He looked at me with a glance that had suddenly grown edgy and piercing. Then he shook his head, obviously disappointed. “That's only a tiny part of it, don't you know?”
He threw up his hands in a gesture that spoke of futility and allowed them to fall back limply onto his lap. “I also felt struck by lightning. I tingled with a knowledge that I stood in the presence of the Being who created the universe, who created me. And that anything could happen. I could be ushered into glories unspeakable. I could be granted the kingship of Israel. I could be struck dead. Who knows? When you are in the presence of the King of Kings, destiny-not just your own, but the world's-can change in the twinkling of an eye.”
And I began to stare, even at my young age, for I was almost certain that I could feel it myself at that moment. A sensation like when someone stands behind you and you feel their eyes upon you, and the hair begins to tingle across the back of your neck. You feel their presence. My heart began to race, my cheeks to flush. Something wonderful was happening.
Now, maybe you are a more holy person than I. I make no pretensions of great righteousness. But for me, this was the first time. In fact, I had spent the previous years angrily denying to myself that G-d could actually exist. After all, I had reasoned, if we were His chosen people, why did my whole family die? Why did my tender mother, my quiet, freckle-faced brother, my brave and handsome father have to lose their lives to the blades of men for whom the taking meant less than to kick a dog? Why did He not protect them-after all, they were chosen people, too! Why did so many others have to die horrific and tortured deaths? The whole attack had felt like the acting out of an evil intelligence, a foul intention. Not the will of a good and loving G-d.
You can imagine how jarring it was to feel G-d's Spirit fill our dining room and our hearts to bursting that night. The sensation seemed to increase even as the old man continued to speak.
“I always believed,” Jacob continued, “that the catalyst for these times of blissful closeness to Him was that I had focused my attention on Him, not on myself. Not on the fact that the Master of the Universe, may His name be blessed, stood in my presence, and I in His at that moment. I could not even think of such a thing, although I suppose it was true. No, like that little child, I was completely enraptured by His arrival and His presence, and my own part in the matter was completely forgotten. Then, of course, as He surrounded me and wrapped me like an infant in those Abba arms, it became even more impossible to turn a thought unto myself. What caused His joy was not my puny righteousness-my holiness, which would have been like filthy rags to Him had He chosen to examine it. In that moment His charity-His favor-was far too great to scrutinize my fault. Again, it was not about me. Not about me at all. What caused His joy was seeing my rapture at His presence and the communion that it sparked. That is what gladdens His heart. Often I have to remind myself that the example of parenthood is not accidental. He is our Father. He is many other things, too, of course. But He is every bit as much a Father, and more, than any man whose heart has ever ached at being separated from his little ones.”
Jacob took one last gulp of stew and leaned back on the bench, wiping his pathetic beard with an edge of his filthy tunic. “I never forget those moments with the King of Kings, not ever. Today, I suppose I am the most expendable person you could imagine. An old, infirm man. One good whack of a bandit's sword would do me in. Yet I remember, without vanity I hope, that I have stood in His presence and found favor with Him. And no one can ever take the joy, the knowledge, the certainty of that away.”
y dear young maiden, you might still be wondering what could be the significance of this latest anecdote. And so I will tell you this. In ways that I can only attempt to explain to you, Jacob's words were the reason, at least the earthly reason, for everything that came next. Although I didn't truly realize it at the time, it laid the foundation for decisions that wound up saving my life, and yours, as well, if you're a Jewess as I suspect. Please be patient with me and I will show you why.
You see, Mordecai's life was not the same after that night, and neither was my own. Without speaking of it to the other until much later, we both began to feel in the days that followed an unmistakable inner urge to regain the sense of His presence we had felt during the old man's visit.
We responded to that urge in vastly different ways.
Jacob left our home two days later, and we never saw him again. Word came some time later that his caravan had been beset by bandits while returning to Jerusalem with his offerings, and he had died of his injuries in the desert. Mordecai bowed his head and whispered a prayer upon hearing the news. I simply turned away and walked out into the courtyard.
Once again, I told myself, G-d had failed to protect His own. But I couldn't help but ask myself what Jacob would say about it. Somehow the memory of his description of the Presence, at least for the moment, won out over my accusations against God.
The visit had caused Mordecai to renew his fervor toward G-d. He began to pray alone, for no official reason, and take his religious life far beyond the mere dictates of tradition-even though tradition had once been of supreme importance to him. He began to study his scraps of Torah in the morning before leaving for work and before retiring to bed in the evening. He began to pepper his speech with mentions of the Lord and His will. He grew more purposeful and enthusiastic in his observances of Jewish holy days. Needless to say, each of these newfound habits annoyed me more intensely with every passing year.
I, on the other hand, turned the other direction. Realizing that G-d was real, palpably so, actually filled me with a fresh resentment that I could barely contain within my reserved demeanor. Somehow, dealing with my anger toward Him was easier when He had been simply a relic of tradition, a remote institution of my ethnic heritage. Knowing that He was real and approachable, and that I could personally experience those realities, made Him the perfect arm's-length target for my rage.
