The Strength of His Hand (11 page)

“Come, come, my dear. Don’t look so worried. Think of this as an adventure. You’ll love the countryside. And everything’s arranged already. We’re traveling with one of my caravans. You should like that—eh, little Jerimoth?”

Hilkiah took the boy from Eliakim, and suddenly Eliakim’s arms felt painfully empty. He dreaded releasing Jerusha from his embrace even more when the time came.

“Are we riding on camels, Grandpa?”

Hilkiah chuckled. “No, I’m afraid not. We’ll have carts and horses.”

“Abba, I want to ride on your horse,” Jerimoth said. “With you.”

“You’ll have to ride with me on the way back, son. I’m not leaving yet.”

“What do you mean?” Jerusha asked. “Why not?”

“I’m coming later. I want you slowpokes to get a head start. I have some business to finish at the palace first. I’ll catch up with you tonight or maybe tomorrow.”

“Why can’t we wait for you?” she asked.

“W-well …” Eliakim stammered, “because …”

“Because my caravan can’t wait around for him all day—that’s why,” Hilkiah said. “Time is money, you know. Come on, then. Let’s get moving.”

The servants had efficiently put Eliakim’s plans into action, and all too soon they had everything ready. Jerimoth fussed because his father wasn’t going with them, and much to Eliakim’s distress, he had to speak sharply to his son. The baby whined and cried, awakened from her nap too early. She wouldn’t let Jerusha put her down, and Eliakim could only give his wife a one-armed hug and a quick kiss as she struggled with the cranky baby.

“I’ll see you later,” he whispered. “I love you.”

Then his family and the servants were climbing into the carts and waving good-bye. Eliakim stood in the doorway, watching numbly until they disappeared around the corner.

The house seemed quiet and still when he finally went back inside, but reminders of his family lay all around him: Hilkiah’s prayer shawl, forgotten on the bench near the door; a jar of pink blossoms, the wilted petals beginning to drop; the baby’s basket in the garden beneath a tree; empty pods and beans scattered on the mat where Jerimoth had left them.

Eliakim wandered through the empty house, battling against the enormous fear that threatened to paralyze him. When he came to his workroom he closed the door, then fell to his knees and cried out to God.

“Heavenly Father, help me accept your will for my life. Do with me whatever you want, but please give me the courage to face it. I haven’t any… .

“And, Father, I pray for Abba and my children. They’re in your care now. I trust you because I know you love them even more than I do. Keep them safe, keep them true to your laws, and help them to always remember how much I loved them.

“But, Father, most of all I pray for Jerusha. You’ve brought her through so much in her life—please be with her in this trial, as well.

And when I die, please don’t let her lose her faith in you. Please keep her trust and her faith strong. I love her, Father. I love her so much… .”

Isaiah waited as long as he dared, giving Eliakim the extra time he had promised. But as the afternoon shadows began to lengthen, he knew he couldn’t postpone his task any longer. He walked the short distance to the palace by memory, his vision blurred by grief.

Here am I. Send me!

That was what he had told Yahweh many years ago when he first agreed to be His spokesman. Isaiah had endured mocking and insults and even threats to his life in the years that followed his commission; Yahweh had warned him from the start that the task he had volunteered for wouldn’t be easy. But now Isaiah wondered if anything he had done for Yahweh had been as difficult as telling King Hezekiah he was going to die.

Isaiah had lived through the reigns of four different kings: Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz, and now Hezekiah. None of the others had followed God’s Law as diligently or as faithfully as Hezekiah did. “Why, Yahweh?” he asked again, but he already knew God’s answer:
“My
thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.”

The royal physicians huddled miserably in the king’s outer sitting room. They looked up when Isaiah entered. He nodded slightly in greeting, unable to speak, then walked past them into the bedroom.

He paused inside the doorway, and fresh tears filled Isaiah’s eyes when he saw the dying king.

Hezekiah lay gray and still, his eyes closed, his breathing short and painful. The angel of death seemed to hover over his body, which was little more than skin and bones, waiting for Isaiah to finish his task.

“Give us a few minutes alone, please,” Isaiah said to Shebna and the servants. Then he walked to Hezekiah’s bedside and laid his hand on his shoulder. After a moment the king’s eyes slowly opened. Isaiah saw a flicker of recognition.

