The Strength Of His Hand Part 17

"The Lord is compa.s.sionate and gracious,

slow to anger, abounding in love... .

He does not treat us as our sins deserve or

repay us according to our iniquities."

"O G.o.d, forgive me," Jerusha prayed when she heard the words the Levites were singing. She had deserved to die as much as Hephzibah did. But G.o.d had forgiven her. She wondered if Hephzibah had found the same forgiveness. Eliakim told her that the king had banished his wife to a villa with his former concubines. Hephzibah would live out her days there, childless and forsaken. Jerusha recalled her own desolate existence as an a.s.syrian slave and knew that hopelessness and despair would be Hephzibah's constant companions for the rest of her life.

"'May the Lord make his face to s.h.i.+ne upon you ... and give you peace.'

" As the high priest p.r.o.nounced the benediction, a feeling of peace rested on Jerusha. G.o.d had forgiven her sins. But suppose she had never made peace with G.o.d. Suppose she still lived with the guilt of her sins, unrepentant, unforgiven, unloved. Jerusha shuddered.

"What's wrong, my child?"

Jerusha looked up as Hilkiah came to meet her.

"I was watching King Hezekiah during the sacrifice, Abba. He looks so lonely and depressed." She took Hilkiah's arm, and they started walking home together. "It made me think of Hephzibah, what she must be going through."

"And you knew exactly how she must feel," Hilkiah said, nodding in understanding.

"Do you think Hephzibah will ever find forgiveness the way I did?"

Hilkiah stopped walking. He turned to face Jerusha, taking both her hands in his. "Our heavenly Father never gives up on any of His children. But He needs people who are willing to be His voice and His hands to reach the lost."

"You don't mean me?"

"How will Hephzibah ever hear that G.o.d forgives her unless someone tells her?"

"But I'm still learning about G.o.d myself, Abba. I can't talk to Hephzibah. I wouldn't know what to say."

"On the contrary, you would know exactly what to say. You've lived through the same hopelessness she's probably experiencing, and you know firsthand what G.o.d can do. Yahweh will give you the words, just as He gave you the words to say to Eliakim when he was suffering. G.o.d used you in my son's life, Jerusha. Maybe now He wants to use you in Hephzibah's life, too."

"I don't even know if she'll talk to me."

"Yahweh only asks us to try. The Scriptures say, 'You turned my wailing into dancing. You removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing to you and not be silent.' Give it careful thought, my child."

Jerusha thought of little else for the rest of the morning. She was afraid to go talk to Hephzibah, yet afraid not to go. Suppose she had refused to do what Hilkiah asked the last time? What would have happened to Eliakim? Was G.o.d really asking her to be His spokesperson to Hephzibah? She would learn the answer only if she went to see her.

That afternoon Jerusha settled the children for their naps, then left them with the servants and walked down the hill from her house. She easily found the king's villa near the new Western Gate; it was a magnificent house made of dressed stone and cedar, surrounded by a high wall.

"I'm here to see Lady Hephzibah," she told the gatekeeper.

He blinked in surprise. "Lady Hephzibah?"

"Yes. I'm the wife of Lord Eliakim, King Hezekiah's secretary.". Her voice shook. She expected the man to slam the door in her face, but, much to her surprise, he motioned her inside.

"Follow me."

He led the way along a covered walkway past an open courtyard where bees buzzed among the flowers and doves called to each other in the treetops. It was a peaceful setting, but it seemed too quiet to Jerusha, as if something was missing. Then she realized what it was; none of the king's concubines had children. Without the sound of their laughter, the courtyard resembled a graveyard.

The gatekeeper stopped beside the last door along the walkway.

He knocked, then opened it without waiting for an answer.

"Lady Hephzibah? Someone to see you." He motioned for Jerusha to enter, then closed the door behind her and left.

Hephzibah sat alone in front of a window, looking out on a narrow alley and the back wall of the villa. All the other windows of the dark, airless room were tightly shuttered. The tiny cubicle looked as though it had been built for a prisoner, not for a king's wife. A coa.r.s.e sheet covered the narrow bed and a pallet of straw. No mirror or tapestries hung on the walls, no perfumes or lotions lined the tabletop- only a tray of untouched food. Jerusha wondered why the king would punish Hephzibah this way. But as she gazed at the starkly furnished room for a moment, she suddenly understood. Hephzibah had chosen it to punish herself. She had made the room into a prison cell in which to serve her life sentence.

The atmosphere of hopelessness and despair reminded Jerusha of the a.s.syrian camp, and she wanted to run out. What was she doing here? She didn't know what to say to Hephzibah. She had decided so abruptly to come that she hadn't had time to rehea.r.s.e any words.

