by Lynn Austin
He wiped his eyes again and sighed deeply. “It’s his tunnel, Jerusha. He’s run out of time, and his tunnel isn’t finished. He needs a miracle. He needs to pray.”
Hilkiah closed his eyes, remembering the night he had argued with Eliakim over Jerimoth, remembering the bitterness in his son’s voice: “Why did Mama die? Why didn’t God answer our prayers?” “But Eliakim won’t pray,” Hilkiah said. “He doesn’t believe that God answers prayer.”
He looked up at Jerusha as she gently rubbed his shoulder, and suddenly he knew that she was God’s answer. She was the only one who could help Eliakim.
“Jerusha,” he breathed, “he won’t listen to me—but he would listen to you.”
“But I don’t believe in prayer, either. God never answered any of my prayers.”
“My sweet child. I think He has answered them, but you refuse to recognize it.”
She looked startled, as if she had been slapped.
“Forgive me, Jerusha. I know that your ordeal must have been unbearable, but look around you! Are you still a slave? The Holy One has raised you from the dead! You’re back from the grave in answer to your dear father’s prayers. You have life again, and love, but you refuse to see it. In your mind and in your heart you’re still the Assyrians’ slave. You’re hanging on to all your hatred instead of letting it go, and that hatred is keeping you captive. But even worse, you’re robbing God of the glory that is due Him.”
“God could have saved me from being captured in the first place!” she said angrily. “But He didn’t! Why did He allow me to suffer like that? It was so horrible!”
“Oh, my child. I can’t even imagine how you’ve suffered. The world is an evil place because of man’s choices, not God’s. Yet I know that just as your father suffered and wept over you, and just as I weep and share in Eliakim’s pain, our Heavenly Father felt all your sorrow and suffered your pain along with you.”
“Then why did He allow it to happen?”
Hilkiah drew a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I asked ‘Why?’ when Eliakim’s mother and our two little sons died. And what was God’s answer? ‘Look up!’ There is a God of the heavens and the earth, my child. He orders all the stars in their courses and the moon as it waxes and wanes. He sends the rain and the sunshine and causes the earth to bloom. So if there is an order and a purpose in all that He has made, then surely we can trust Him to order our lives, too—without needing to know why.”
“But I can’t forget what they’ve done to me—or what I chose to become.”
“What they’ve done to you can never be changed. But now you face another choice, Jerusha. How will you live the rest of your life? You can let the past make you bitter and unforgiving and unloving. Or you can turn the pain into something beautiful by choosing to do so.”
“I don’t see how.”
“My dear child, tonight you saw me weeping, and you had compassion on me. Why? Because you’ve wept many hours yourself. You know what it is to suffer. Because of what you’ve been through, you can reach out to others—but first you have to stop thinking of yourself. Did your father and mother die to save you so that you could be crippled with self-pity for the rest of your life?”
She didn’t reply.
“Jerusha, Eliakim needs you—as a friend. I’m not asking you to be anything more. He doesn’t trust God to answer his prayers, but he knows—he knows you’re alive because of your father’s prayers. If you want to help me, I beg you to go to him. You’re a living testimony, Jerusha. He needs to be reminded of your father’s great faith in God, reminded that God does indeed answer prayer. Please, Jerusha?”
She stared at the ground. She wouldn’t look at him.
“I . . . I can’t,” she finally said. Then she fled into the house.
Jerusha lay on her bed for a long time, clutching the remnants of her baby’s blanket and listening to Maacah’s steady breathing as she slept. She had seen how Eliakim suffered, how haggard and defeated he looked, and it broke her heart. She loved him. But he had avoided her ever since the night he’d proposed, and she was certain that he hated her. How could she go to him now?
“You’re a living testimony that God answers prayer,” Hilkiah had told her. Abba had believed in God and had prayed for her throughout her long ordeal.