And yet, fearful of angering this newly real G-d, I also kept these emotions to myself and made a pretense of following Mordecai's inner renewal. I prayed with him, sat obediently during the chants and rituals. We kept the weekly Shabbot, well-religiously.
Slowly, even more gradually than my grief had dissipated, my anger began to grow. And soon I began to feel my first stirrings of rebellion against the solitude, a longing for escape. Rachel's presence helped, of course, or I would have gone mad within weeks. Her constant humming and puttering about the house provided their own never-ending source of companionship. And the various grandchildren she brought by at least relieved the tedium somewhat.
From her earliest days with us, Rachel had constantly told me of my physical attributes. “What an exquisite face you have, Hadassah,” she would coo over me, always grasping my head in some painful vice-like grip or other. Soon she became so enamored with my girlhood appearance that she began to bring over her favorite grandson, Jesse, a rather sallow-faced, sad-eyed boy.
“From a good family he comes,” she was given to announcing anytime I expressed the typical disdain toward the presence of a boy. “You could do worse than marry him someday. That is, if your father lets you admit you're a Jew.”
She did not speak those last words as much as spit them out, for she was a faithful member of the local flock and opposed Mordecai's reticence, often with tirades, which had grown louder and more frequent over the years. Rachel emphatically believed that visibility, not assimilation, was the key to Jewish survival in this new land. Of course, so was eventual immigration back to Israel-a goal that she spoke of in husky, sentimental tones but never seemed to pursue with much seriousness.
I disrespected Jesse not out of elitism but good old-fashioned disgust toward any young males. Eventually Jesse and I became friends, but not until several years of taunting and pestering had passed.
Despite the company, some days the sheer repetition of sights, sounds and smells in the house would oppress me so deeply that I felt I might suffocate. I would have to wait impatiently unt
il late at night, after Mordecai's raspy snore began to drift from the room next to mine, to slip out into the cool night air and climb onto the roof.
Once there I would crawl as quietly as I could over the moldy remains of palm leaves, trying hard not to think about how peculiar I would seem getting caught in such a strange perch. I would stay low and move as stealthily as possible to the lip of the outer wall, then peer out as carefully as a spy.
People were still about at that hour, enjoying the evening breezes. I would lie there by the hour, soaking in the sheer variety of it all and the imprint of something new upon my eyes. I could glance across a hundred rooftops and see a dozen family excursions, domestic quarrels, moonlight sales transactions. I could even see the towering pillars of the Royal Palace upon their height, their bases flickering in the torchlight, the tiny silhouettes of royal guards highlighted in the glow.
The Palace seemed so far away then. Its very heft, its exalted site high atop the north of the city, decreed matters of great consequence. Decisions of life and death. Important people living out lives of gravity and privilege.
I glanced away most of the time. Such an intimidating sight was not necessary to clear my head. I required only the sight of passersby: a camel train, a sneaking youth or even a soldier or two. The sight of a stranger-that mysterious looming bane of my childhood nightmares-had grown from an object of terror to one of curious longing.
Soon thereafter forces of nature joined the fray.
awoke in panic from a nightmare of a masked man kicking me in the stomach. I could hardly breathe. My midsection kept pulling me downward, trying to double me over, refusing to relax. Instead it heaved in wave after wave of agonizing constrictions.
Because the last time I could remember waking in the night with a crisis was the night of my parents' death, all the old terrors washed over me once more. I could actually hear the men grunting again as their swords plunged into my beloved family. Scorching their way through my very bones, I could feel the screams of my mother and brother. I could see the flames rising up to hide the carnage. Worst of all, I could feel every ounce of terror, fear, rage and grief I had felt so long before.
“What is happening? What is happening?” called Mordecai, rushing over with features slack from a deep sleep. I had never seen his eyes so glazed over and inert.
“I don't know!” I answered, holding my midsection and rocking back and forth with the pain. “It hurts so bad!”
I cried out. Mordecai remained motionless, his eyes as wide as two gold pieces.
“What is it?” I screamed. “I swear, Poppa, I did nothing! I touched nothing! I was fast asleep!”
Mordecai did not even seem to hear me, so great was his paralysis. Yet even through my panic and pain, I could tell from his eyes that he was coming to a realization. One he had not expected. One that remained a complete mystery to me. Finally Mordecai saw the evidence upon the fabric of my night clothing and knew for certain. “I am so sorry,” he said, almost moaning in his remorse. “I didn't think. I didn't prepare....”
And then he turned swiftly and hurried for the door.
“I have to go,” he said, his face pale. “I know-it's terrible to leave now, but Rachel will know what to do. I must go and fetch her.”
He was almost out the door when he stopped abruptly, turned around and said with as much tenderness as he could remember to summon, “By the way, my dearest, there's nothing wrong with you. Nothing at all. I-I can't explain now, but Rachel soon will. Just please wait there and do not move, will you?”