"Lady Hephzibah?" she said shakily. "I don't know if you remember me or not-my name is Jerusha? I'm Eliakim's wife, the king's secretary?" Her words seemed to come out all wrong and sounded more like questions. Jerusha waited for a response, but Hephzibah didn't turn around.

She had always been pet.i.te and delicate, but now she looked frail and haggard, as if she hadn't eaten in weeks. She wore a tunic of plain cloth, and her hair was unpinned as if she were in mourning. The way she stared sightlessly out the window reminded Jerusha of Marah, who was probably still a slave in the a.s.syrian camp. And except for the grace of G.o.d, Jerusha knew that she would still be held captive, too. She had been right to come. She had to help Hephzibah find release.

"We've met before, Lady Hephzibah, at several state banquets.

Maybe you remember, we sat together at the women's table?" It seemed cruel to remind Hephzibah of the life she had lost and would never live again. Jerusha recalled the tender longing she often saw in the king's eyes as he gazed at Hephzibah across the crowded banquet room, and she shuddered at the terrible consequences of Hephzibah's sin. O G.o.d, please don't ever let me destroy Eliakim's love, she prayed.

"Well, it doesn't matter if you remember me or not," Jerusha continued. "I just thought ... I mean, I've come to ..." She stopped. Why had she come? She felt helpless as silence filled the room.

Then Hephzibah slowly took her eyes from the window and turned around. Jerusha felt a jolt of shock; it was like viewing a corpse.

Hephzibah's beautiful face had no life or color in it, and her eyes were past sorrow, past grief, as if forever washed dry of tears. In fact, she showed no emotion at all, and suddenly Jerusha wondered if there was even a woman inside this sh.e.l.l for G.o.d to reach. She groped for the edge of the cot and sat down.

"Why?" Hephzibah asked suddenly. Her low voice sounded dry and raspy, like an unused hinge. "Why did you come here?"

"Because you were once so kind to me when I was new at the palace. I wasn't the daughter of a n.o.bleman like you, but you never made me feel inferior. You helped me learn everything and ... and made me feel as if I belonged." Before she could stop them, tears filled Jerusha's eyes. Hephzibah had no hope. Her life would continue this way until the day she died. It was a punishment more cruel than stoning. "I-I'm sorry," Jerusha said, wiping her tears.

Hephzibah turned back to the window again. "If you came here to pity me, you can go home now," she said. "I don't need your pity." "No, that's not why I came. You were once a friend to me when I needed one, and I want to be a friend to you."

Hephzibah didn't reply. She held her body so still she might have been carved from stone. Jerusha knew that Hephzibah was forcing her body not to feel, knowing she would never be held or loved again. Jerusha wanted to gather her into her arms and comfort her like a child, but Hephzibah would never accept consolation.

"No," she said without turning around. "I don't need a friend."

"But I'd like to-"

Hephzibah turned swiftly, cutting off Jerusha's words. "Didn't they tell you what I did?"

"Eliakim told me about the fire. About how ... about why it started."

"You can't even say the words, can you? I was wors.h.i.+ping an idol!"

"Yes, I-I know." Jerusha reminded herself that she also had been a sinner and that she needed to extend G.o.d's love and forgiveness to Hephzibah. "But I still want to be your friend."

"Then I'm sure they didn't tell you all of it," Hephzibah said, looking past her.

Suddenly Jerusha didn't want to know any secret that horrible. She wanted to run back to her home and her children and forget this tortured woman.

"Y-you can tell me," she forced herself to say instead. She sensed Hephzibah's inner struggle, needing a friend but also wanting to punish herself by driving away any chance of friends.h.i.+p. Jerusha steeled herself for some terrible revelation, but she wasn't prepared for the truth when Hephzibah finally blurted it out.

"I pledged my child-King Hezekiah's child-as a burnt sacrifice to Asherah. If I hadn't been caught, I would have burned our baby alive, as soon as it was born."

The memory came back to Jerusha with dreadful power: the warmth of her newborn daughter nestled beside her, then her horror and helplessness when Iddina s.n.a.t.c.hed her baby from her arms. She had fought with all her strength to stop him, to prevent him from burning her daughter alive, but she hadn't been able to save her. Jerusha couldn't comprehend why Hephzibah would willingly allow her child to die such a horrible death. She shuddered as her own wound ripped open afresh; then she began to cry.

"Now do you still want to be my friend?" Hephzibah asked.

The knowledge of what Hephzibah had done would always remind Jerusha of her own pain and loss, and she didn't want to be reminded. But Hephzibah was manipulating Jerusha's emotions, trying to drive her away, and she resented it.

"The a.s.syrians raped me," she said angrily. "I had their child, a little girl. But they took her away from me before she was even a day old, and they sacrificed her to their G.o.ds. I'm weeping for her!"

