Song of Redemption (20 page)

“Yes, yes. Yahweh answers some prayers—but not all prayers. Not one hundred percent of the time. Surely you know how impossible this situation is, Abba. You’re asking for a miracle.”

“And surely you know that Yahweh is the God of miracles! Haven’t I taught you anything at all about faith?”

“Abba, be reasonable. Think about it. She was captured more than a year ago. The Assyrians killed all the other girls—” “

But not Jerusha. They never found her body.”

“Yes, but even if she’s still alive, the Assyrians never set their slaves free. Never! And no one has ever escaped and returned home, least of all a woman. How can Yahweh possibly answer your prayers?”

Hilkiah’s face was flushed with controlled fury. “I don’t care if no one has ever escaped from the Assyrians before! There’s a first time for everything! And as the Torah says, ‘Is anything too hard for Yahweh?’ ”

“But you’re not being fair to Jerimoth. If you’re his friend, you should help him face the truth so he can get on with his life. It’s not fair to encourage this irrational hope that—” ‘

‘And you think it’s fair to deprive him of that hope? Is that what you’re asking me to do?”

“No, Abba, but—” ‘

‘What, then?”

Eliakim exhaled. “Jerimoth has a fine wife and another daughter to live for. I’m saying we should help him see that, help him accept the truth that Jerusha is gone. She’s dead. He needs to admit it and get on with his life.”

“Jerimoth has a right to have faith in God!”

“All right, then! All right!” Eliakim shouted. “Let Jerimoth believe what he wants to, no matter how irrational it is! But you don’t have to encourage him, Abba. You can’t honestly believe he’ll ever see Jerusha again, so how can you go to the Temple with him all the time and offer a bunch of useless, pious prayers? You’re a hypocrite!”

The expression of rage and shock on Hilkiah’s face was frightening. He drew his hand back as if to strike Eliakim—the first time he had ever done so in his life—then he stopped. He could barely speak through his anger. “I offer my prayers for Jerusha in
faith
! Because I
believe
that Yahweh answers prayer! And if there’s any hypocrisy in this household, Eliakim, I might ask why
you
attend morning and evening prayers every day if you don’t believe any of it!”

“Then why did Mama die?” he shouted. “We both prayed, we both believed, but she died anyway, Abba! She
died
! And so did my brothers! Where was Yahweh then? Why didn’t He answer
our
prayers?”

Eliakim stopped, stunned by the bitterness in his voice, alarmed at the look of horror and pain on his father’s face. Things had gone too far. They had both said things to hurt each other, words that could never be taken back. But before Eliakim could speak again, he heard Jerimoth’s trembling voice behind him.

“Please … don’t let there be angry words and discord in this household because of me.”

Eliakim’s stomach knotted in shame. “Jerimoth, I’m sorry …

I—” But Jerimoth held up his hand to silence Eliakim. “Forgive me, my friends. I never intended to eavesdrop. I came back to tell you something and heard you shouting.” He sighed heavily, and his melancholy green eyes seemed more sorrowful than ever. “If I had known that I would cause a rift between father and son, I never would have set foot in your house. So listen to me, please. Eliakim, I’ll go to my grave believing that God is able to answer my prayer. Somehow, someday, He will do the impossible and bring Jerusha home to me. Even if Hilkiah agreed with you—and I know that he doesn’t—he could never talk me out of this conviction. Never. And, Hilkiah, my dear friend—I beg you not to be so hard on your son. Let him question his faith. Let him voice his doubts. You’ve taught him well, both with your words and by your example. His questions will make his faith stronger in the end. I know that his love for you is very, very deep. How I envy you, Hilkiah! How I wish that Eliakim were my son.”

Agonized silence filled the room. Eliakim stared mutely at the floor. Never in his life had there been such a terrible, irreparable rift between him and his father. Hilkiah’s faith was the most important thing in his life, and Eliakim had challenged that faith. Worse, he had called him a hypocrite.

Again Jerimoth broke the silence. “Please … forgive me for interfering—but I beg you to reconcile, for my sake.”

Eliakim slowly looked up, afraid to face his father, afraid to ask for the forgiveness he didn’t deserve. “Abba … I’m so sorry—” he began, but Eliakim’s words were silenced by the strength of his father’s embrace.

Hephzibah awoke while it was still dark, and at first she wasn’t sure what had awakened her. But then she felt the dull, cramping ache inside and drew her knees up to her chest to ease the pain. When it died away, she lay still for a moment, listening in the darkness to Hezekiah’s breathing as he slept beside her. A few minutes passed; then suddenly the pain returned, stronger than before. It was how she’d imagined labor pains would feel—but the baby shouldn’t be coming this soon. Fear overwhelmed her.

She waited for the pain to ease, then slipped quietly from the bed. As she paused to pull the covers over her sleeping husband, she saw blood soaking the sheet. She cried out and sank to the floor beside the bed.

Hezekiah stirred, then sat up. “Hephzibah, what is it? What’s wrong?” Another pain twisted through her before she could answer, and she cried out again. Hezekiah threw the covers aside and bounded out of bed. “Merab! Somebody—come quickly!” he shouted.