“Rabbi?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. It’s me.”

He saw the unasked question in Hezekiah’s eyes and couldn’t avoid his task any longer. His voice trembled with emotion as he forced the words out of his mouth.

“This is what Yahweh says: You need to put your house in order, Your Majesty, because you’re going to die. You won’t recover.”

Tears flowed down Isaiah’s face in spite of his efforts to control them, and he quickly brushed them aside. He knew from Hezekiah’s expression that he had heard, that he understood. The king nodded almost imperceptibly, as if he lacked the strength to do more, then closed his eyes again.

“May you rest in peace,” Isaiah whispered. He took a long, final look at King Hezekiah, then turned and fled the room.

Hezekiah knew that Isaiah’s words were final. The prophet spoke the Word of God, and it could never be changed. Twice before, Isaiah had prophesied Hezekiah’s salvation: when his father tried to sacrifice him to Molech; and a few years ago, when the Assyrians threatened to invade his nation. Both times Yahweh had miraculously intervened to save him, just as the prophet had promised. Now the prophet had spoken again—and Hezekiah would die.

He felt his life swiftly draining from him, like water disappearing into the desert sand. Until Isaiah had come, Hezekiah had continued to hope. Perhaps he could fight off the poison and the sickness. Perhaps the physicians would find a treatment that would cure him. Now Hezekiah knew that it was hopeless.

The bitter irony of his death struck him. God had once saved him from an idol’s fire, only to let him perish because of another idol’s fire. Had he accomplished anything during his lifetime? Would his death have any meaning at all?

How quickly his life had passed! There was so much more Hezekiah wanted to accomplish. And he had left so many things undone. Now, in the few remaining moments of his life, he needed to get his house in order. He needed to name a successor. The next king of Judah would be an heir of King David, as God had promised. But he wouldn’t be his own son.

Hephzibah. How he had loved her!

She had worshiped the fertility goddess, thinking a lifeless idol could grant them a son, but it had led to this. He would die because of her idolatry.

Yet even as he faced the final inevitability of God’s Word, even though he would gladly welcome freedom from the agonizing pain he suffered, Hezekiah felt his fear begin to multiply. He wasn’t ready to die. Isaiah had prayed that he would rest in peace, but peace refused to come.

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will
fear no evil, for you are with me… .”

Hezekiah tried to pray for the courage to accept death, to embrace it without fear—but he couldn’t. He still clung desperately to life, refusing to let go, even as his strength melted away. He was terrified of the unknown. He didn’t want to die.

O God! Where are you?

Hezekiah felt utterly alone, abandoned by God in his pain and fear. He turned his face to the wall, in the direction of the Temple, blotting everything else from his mind as he desperately sought the calming presence of God for his fearful soul.

“O Lord, your Word says that if we follow your laws and keep your covenant that you will bless us … that you will keep us free from every disease. Remember, Lord, how I’ve tried to walk before you faithfully … and with wholehearted devotion as you have commanded … remember how I’ve tried to do what is good in your eyes… .”

He couldn’t finish his prayer. Hezekiah closed his eyes and wept.

8

T
HE SIMPLE COUNTRY FARM
outside Beth Shemesh reminded Jerusha of her father’s land in Israel. She had gradually adjusted to life in the city, but ever since arriving at their cousins’ place this morning, Jerusha had been remembering all that she missed: the smell of hay and oxen, the soft swish of olive branches in the wind, the taste of cold spring water on a hot, dusty day.

She sat outside holding baby Tirza on her lap, watching little Jerimoth explore the outdoors. At first the open spaces had frightened him after knowing only the safety of their tiny courtyard garden. But once he adjusted, he wanted to experience everything at once— watching the servants milk the goats, picking early grapes from the vineyard, playing hide-and-seek among the olive trees. He already felt at home, too.

But even as Jerusha watched him run and play, she couldn’t shrug away her growing unease. Eliakim’s elaborate story and false cheer hadn’t fooled her. Something was wrong. All afternoon she had listened in vain for the sound of horses’ hooves signaling her husband’s arrival. As the sun sank lower in the sky, her anxiety deepened. When he still hadn’t arrived as the family prepared for supper, Jerusha was gripped by the overwhelming fear that she would never see Eliakim again.