"Then go home and weep for her there. I don't need your friends.h.i.+p." What G.o.d had asked Jerusha to do was too hard. Hephzibah would have to find forgiveness through someone else. Jerusha stood and walked to the door. But before it closed behind her, she heard Hephzibah say, "You won't ever come back."

On the long walk home, Jerusha's ragged emotions had a chance to knit themselves together. She had handled the visit poorly, allowing Hephzibah to manipulate her instead of taking the lead. By the time Jerusha reached home, she knew that Hephzibah's final challenge meant that she must return to see her again, even though she didn't know where she would find the courage to do it. She entered her front door deep in thought and hung up her shawl. When Eliakim walked into the hallway carrying little Jerimoth on his shoulders, he startled her.

"Eliakim! You're home early-what's wrong?"

He slid Jerimoth down to the floor, then spread his palms in the air and smiled. "You always ask that! Does it take a tragedy to bring me home early once in a while?"

He looked so handsome with his boyish grin and tousled hair that her heart swelled with love. She thought of how Hephzibah had lost her husband's love, how she would never see him or hold him close again, and she rushed into Eliakim's arms, clinging to him.

"Remind me to come home early more often!" he said, laughing. But as he bent to kiss her, he noticed her tears. "Jerusha? You're crying! What's wrong?"

"I-I love you so much!"

"Is that such a sad state of affairs? Am I that difficult to live with?"

"If you ever stopped loving me-I don't know how I could live."

"You know that could never happen," he said, holding her tightly. "Why would you even think such a thing?"

"Because sometimes it does happen."

He held her away from him and studied her troubled face; then he gave little Jerimoth, who was clinging to his leg, a playful swat. "Go see where all the servants are, son. Ask one of them to give you a date cake. Your mama and I need to talk."

Jerusha watched him toddle off and silently thanked G.o.d for blessing her with children. Again she thought of Hephzibah, who had no children, no husband, and she couldn't stop her tears.

"Jerusha, you're crying again. What's wrong?" Eliakim brushed away her tears with his fingertips.

"Oh, Eliakim! I'm so thankful for all that I have. I went to see Hephzibah today, and she-"

"You what?" Eliakim's smile suddenly vanished.

"I went to see Hephzibah-"

"Not King Hezekiah's wife?" The shock on Eliakim's face surprised her.

"Well, yes ... I-" Eliakim grabbed her by the shoulders. All the color had drained from his face. "Jerusha! You didn't!"

"Yes, Eliakim, I went-"

"But why?" he shouted. "Why would you do such a stupid thing?"

His reaction stunned her. For a moment Jerusha couldn't think, couldn't remember exactly why she had decided to visit Hephzibah. Nor could she understand why her husband was so upset with her.

"I-I felt sorry for her. She was once so kind to me, and I thought she needed a friend, that's all."

"That's all? G.o.d of Abraham! Didn't you stop to think about me?" Eliakim had never shouted at Jerusha before, and the sound made her knees shake.

"But it has nothing to do with you."

"It has everything to do with me! Jerusha, think! I'm the king's secretary of state. Hephzibah betrayed him. No, it was worse than that; she nearly killed him! And now my wife is befriending her? Making social calls? My wife?"

"I-I didn't think ..."

"No, you certainly didn't! Jerusha, please. You can't ever go back there again, do you understand?"

"But she's all alone. I was only trying to-"

"She's supposed to be alone. She's been banished. She's in exile. According to the Law, she should have been stoned to death."

"Hephzibah's punishment is worse than stoning. Listen, Eliakim-I didn't go to pay her a social visit. I went to help her find G.o.d's forgiveness."

"She doesn't deserve forgiveness!"

Jerusha had never seen Eliakim so angry, and she barely recognized him. His gentle brown eyes were no longer warm but filled with hatred. He spoke each word with such barely controlled fury that his handsome face looked rigid and cold.

"Jerusha, I was there the night King Hezekiah discovered his wife wors.h.i.+ping an idol. I will never forget how he suffered! His skin was burned off! It hung on his leg in shreds, and he was ready to pa.s.s out from the pain when I found him. But the pain in his soul-G.o.d of Abraham-I will never forget it as long as I live! His physical suffering was nothing compared to the anguish of his soul. She deceived him. She made a mockery of his G.o.d. She doesn't deserve forgiveness!"

"None of us do, Eliakim. Not one of us. You know my past better than anyone. But G.o.d forgave me. I don't deserve all of this," she said, making a sweeping gesture with her arms. "My sins are just as great as Hephzibah's, and if she deserves to be stoned to death, then so do I."

For a moment he couldn't reply. Then his features softened, and the gentleness returned to his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "You're right; we've all sinned." He took her hand in both of his and squeezed it tenderly. "But Hephzibah will have to be reconciled with G.o.d some other way. You can't become involved with her. You won't."