“Mother, this is not your decision,” Elkanah said, taking Hannah’s arm and ushering her toward the door.
“Yafa’s daughter Peninnah is the perfect age and would make a fine wife for you. And with Yafa recently widowed, you would be doing her a favor.”
“I’m not marrying Peninnah, Mother. And you are upsetting Hannah.” Elkanah gave his mother a stern look, even glanced at his father long enough to make the man speak up.
“Elkanah is right, Galia. You need to stop meddling,” Jeroham said.
“And you need to start!” Galia raised both arms and flailed them like she was swiping at flying birds or insects, but it was just her way of making a scene. “You need to speak to your son and talk sense into him. Adonai knows, blessed be He, that I have no say in anything. Elkanah listens to Hannah, and she certainly isn’t helping him make a wise decision.”
The memory of the conversation brought another onslaught of silent tears. Hannah draped a tunic over tree branches, then collapsed to her knees, longing to bury her face in the dirt and stones at the water’s edge. If only she could make the Almighty see her pain, convince Him to act on her behalf, remember her as He had Rachel of long ago.
She should never have married.
Oh Adonai, I do not want to share him with another woman. She groaned inwardly as she rose, grabbed another tunic, and let her gaze travel the distance across the river and up the hill. Peninnah’s house was not visible with the trees blocking the view, but she knew it was close. How often had she seen the woman—one who could have already married—and her mother sharing this task that Hannah should be sharing with Dana even now?
Peninnah had grown into a comely girl. Five years Hannah’s junior and seventeen years younger than Elkanah. Now at twenty-one, she had plenty of years to bear ahead of her if she married soon.
“But I’m not so old that I cannot still bear!” She jumped at the sound of her own voice, surprised she had spoken aloud. She was only twenty-six. Why did everyone think she was without hope?
Oh Adonai, please! Did God hear a woman’s anguished cries? If He did, she had seen no miracles, no answers in all the years she had asked for them. And she had lost the hope that He was even listening.
I don’t understand You, Adonai. I have loved You and prayed to You and tried to obey You all of my life. I was an obedient daughter, and even when Galia speaks unkindly to me, I have tried to honor her as You command. What possible reason could You have for withholding a child from me, from Elkanah?
Was the fault truly just hers? As Galia had continually pointed out, the only way to know was to let Elkanah take another wife.
Her stomach knotted and a feeling of nausea rose within her. She pushed hard against her middle, praying she would not be sick. She glanced again in the direction of Peninnah’s home, thinking perhaps if she talked to the girl, she might find her more acceptable. And it would be helpful to Yafa to find a husband for her daughter. A man who could care for her also since her husband’s passing the year before.
But every time she even considered the thought of the sharp-tongued, opinionated Peninnah, whose words had been too harsh for one so young—and worse, the thought of sharing Elkanah with her, with anyone—it was too much. She did not want to know that the blame of barrenness lay squarely with her. She did not want to know the truth that she already felt clawing its way to a place of acceptance in her heart.
I wish I had never been born.
She looked again at the river. What purpose did her life hold if not to bear children? What worth did she have if she could not do this one simple thing?
She scrubbed harder on one of the spots on a child’s robe and shoved the thoughts and feelings deeper inside her. She couldn’t lie down in the river or jump off a high cliff or wander the hills until a wild animal found her and took her life. And she couldn’t refuse Elkanah’s need for a son forever.
Oh Adonai, what am I supposed to do?
Elkanah sat on the hillside not far from the home he shared with Hannah, keeping a sharp eye on the sheep. Tahath had taken a hundred of them to another pasture, and for a time Elkanah missed his company. His brother’s chatter helped him to think about anything and nothing and was especially good at blocking the one overriding thought that he could not shake from his mind.
Now, sitting alone with the sheep grazing in the distance, he could think of nothing but the dilemma he faced. Seven years was a long time to wait for a child, wasn’t it? His mother claimed it was. But even the prophet Samson had not been born in the early years of his parents’ marriage. Perhaps God had a reason for withholding this blessing from Hannah, from him.
His mind whirled, recalling all of the drama his ancestors had faced when they added another wife. Hagar had given Sarah trouble. Of course Leah was Rachel’s bane for years. Could he not be like Isaac and just patiently wait?
Is there something wrong with waiting, Lord?
He looked up at the sound of someone whistling, heading his direction. His father. The closer Jeroham drew, the more distinct and familiar the whistle. What now?
He stood to greet the man and gave him a steady look. “Has something happened?” His father rarely left the fields to check up on his sons, so there must be a greater reason.
Jeroham settled among the grasses and motioned for Elkanah to do the same. “Sit, Elkanah. Is there something wrong with a father wanting to talk with his son?”
Elkanah raised a brow. “Of course not. But my father rarely does so.”
Jeroham chuckled. “Then I suppose it’s time he did.”
A sense of foreboding rose within him, and Elkanah had the wild urge to get up and run. But he couldn’t exactly leave the sheep or his father. He wasn’t a child, after all.
“Well then,” he said after a lengthy moment, “tell me what you came to say.”
Jeroham glanced at Elkanah but couldn’t hold his gaze. He stared out toward the sheep instead. “I want you to know from the start that if you are against this, I won’t fight you. Your mother has it in her head that you need to hurry up and have children, whereas I can’t imagine why she’s so worried. It’s not like we don’t have a houseful of grandchildren to keep her busy. Except for Tahath’s children, of course.”