“Oh, Abba!” she sobbed, remembering his smile, his strong, tanned arms, his warm green eyes. “My happy little bird,” he used to call her. But that was before they took her song away, before she’d been forced to witness the brutal deaths of thousands of people. She shuddered, remembering the endless days of hard labor, the long nights of suffering. “Turn the pain into something beautiful.”
But how?
As Jerusha buried her face in the blanket, she suddenly remembered how her beautiful, perfect baby had been created through rape and pain. Could Hilkiah be right? Was it possible to create beauty from suffering? She raised her head and gazed around the room as if seeing it for the first time. Hilkiah was wealthier than Abba had ever dreamed of being. His luxurious home lacked nothing, and he had opened it freely to her, never asking for anything in return—until tonight.
She thought about Hilkiah’s stern words. Was she really as blind and ungrateful and filled with self-pity as he’d said? Was there really a God after all—a God who could forgive what she had done, a God who may have allowed her to suffer so that He could use her as His instrument of compassion?
Suddenly she remembered her father’s final prayer as he’d blessed her and kissed her good-bye, then sacrificed his life so that she could live: “You saved Jerusha for a reason. . . . May she find that reason and be a living testimony to your goodness and grace.”
Jerusha went to the window and looked up into the star-filled sky. “If you’re really there, God . . . please help me. I . . . I don’t know what to say to him!”
Eliakim sat in his room late that night, his tortured mind barely functioning. He had all of his drawings spread in front of him, and he worked through his calculations one more time. But once again, he reached the same conclusion he’d reached countless times before. The two tunnels were perfectly aligned. They should have broken through. He pounded his fists on the table, reopening the wounds on his raw, bruised hands. Why couldn’t they hear the signals?
It was past midnight, and the dim light of the oil lamp strained his eyes. There was nothing more he could do. Eliakim snuffed out the lamp and climbed the staircase to the darkened rooftop. The night was bright with stars, but instead he gazed down at the buildings and houses below him. His father’s house was built high on the city mound, just below the king’s palace. From his roof there was a vertical drop of at least thirty feet.
Eliakim knew his tunnel would never be finished on time. There was no remedy for his failure. He didn’t want to watch as thousands of soldiers surrounded Jerusalem, a city left without water because of him. He couldn’t bear to hear the Assyrians beating against his walls until they finally broke through, until they defeated him once again. They had destroyed Jerusha, and soon they would destroy his nation. There was no reason for Eliakim to live.
He began to pry away one of the stones of the parapet that guarded the edge of the flat rooftop. For his father’s sake, he would make his death look like an accident, as though the wall had collapsed and he had fallen. But Eliakim couldn’t get a firm grip with his sore hands. He kicked at the unyielding stones, then hurled his body against them, but they didn’t budge. Like the wall at the end of his tunnel, the cold gray stone seemed to mock his efforts. He would have to climb over and jump. He raised one leg.
“Eliakim, don’t!”
He spun around. Jerusha stood a few feet away from him. She looked so beautiful in the soft moonlight, with her long hair blowing in the breeze, that Eliakim felt the familiar, painful longing for her beneath his despair.
“Don’t do it, Eliakim, please—”
“Don’t do what?” She couldn’t have guessed what was on his mind.
“You were
going to jump.”
“No, I wasn’t. I . . .” He moaned and leaned against the wall. Why bother lying anymore?
“Is it because of your tunnel?”
He gave a short laugh. “My wonderful tunnel! A marvel of engineering! The two shafts should have met days ago, but it’s useless. All I can do is grope around down there—digging and digging, night and day.” He stopped, not trusting his voice.
“Then it’s only a matter of time, isn’t it? They have to meet up sooner or later.”
“But we’ve run out of time—don’t you understand? There is no more time! How long will it take the Assyrians to march here from Samaria? Tell me, Jerusha! You know the answer! Our time is up!” He turned away from her to look down once again at the thirty-foot drop that could end all his anguish in a moment.
“Surely the king doesn’t blame you, does he?”
