,”
Zechariah had said.
“Anything at all.”
If Hezekiah was forced to accept Zechariah’s death as God’s will, then he believed God owed him victory over his enemies in return. And Hezekiah was ready to claim that debt.

As if suddenly awakening from a long sleep, Hezekiah turned to Azariah with renewed vigor and authority. “Start building more storehouses,” he said to him. “Eliakim can plan their design and supervise construction. Conaniah, you and your brother Shimei will be in charge of all the storehouses. See to it that the tithes are evenly distributed among the priests and Levites throughout Judah.”

The men appeared startled by the sudden change in him. “Yes, Your Majesty,” they murmured.

Then, without a further word, Hezekiah strode back across the courtyard to where Shebna waited. As they walked down the hill, he told Shebna about his plans for the storehouses and saw surprise and pleasure on his friend’s face.

“Find General Jonadab and bring him to my chambers for a conference at once,” Hezekiah said when they reached the palace. He saw a broad smile spread across Shebna’s face as he turned to leave.

“Oh, and Shebna …”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Thank you.”

Hezekiah wasted no time. As soon as Shebna returned with General Jonadab, he began to plan his military strategy, pacing restlessly in front of the two men, gesturing forcefully as he talked. “The three of us are going to plan a campaign against the Philistines to win back our territory in the Shephelah and the Negev. It’s time we took back the land that’s rightfully ours.”

Shebna appeared surprised, Jonadab pleased. “Shebna, you know how badly we need that farmland if we hope to be active in world trade again. And you both know how important those fortified cities are to us. If we win them back, we will control the main routes from Jerusalem to the Way of the Sea. Do you think we can do it?”