The Strength Of His Hand Part 20

There's so much more to marriage than pleasure or sons, Shebna. It's a sacred covenant, a mutual covenant, for the benefit of both partners. It's like-"

The blank look of incomprehension on Shebna's face stopped Hezekiah. A wall of unbelief separated him from Shebna, and for the first time Hezekiah realized how different they were, how far apart they'd grown over the years. Hezekiah's faith led him to live for G.o.d, not for himself; Shebna had no one to please but himself.

"Never mind," Hezekiah said. He sank down wearily on his couch, shaking his head. "That's all, Shebna. You may go."

Shebna didn't move. "I am sorry if I have offended you, Your Majesty. I was only trying to be a friend to you. I thought the girl might help lift the burden of sadness you have carried for so long."

"I know. And I appreciate it. But maybe I'm just not ready to let go of it yet."

And for the first time Hezekiah admitted to himself that in spite of all that Hephzibah had done to him, he still loved her. Maybe he always would. Their hearts had been joined together in a miraculous, inexplicable way, and no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he willed it, he would probably never be able to completely forget her, never stop loving her. And never was a very long time.

16.

THE HOT SUN GLARED off the paving stones as Hezekiah stood on the palace steps, watching his servants load the caravan with gifts for Pharaoh Shabako. Within minutes, sweat poured down his face and neck, gluing his tunic to his back. He wiped his brow, pus.h.i.+ng his damp hair off his forehead.

Eliakim stood beside him, his opposition to the Egyptian treaty clear from his grave silence. In the courtyard below, Shebna strutted before the growing crowd, issuing last-minute orders to the servants. When General Jonadab finished inspecting the Judean soldiers who would accompany the delegation, he climbed the stairs to where Hezekiah and Eliakim stood. "I can't tell you how pleased I am that you've decided to purchase Egyptian chariots and horses, Your Majesty. They will be a muchneeded addition to our a.r.s.enal."

Hezekiah nodded vaguely. He didn't want to think about the Egyptian horses. He wanted to get this over with.

"Are you sure you don't want to come along, Eliakim?" Jonadab asked with a wry smile. "I'll let you ride your favorite horse. It'll be like old times, riding together."

"No thanks, General." Eliakim's usual boyish grin had disappeared. Jonadab looked perplexed.

"I thought this was a happy occasion, Your Majesty. Why all the long faces?"

Yes, why the gnawing uneasiness that churned in Hezekiah's stomach? He had made a reasonable decision about this alliance based on facts and sound advice. But for some reason he couldn't escape the feeling that he had made a grave mistake.

"We'll celebrate when you return and the treaty is signed," he told Jonadab.

"Of course, Your Majesty."

Hezekiah watched in silence as Shebna finished issuing orders and bounded up the steps. "Everything is ready, Your Majesty. We are ready to leave whenever-oh no! What does he want?"

Hezekiah followed Shebna's gaze and saw Isaiah pus.h.i.+ng his way through the crowd, elbowing people aside. The prophet made no effort to mask his disapproval as he stopped at the bottom of the steps and gazed up at Hezekiah.

"'Woe to the obstinate children,' declares the Lord, 'to those who carry out plans that are not mine, forming an alliance, but not by my Spirit, heaping sin upon sin ..."'

"What is he doing?" Hezekiah asked through clenched teeth.

"He's condemning me here? In front of all these people?" The crowd had fallen silent, listening with rapt attention as Isaiah's voice carried across the courtyard and echoed off the palace walls.

"'Who go down to Egypt without consulting me; who look to Pharaoh's protection for help, to Egypt's shade for refuge.' " Hezekiah hurried down the stairs, the stiffness in his scarred leg making his descent awkward. But he had no time to disguise his limp. He had to stop Isaiah from denouncing his policies in front of all these people.