Now, I do not relay this episode to convey yet another milestone in my growing-up years or to illustrate Mordecai's ineptitude or any such thing. I tell you this because “becoming a woman,” as Rachel called it when she eventually arrived, had a profound effect upon me.
To put it simply, puberty caused my stored-up rage to surge and break out of its restraints. And the target this time, I am ashamed to say, was my poor dear lifesaver, Poppa Mordecai.
To his credit, Mordecai tried to atone for his omission in preparing me for that day. He took the necklace given to me by my parents and draped it around my neck.
“You are a woman now,” he said in a low voice. “I remember how your parents wanted you to wear this when you had finally left childhood behind. It is a special symbol of our people, and you should always wear it proudly.”
“I thought it was just a family heirloom,” I countered.
“No. It is far more than that. It is the very symbol once painted on the shields of David's army. For many of our people, it has become an emblem of sorts, since God's law forbids us to have graven images.”
“It's not just a star?”
“It is a star. Some even call it David's Star. But this sign is much more. Whenever you see it, wherever you see it, you can know that a child of Israel, one of your people, has left his mark.”
A few days after that first menses, after spending a dreadful day curled up in my bed, I took a shaky walk around the yard. It was frightfully hot, yet I was too grateful to be outdoors to even notice. Rachel's grandson Jesse walked haltingly beside me-actually a few steps behind me, afraid to come too close in case I would snap at him once more.
I was hardly aware of his presence. From the first moment I had stepped out into the daylight, I had become seized by the most ferocious sense of confinement and alienation I had ever felt. Suddenly the expanse of our courtyard became a prison, its walls the ramparts of a dungeon wall inching inward with every passing hour. Mordecai was my jailer, a sadistic depriver of adolescent joys.
So the first thing I did was dispatch Jesse with a mean-spirited diatribe about the peskiness of young men. I am ashamed to say this, especially in light of the near future, but such is the wont of so many adolescent girls.
On his way out, Jesse reentered the house to bid his grandmother good-bye and left from the front door without another word. Several minutes later, Rachel emerged, wiping her hands against her lap. I bristled and turned away, for I was certain she was about to upbraid me for my treatment of her favorite grandson. But instead, she took my arm and awkwardly sat down with me in the shade of the center palm tree. And that is where I finally learned the truth of what had just happened to me.
Somehow Rachel felt the need to veer her object lesson into the provinces of male anatomy and sexuality, a subject that rendered her nearly incoherent. The words stammered out of her in staccato bursts. I had never heard her speak so nervously, her eyes turned away from me and her face grim with determination. When her descriptions brought her to the need to specifically describe parts of the male body, she nearly halted, paralyzed by her struggle to capture the safest nickname or euphemism.
I nearly seized her by the shoulders to shout at her, “Rachel, for heaven's sake, I've caught glimpses of Mordecai and even Jesse; it's fairly obvious they are different from us. That makes it undeniable! And it's something they hold in the hand-I have it pretty well figured out!”
But instead I kept my lips tight and still and listened to her elliptical trip through the wonders of all the subjects the adults in my life had never seen fit to teach me.
When Rachel finished, she simply stopped, as though her lurching flow of words had finally exhausted her capacity for speech. A long pause fell between us. I have wondered since if she was waiting for me to ask questions or say something, or whether she truly was finished and simply refused to utter a word more than the occasion required. But before I could find out, without the least warning I felt my lungs start to heave, my shoulders shake and my eyes begin to stream with tears. I had never wept like that in my life. I felt possessed by some foreign being whose only form of communication was deep, even violent sobs.
Rachel reached her arm around my shoulders with a dutiful expression and began to explain that my predicament was nothing to be frightened or sad about. It was a natural thing that happened to every girl. Everyone understood that.
But if anybody did not understand that day, it was R
achel. For you see, I was not weeping about the frightening facts of menstruation or sexuality. For the first time, I was weeping for my dear dead mother. The sensation of being in her arms, hearing her warm voice whisper to me about what a beautiful little girl I wasthat feeling had washed over me as fresh and powerful as though she had died only yesterday. And my emotion was not merely grief; it was a profound sadness-that my mother's “beautiful little girl” had now become a woman, had progressed into her childbearing years without her momma being able to share a moment of it.
I explained none of this to Rachel. In my weeping state, I felt it beneath me to explain the truth to her. I simply went on sobbing loudly with my face in my hands. Finally Rachel shook her head in dismay, no doubt convinced that such a reaction should take only a minute to run its course, then stood and returned to the house. I sat and tried to force my tears to stop. I failed. My body was on a ride of its own making, and it certainly had no plans to consult me about the best time to end.
One Night With the King: A Special Movie Edition of the Bestselling Novel, Hadassah by Tommy Tenney;Mark Andrew Olsen Page 7