“He should. I told him I could do it. I promised him I could make it work. I was so sure.” He whirled around to face her again. “This was the only way I could fight them—don’t you see? I’m not a soldier. I can’t fight with swords and arrows. This was my way of getting revenge. But they’re going to defeat me anyway. You know it as well as I do. They’re going to tear down my walls, and they’re going to win. And I don’t want to live to see it.”
She stared at him silently for a moment. “Why do you hate them so much, Eliakim?”
He waited a long time before answering. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Because of what they did to you. They crushed your heart and destroyed all your love—then they took away your hope. Nobody has the right to do that to another person. Without love there’s nothing to live for except hatred.”
Jerusha gave a startled cry. “Oh, Eliakim! I’ve done the same thing to you! I’ve destroyed your love and turned it into hatred! I’m no better than they are!” She began to cry.
“No, Jerusha, it’s not your fault. You aren’t to blame for what they did to you.” He yearned to go to her, to take her in his arms and hold her close. He wanted to feel her hair against his cheek, to comfort her the way he had in the palace courtyard that first day—but he couldn’t. He wished he had jumped before Jerusha came up onto the roof. Now she would blame herself for his death. But Eliakim knew it was his pride that was really to blame. He should have listened to Shebna and reopened the Jebusite shaft.
“It’s not your fault,” he said again. “I made the decision to dig the tunnel from both ends. I made all the plans and calculations. I wanted all the glory—to be the man who saved his city. But the failure is mine instead—mine alone. I can accept the blame, but I can’t live with the failure—not when I have to watch all the people I love die because of me.”
“Eliakim, please . . .”
“Jerusha, go back to your room. I need to be alone. You’re not responsible. Please believe that.”
Neither of them moved. Jerusha looked at him for a long time, tears streaming down her face. When she finally spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper.
“Eliakim, I know what it’s like when all your hope is gone. I felt that way once. And I wanted to do the same as you—I wanted to die.”
She looked so beautiful to him, and his love for her was so great that he had to look away from the anguish he saw on her face and heard in her words.
“I started to search for a way to end my life, too,” she said, “but the day I decided to die was the day they set me free to track me down again. They gave me hope—a reason to want to live—but it was a mockery. How did I dare believe that I could escape from them?”
Eliakim felt ashamed. “You’ve been through more than I could even imagine—”
“No. Let me finish. I’ve realized something tonight: I’m not a slave anymore. I’m free. And I live here in this beautiful home with a family who loves me. Why did I go free when so many thousands of others died or remained slaves? How did I ever make it home again? Escaping from the Assyrians is impossible, Eliakim. So how is it possible that I’m here?”
“Your strength and courage—” he began.
“No. I know that isn’t true. I was a coward. I would have killed myself in another day. That’s not courage. I’m here because my father prayed and God answered his prayers. There’s no other explanation. Do you believe that, Eliakim?”
Eliakim remembered arguing with his father over the impossibility of her return. He knew that the only reason she escaped was because of a miracle of God. He could never deny it.
“What are you trying to say, Jerusha? What does that have to do with—” He stopped, unable to speak about his tunnel again.
“Have you prayed?” she asked. “Have you asked God for help?”
“No.”
It was the simple, honest truth. There was nothing more he could say. He closed his eyes in shame. Yahweh was a living God to Hilkiah and Jerimoth, a God they could turn to for help. But in spite of the fact that Eliakim attended the sacrifices and festivals year after year and had never bowed his knee to a false idol, Yahweh remained a distant, unknown God to him. And it had never occurred to him to call on Yahweh for help. He had shut God out of his life, living his own way, on his own strength. And that was arrogant pride. He looked up at Jerusha again.
“No. I haven’t prayed.”
“I never would have dared to believe God for all this,” she said, gesturing. “But I’m here. Ever since they took me captive, I’ve been bitter against God for allowing it to happen. And my bitterness made me blind to all that He’s given back to me.”
Eliakim remembered the deep bitterness he had felt when his mother died in spite of his fervent prayers. He had felt betrayed, and he had never asked God for anything else, carefully disguising his bitterness and unbelief behind a mask of religious ritual.