"Don't do this to me," Hezekiah pleaded in a low voice. "Please, Rabbi. Not in public like this. You don't understand. You don't have all the facts-"

"'But Pharaoh's protection will be to your shame,' " Isaiah continued, "'Egypt's shade will bring you disgrace.' " It seemed like a bad dream to Hezekiah-the prophet shouting to a rebellious king before an astounded crowd, rebuking him in the name of the Lord. He remembered standing beside his father near the aqueduct on the road to the Washerman's Field the day the prophet had confronted Ahaz. He remembered Isaiah's warnings in the Valley of Hinnom and how the prophet had pleaded with Ahaz and the rebellious people to stop their sin of idolatry. Now Hezekiah stood in his father's place. Now the prophet directed his angry words and accusations of sin and rebellion at him. Helpless frustration made Hezekiah want to lash out at Isaiah, just as his father had lashed out, but he choked back his anger.

"Not out here, Rabbi, please," Hezekiah begged. "Can't we go inside and talk about this?" Isaiah's voice rose even louder in volume.

"These are a rebellious people, deceitful children, children unwilling to listen to the Lord's instruction. They say to the seers, 'See no more visions!' and to the prophets, 'Give us no more visions of what is right! Tell us pleasant things, prophesy illusions. Leave this way, get off this path, and stop confronting us with the Holy One of Israel!' " "Guards!" Shebna shouted as he bounded down the stairs. "I've had enough of this man!"

"No, Shebna," Hezekiah said wearily. "Let him have his say. Trying to silence him will only make things worse." He turned his back on Isaiah and on the caravan to Egypt and slowly limped up the palace stairs, mortified to be receiving the same condemnation as his father. Isaiah continued to shout behind him.

"'Because you have rejected this message, relied on oppression and depended on deceit, this sin will become for you like a high wall, cracked and bulging, that collapses suddenly, in an instant. It will break in pieces like pottery, shattered so mercilessly that among its pieces not a fragment will be found for taking coals from a hearth or scooping water out of a cistern.' "

When Hezekiah reached the top step, Eliakim stopped him.

"Shall I call off the caravan, Your Majesty?"

Hezekiah turned around and faced the crowd again. The soldiers, servants, and townspeople watched him curiously. Everyone waited for his response. Hezekiah shook his head.

"No, Eliakim-we can't call it off. We can't be the only nation that doesn't join the coalition, or they'll turn against us. We need this treaty. Our national security depends on it."

He had spoken too quietly for Isaiah to hear his words, but the prophet began shouting again as if he had. " 'In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength, but you would have none of it. You said, "No, we will flee on horses." Therefore you will flee! You said, "We will ride off on swift horses." Therefore your pursuers will be swift! A thousand will flee at the threat of one; at the threat of five you will all flee away, till you are left like a flagstaff on a mountaintop, like a banner on a hill.' " Hezekiah's breath quickened as he fought back the angry words he wanted to hurl at Isaiah. They felt like gravel in his throat. He longed to curse the prophet for confronting him publicly like this, for criticizing his decisions without listening to the facts, for making him feel like a wicked, rebellious king like his father. He wasn't like his father. He had followed G.o.d's Law to the letter. He had been faithful to His covenant. Isaiah was wrong. But Isaiah was never wrong.

"Doesn't Yahweh have a good word for me, Rabbi? After all that I've done for Him? After all these years?" He heard the pleading note in his own voice, and he felt like Esau begging for his father's blessing after foolishly squandering his birthright.

Isaiah gazed at him sadly for a moment before answering. "Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; he rises to show you compa.s.sion, for the Lord is a G.o.d of justice. Blessed are all who wait for him!"

Hezekiah felt the tension in the gawking crowd. The soldiers, n.o.bles, and officials waited anxiously to see who would win this confrontation. But Hezekiah knew he couldn't back down. In spite of Isaiah's words, he remained convinced that joining the coalition of nations was Judah's only hope against an impossibly superior foe.