Merab tottered from her room, wrapping herself in a robe. When she reached Hephzibah’s side she gasped. “Oh no—my lady—my lady!” More servants rushed into the room and lifted Hephzibah onto her bed. She saw Hezekiah standing over her, looking shaken and stunned. Merab took his arm and hustled him to the door.

“You’d better leave now, Your Majesty.”

Hephzibah felt another pain intensifying. She began to scream.

Hezekiah returned to his chambers, but he couldn’t sleep. “Dear God, please—don’t take Hephzibah, too,” he whispered.

He stared out of his window into the dark night, worrying about her, remembering the blood, pleading with Yahweh not to take her from him. Adjusting to Zechariah’s death had been so difficult that he couldn’t bear to think about losing Hephzibah. She was so much a part of his life now that he wouldn’t be whole without her. Hephzibah was more to him than any other person had ever been—confidante, companion, lover, friend. How could he live without her laughter, her songs, her beauty, her love? He loved her. He had never acknowledged it before, but he knew it was true, and he was seized with the terrifying thought that she might die. With his hands bunched into fists, Hezekiah fell to his knees and prayed.

As the sun rose, he could no longer bear the agony of waiting. He returned to Hephzibah’s room and tapped on the door. Merab opened it a crack.

“Is Hephzibah all right?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord. She’s asleep. She’ll be fine in a few days.”

“Oh, thank God.” His knees went weak as relief surged through him.

“But the baby is gone. I’m so sorry, Your Majesty.”

For a moment Hezekiah didn’t comprehend what Merab had said. In his concern for Hephzibah, he had never thought of their baby. Suddenly he understood.

“Let me see her, Merab. I won’t wake her.”

Hezekiah crept into the room and stood beside the bed. Hephzibah looked so fragile and pale as she lay against the pillows that he had to remind himself of Merab’s words. Hephzibah would recover.

She wasn’t going to die. Yet the terrible fear that he might lose her was still too fresh.

“I love you,” he whispered. He was surprised to realize how deeply he did love her. Hephzibah’s eyelids fluttered open; then tears began to flow silently down her cheeks.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m glad you’re here.”

“How do you feel?” It was an absurd question, but he didn’t know what else to say.

“Empty. I feel so empty—as if all the life has drained out of me and I’m just a hollow shell.”

“Don’t cry … there will be others. We’ll have more… .” His words sounded glib and artificial. He groped for better ones but couldn’t find them.

“I can’t stop thinking about our baby,” she said softly, “and wondering what he would have looked like—if he had your hair … your eyes… .”

“Hephzibah, don’t.”

“They told me it was a boy.”

Her words stunned him. For the first time he understood that the child had been a person, a living baby boy, his son. Now he was dead. Hezekiah knew that Hephzibah’s grief far surpassed his own, but at that moment he shared a small part of it with her. Their son was dead.

“Can I do anything, Hephzibah?”

“Please hold me.” She held her slender arms out to him. She looked so sorrowful, so lost in the piles of pillows and covers, that Hezekiah’s heart twisted inside him. He could see how much she needed him. But he hesitated, remembering something else.

“Hephzibah, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Why not?” Her eyes pleaded with him, and he had to turn away.

“Because the Torah forbids it until … until you’re better. Then for seven more days after that.” He was aware of how much his words hurt her. They sounded cold and unfeeling to him as he spoke them. “Afterward, you must go to the priest and offer two doves, one for a sin offering, the other a burnt offering.”

“But why? How have I sinned? Is wanting our baby to live a sin?”

Hezekiah didn’t know why the Torah required it. He only knew what was written. “The Torah says—”

“Our baby is dead and you’re telling me I’ve sinned? Is that the kind of God you worship?” The anguish in her voice cut him deeply.

“No, Hephzibah. Yahweh isn’t like that.”

“Then why did He let our baby die? Can you tell me why? And why does He want more blood from me? How have I sinned?” Hezekiah couldn’t answer. He didn’t know. “I won’t bring a sin offering,” she said bitterly. “I have not sinned!”

Hezekiah’s stomach churned as he wrestled with his own doubts. He still didn’t understand all of Yahweh’s laws, and he knew how it felt to be angry with God, to have someone very precious snatched away by death. But he had finally adjusted to his loss and had accepted it as the will of God whether he understood it or not. Hephzibah would have to do the same.

He stared at his feet, ashamed to face Hephzibah, afraid she would see through his facade of legalism and discover the doubts and questions beneath it. He ached to go to her, to take her in his arms and comfort her, but if he held her he would become unclean until evening. He wouldn’t be able to worship in the Temple today. And as the King of Judah, he had the responsibility to lead the final convocation of the Feast of Tabernacles.

He stood beside Hephzibah’s bed, torn between love and duty.

Then, as the distant shofar trumpeted the call to worship, Hezekiah turned and left the room.

Part Two

So the Lord was very angry with Israel and
removed them from his presence. Only the
tribe of Judah was left, and even Judah did not
keep the commands of the Lord their God.
They followed the practices Israel had
introduced. Therefore the Lord rejected all the
people of Israel; he afflicted them and gave
them into the hands of plunderers, until he
thrust them from his presence.