She was staring down the deserted road, fighting her tears, when Hilkiah came and stood by her side, gently resting his hand on her shoulder. “Come, my child. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Aren’t we going to wait for Eliakim?” She watched his face, searching for a clue to the truth as she deliberately spoke her husband’s name. The sparkle in Hilkiah’s eye was missing, and she thought she detected pain in its place.

“No, you know what he’s like when he’s working. No sense of time, that son of mine. It’s better we should eat than wait.” He turned away from her too quickly, calling, “Come on, Jerimoth. Time to wash for dinner.”

The boy raced up to Hilkiah and hurled himself into his arms. “Is Abba here?” he asked, breathlessly.

“Not yet, son.”

“But I don’t want to eat without Abba.”

“Shh … your aunt Shoshanna has dinner prepared already. We must eat. It would be rude not to eat.”

“Abba isn’t coming at all, is he, Grandpa?”

Jerusha froze as her son voiced her fear. She watched her father-in-law carefully, waiting for his answer. She knew that Hilkiah could never tell a lie.

“What did your father tell you, Jerimoth?” he asked gently.

“That he would see us later.”

“Well, then, if it’s within your father’s power, I know he will keep his promise.”

“Why isn’t he here yet? Where is he? It’s almost dark.”

“How can I know these things, Jerimoth? It’s impossible to say for sure where your father is right now.”

“Do
you
think he’s coming, Grandpa?”

Hilkiah didn’t answer right away, and Jerusha saw the uncertainty in his face. She strained forward to hear his answer, knowing it would either calm her fears or confirm her suspicions.

“Jerimoth, your father is a very busy man. A very important man. Only Yahweh can know for certain when we will see him again. Now, come. Aren’t you hungry? I know I am.”

Jerusha hugged the baby tightly to herself and stared down the road toward Jerusalem one last time. Hilkiah’s words hadn’t revealed what he knew, but they lingered in her mind like a prophecy: Only Yahweh knew when she would see Eliakim again.

“Grandpa?” Jerimoth asked as they washed their hands for dinner. “Can Abba’s horse see in the dark?”

“Such questions he asks! Am I a horse that I should know such a thing?”

The mealtime seemed strained. Hilkiah’s cousins carried the conversation, talking of relatives Jerusha had never met and past events she hadn’t been part of. Jerusha ate in silence, her worries and fears multiplying rapidly. By the time the dishes were cleared away, the children were yawning from their long day.

“Time for bed,” she told Jerimoth.

“I want to stay up until Abba comes.”

“We don’t know when that will be, honey. It might be very late.”
Or it might be never
.

“But I’m not tired, Mama.”

“Then you may lie in bed and listen for Abba, and if you hear him coming you may get up again, all right?”

“But Abba always says prayers with me. Who will say them with me if he’s not here?”

“I would be very happy to say prayers with you tonight,” Hilkiah said quickly.

Jerimoth considered the offer for a moment. “Abba told me that when he was a little boy you used to tuck him in every night and say prayers with him, just like we do.”

“That’s right, I did.”

“Do you remember when Abba was a little boy, Grandpa?”

“Yes, I remember.” Hilkiah’s voice sounded strange. “Call me when you’re ready,” he said and quickly fled outside. Jerusha looked at Hilkiah’s cousins, but they wouldn’t meet her gaze. Instead, they busied themselves with nothing.

After the children were in bed, Jerusha wrapped herself in a shawl and went outside to look for Hilkiah. She found him sitting on the low stone wall of the vineyard with his back to the house, staring at the half-moon lying low on the horizon. She sat down beside him.

“Jerimoth is ready to say prayers.”

“All right.” He started to rise but Jerusha held his arm to stop him. She had to know the truth.

“Abba, wait. Last night Eliakim told me that King Hezekiah was dying—yet today the king was healthy enough to send us here to Beth Shemesh.” She paused, but Hilkiah said nothing. She heard the gentle breeze stirring the leaves of the grapevines. “Abba, if Eliakim has known for days that we might be coming here, if the servants knew and had everything packed, why did he rush home to tell us that we had to leave right away? And why did we have to hurry if
he
wasn’t in a hurry to get here?”

Hilkiah still didn’t answer.