"You don't understand, Rabbi," he said at last. "I am trusting the Lord. He's the only G.o.d I'll ever wors.h.i.+p. But for my nation's sake, I have to join with my neighbors against the a.s.syrians. I can't ignore what's going on in the world around me. I'm sorry you don't see it that way. And I'm sorry you've decided to confront me in public instead of man to man."

Then, because he didn't want to hear any more of the prophet's words, Hezekiah signaled for the caravan to leave and disappeared into his palace.

"Someone to see you, my lady."

Hephzibah turned and was stunned to find Jerusha standing in her doorway. She had come back! In spite of all Hephzibah's efforts to drive her away, Jerusha had come back. Her persistence touched Hephzibah's heart-and she didn't want to be touched.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I came back to see you."

"Why?"

"Because I want to be your friend."

"I told you I don't need your friends.h.i.+p. Or your pity. Why can't you leave me alone?" As she glared at Jerusha, Hephzibah noticed something she had missed the last time-an unmistakable bulge in the front of Jerusha's robe. "You're pregnant, aren't you?"

"Yes ... yes, I am."

"How can you come here and parade in front of me like that, knowing that I'm barren? Do you enjoy reminding me of my failure?

Go away!"

But Jerusha shook her head. "No, Hephzibah-I'm not leaving. I know you're trying to punish yourself by pus.h.i.+ng everyone away, but-"

"I don't have to push anyone! They've all disowned me! My servants, my family, even my father and mother. I've disgraced them. They consider me dead. And I wish you would consider me dead, too."

"Have you asked G.o.d to forgive you?"

"I don't believe in forgiveness," she spat. "There's no such thing."

"I was angry at G.o.d, too, Hephzibah. I blasphemed Him and refused to pray or to believe in Him. But when I asked for forgiveness-"

"You lived happily ever after. Good for you. But that's not going to happen to me. Hezekiah hates me. He isn't going to forgive me, so how can his G.o.d forgive me? I won't even ask."

"That's not how it works, Hephzibah."

"Yes, it is. Hezekiah obeys all of G.o.d's laws, I don't. So G.o.d listens to him, not to me. Neither one of them will ever forgive me." Hephzibah thought she had long exhausted her tears, but when she remembered the look in Hezekiah's eyes the night he discovered her betrayal, she covered her face and wept. She wished she could erase the memory of the anguish she had seen in his eyes, his terrible pain as he'd read the words of her vow. She longed to forget, but she couldn't; from the moment she had first met Hezekiah she had loved his beautiful dark eyes most of all.

She heard Jerusha moving around the room, opening her curtains and shutters; then she felt the breeze move across her skin like a caress when Jerusha opened the door to the outside. Hephzibah looked up. A sparrow landed on the threshold, c.o.c.king its head as if asking a question, then flew away.

"Come out into the courtyard with me," Jerusha said, extending her hand. "Sit in the suns.h.i.+ne."

Without knowing why, Hephzibah followed Jerusha outside and sat beside her on the bench. The bright sunlight hurt her eyes, and the sound of birds and the wind in the trees seemed deafening. She stared at the door to her room, as if knowing that her freedom couldn't last. She resented Jerusha for intruding on her solitude. But since Jerusha was already here, Hephzibah decided to use her to find out what she ached to know.

"Jerusha ... do you ever see my ... do you ever see King Hezekiah?"

"I saw him at the Temple this morning."

"How is he?" she whispered.

"Hephzibah, why put yourself through this?"

"The last time I saw Hezekiah he was dying ... and it was all my fault."

Jerusha touched her shoulder. "The king has recovered completely, Hephzibah. He'll be fine. He has lost a lot of weight, but he's growing stronger and stronger every day."

Hephzibah tried to control her tears, but they spilled down her face. "Do you ever go to the palace? Do you see him there?"

"I went to a banquet last week for the envoys from Egypt."

"How did he look?"

"Hephzibah, don't do this to yourself."

"You don't know! You can't possibly imagine how it feels to realize that you'll never see your husband again!"