“Eliakim, I haven’t prayed since they took my baby from me. But I want to pray now—with you, if you’ll let me.”
She stretched out her hand to him, but Eliakim couldn’t take it. Instead, he covered his face in shame.
“O God!” he cried out.
Then, overwhelmed by his sin and his pride and his unbelief, he fell to the floor on his face. And for the first time since he was a little child, Eliakim wept.
36
Hezekiah awoke while the sky was still dark. His sleep had been restless, and he felt as if he hadn’t slept at all. Worry pushed down on him like the weighted beam of an olive press until his head ached from the strain. He would have to make a decision today, whether they found Isaiah or not. Sending tribute to Assyria seemed to be the only solution. He couldn’t delay any longer.
Hezekiah rose and had just finished dressing by lamplight when he heard a knock on his door. It had to be bad news at this early hour. His servants were still asleep, so he opened the door himself. Immense relief flooded over him when he saw Isaiah.
“Rabbi, come in! I’ve been trying to find you since—”
“Yes, I’ve heard. I’m sorry you had to wait so long for me, Your Majesty. And I’m glad that your palace administrator was finally able to get in touch with me. Shebna tracked me down late last night and sent an urgent message that you needed to see me at once.”
“Yes, Rabbi, I do. Has Yahweh revealed to you what’s going to happen to our nation—to our people?”
The prophet’s expression changed, as if he had glimpsed something wonderful and terrible, awesome and dreadful. “Yes,” Isaiah said. “But who has believed our message and to whom has the arm of the Lord been revealed? God has shown me things I’m not sure I fully understand yet. I’ve seen the promised seed of Abraham, the righteous Servant of Yahweh, a Light for the Gentiles and a stumbling block to our people—the Messiah, who will reign on the throne forever.”
“Will God send the Messiah now—to deliver us from Assyria?”
The question seemed to annoy Isaiah. “You don’t understand. He will be your offspring, but you and I won’t see Him. And when He does come, many will hear Him but not understand.”
“Rabbi, what abo
ut our present crisis? Have you heard that Samaria has fallen to the Assyrians, and that their soldiers have been seen in Judean territory?”
“No, I didn’t know that.” Nor did Isaiah seem to care. An aura of otherworldliness surrounded him, as if his vision of the future made him unconcerned with the present. Hezekiah was desperate to make him see the urgency of their current situation.
“I’ve been waiting to talk to you about what I should do. I’ve armed and fortified our nation, and we’re ready to fight the Assyrians if that’s God’s will. Or maybe rebelling was a mistake. Should I appease them with tribute . . . or seek alliances? I have to make a decision today, but I want it to be what Yahweh wants.”
He waited anxiously for Isaiah to answer, but the prophet remained silent for several long minutes. When he finally spoke, he seemed deeply burdened and sorrowful. “Your Majesty, you’ve earned my deepest respect for seeking the will of the Lord, unlike your forefathers. May God grant you the grace to hear it and understand it.”
Another change took place in Isaiah, and suddenly Hezekiah was afraid to hear what Yahweh had to say. Was it the fulfillment of Isaiah’s earlier vision and the end of his nation? He had to know.
“Tell me, Rabbi.”
Isaiah’s clear blue eyes held Hezekiah’s. “You stockpiled your weapons, and when you saw that the City of David had many breaches in its defenses you tore down houses to strengthen the walls. You built a reservoir between the two walls and a tunnel for the water, but you didn’t look to the One who made you . . . the One who planned everything long ago.”
Yahweh’s rebuke felt like a sword thrust. “But, Rabbi—does Yahweh expect us to remain defenseless when our nation is threatened? Why was it so wrong to stockpile weapons and strengthen our defenses—or to try to safeguard our water supply?”
“Did you seek God’s will before you did all these things?”
“No, but I saw the condition that my nation was in, and I knew these measures had to be taken. It was common sense.”