"I do know how it feels," Jerusha answered quietly. "When the king nearly died, my husband's life was in danger, too. Prince Gedaliah was going to kill him. Eliakim sent me away so I'd be safe, and I didn't know if I'd ever see him again."

Hephzibah looked away. "If ... if you really want to be my friend, then describe him to me. Let me see Hezekiah through your eyes."

"All right." Jerusha drew a deep breath. "The envoys came to honor him, Hephzibah, and they brought him magnificent gifts. First the Babylonians came, then the Egyptians-"

"He's a man of great importance ... yet he loved me," she interrupted. "I could never quite grasp it. He loved me... . I owned a place in his heart. I wish ... I wish I had realized how precious his love was. I never would have gambled with it." She wiped the tears that continued to fall, then looked at Jerusha again. "What did he look like that night?"

"He wore the crown of David on his head and a robe of deep purple. When he walked into the banquet room and the trumpets played their fanfare, he looked tall and stately, a man of dignity and stature. The Egyptians seemed small beside him."

When Jerusha stopped, Hephzibah closed her eyes and continued describing him from memory: "His beard and hair shone like copper in the lamplight, and his shoulders were broad and straight. I could never take my eyes off him-I loved to watch him from across the room, especially his hands. They're so large and strong, and he can't seem to talk without using them. I used to tell him that if he sat on his hands he'd be speechless. Then he'd laugh. How I loved to hear him laugh! Have you ever heard his laughter, Jerusha?"

"I haven't heard him laugh in a long time. He carries a burden of grief with him all the time, wherever he goes. He's still mourning his loss. I know that he loved you very, very much. I used to see it in his eyes. I can't look into his eyes anymore, because the pain is so naked and so intense. I'm not telling you this so you'll feel guilty and punish yourself, but so you'll know that the love you shared with him was rare and true and very deep. Hang on to that. Treasure that knowledge. And understand that he still loves you, still grieves for you-for what you both lost."

"But it can never be fixed," Hephzibah said.

"No, it can't be fixed."

"Then learn something from me, Jerusha. Don't ever go against your husband's wishes. Nothing is worth that risk."

"You're worth it, Hephzibah. In G.o.d's eyes and in mine."

Suddenly Hephzibah realized what Jerusha was saying. "Jerusha!

You're not supposed to be here, are you? Your husband would never approve if he knew you were here with me!"

"But my husband is wrong. I came back, because I knew it was the right thing-"

"No! I thought my husband was wrong, too, and now I'd give anything to choose differently. Leave, Jerusha, and don't come back!

Go home and take your husband in your arms, and never let go of him. Get out of here!"

"But, Hephzibah-"

"I'll tell the gatekeeper never to let you in again. Now, go!" She pushed and prodded Jerusha until she finally stood up.

"I'll go," she said. "But I want you to know that no matter what you've done in the past, G.o.d will forgive you the moment you ask Him to. There's a song that the Levites sing at the Temple. I want to tell you the words."

"But then you have to leave."

Jerusha nodded. Her voice trembled as she recited: " 'Praise the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits-who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compa.s.sion... . He will not always accuse, nor will he harbor his anger forever; he does not treat us as our sins deserve or repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his love for those who fear him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us.' " Jerusha looked at her uncertainly, as if she wanted to embrace her but was afraid. Hephzibah folded her arms across her chest to signal her unwillingness.

"You can believe those words," Jerusha said quietly. "I know they're true. I've lived them." Then she turned and walked from the courtyard.

For Hephzibah it was a beautiful poem-nothing more. No one would redeem her life from this lonely, empty pit. And neither Hezekiah nor his G.o.d would ever forgive her for pledging to sacrifice her child to an idol. She rose from the bench and slowly walked back to her room, closing the door behind her.

The house was quiet when Jerusha arrived home, the children still napping. She hung her shawl on a hook beside the door and sank down wearily on the bench to remove her sandals.

"Where have you been?"

Jerusha jumped at the sound of Eliakim's voice. She slowly lifted her head and looked up at him, unsure how to answer.