“Of course.” It had been a source of contention between all of them when Elkanah convinced Tahath to move with him. There was no sense in revisiting that sensitive topic.
“But I can’t say your mother’s ideas are completely without merit, my son. She has been known to be right at times, and when it comes to women’s issues, she seems to have a sense about these things.” The awkwardness his father must have felt was evident in his halted speech and the way he kept twisting his hands in the belt of his robe.
“From the beginning God gave one man to one woman, and every story I have heard of my ancestors breaking that initial plan ended in frustration.” Elkanah ran a hand through his beard, then along the back of his neck, almost causing his turban to turn askew. “I love Hannah, Father. I don’t want to marry anyone else.”
“Your mother seems to feel an obligation of some kind to Yafa.” Jeroham held Elkanah’s gaze this time. “You know they’ve been friends all of their lives, nearly sisters, and when Yafa lost Assir, your mother promised to do what she could to help her.”
“Then let her help. But my mother’s promise does not include me.” The old anger simmered near the surface. “There are many men in the town, and Peninnah deserves to marry a man who will make her his only wife.”
“Your mother tells me that Peninnah wants you—even if she has to be a second wife to you.”
Elkanah stared, dumbstruck by this news. “Peninnah is a child. She has been spoiled her entire life and has no idea what it means to share a husband. She doesn’t even know me, so why would she say she wants me?”
Jeroham shrugged. “It is what your mother tells me. What do I know of it? I only know that it would make your mother happy.” He lifted his hands in entreaty.
“While making me miserable and Hannah impossibly sad. Do you not see how hard it is for Hannah right now? Every time we visit, Mother manages to toss a barb her way and make her feel like she has failed the entire family because she is barren.” Elkanah paused, clenching and unclenching his fists. “What does my mother’s happiness have to do with this, Father? Peninnah would not be living under her roof. I cannot afford to build the girl her own house, and I am certainly not going to bring her into the home I built for Hannah.”
“I will see to it that you have the materials you need to build Peninnah a home of her own.”
The words felt like a knife to his gut. “So you are taking my mother’s side when you told me it was my decision? Why are you doing this? Why is no one willing to let me wait? I am not so old that I will never bear children. If Hannah still cannot bear after we’ve been married twenty years, then perhaps God will give us an answer as He did for Isaac.” Elkanah stood and paced the ground between his father and an ancient oak tree.
“Peninnah will be too old in thirteen more years. She needs to wed now.”
“Then tell Yafa to find her another husband.”
“She wants you.”
Elkanah stopped, the reminder another kick to his gut. “I don’t care. I don’t want her.”
“Apparently Peninnah assumes that you will treat her as you do Hannah.” Jeroham shrugged.
Elkanah gave his father a hard look. “Perhaps she is simply jealous and thinks she can take what Hannah has.”
But that very thought was ludicrous. Even if he thought to look for a second wife, Peninnah would not be the girl of his choosing.
This was simply not happening.
“I could never love any woman like I do Hannah, Father, and I don’t want to discuss this again.” But he felt his resolve slipping the slightest as he held his father’s gaze. “I can’t do it, Father.”
“You might never have sons with Hannah. Is that really what you want—to die childless?”
“We don’t know the future.”
“But it’s fairly obvious that God’s blessing is not on your union.”
Elkanah felt as though his father had slapped him. He had waited for Hannah to grow to adulthood. He had loved her devotion to Adonai. How could God not bless a union that was centered on Him?
But was it true? He and Hannah loved and worshiped God together. They prayed together sometimes. They shared the same faith.
Yet God had withheld children. Despite their many prayers. Did that mean their marriage was cursed, as Phinehas had seemed to imply in his refusal to accept Hannah’s sacrifice?
He looked at his father, but no words would come. He turned on his heel and walked off.
17
Hannah placed the bowl of stew between her and Elkanah and handed a loaf of bread to him. They had taken to eating meals alone several days a week rather than join the other family members. It had given Hannah a huge sense of relief to be free of the looks, the insinuations, the pointed suggestions, even the not-so-subtle comments that she really ought to consider Elkanah’s future. But what of her future?
Elkanah broke the bread and blessed it and handed a piece to her, then motioned for her to dip hers first in the stew. She complied only because she knew he would insist, despite the fact that every other woman in his family would have served him, served all of the men, before the women and children.
She ate the morsel, watching as he did the same. “What do you think?” she asked once she had swallowed with a drink of new wine. The pressing from the first harvest of grapes had not yet fermented, but it had the sweetest flavor, and both she and Elkanah could not resist drinking some before it turned from juice to wine.
“I think it is your best lentil stew yet.” He smiled and dipped another piece of bread into the mix of lentils and vegetables. They had cheese and oil to add to their meal, but meat was saved for times when they were celebrating or sharing their food with guests. He broke another large piece of bread for her, and together they ate in silence, with only the sound of insects thrumming outside the open window.
“You stayed late with the sheep tonight,” she said, wondering why he had not returned to her sooner. She had spent the day washing clothes at the river while the stew simmered over a low fire, with one of Dana’s children keeping watch and stirring it now and then. She had said a prayer of thanks that the child had not allowed it to burn.
“I had a visit from my father, and I wasn’t ready to come home once he left.” Elkanah’s brow furrowed, and she saw the strain in his eyes.
“You were not pleased with whatever he had to say.” She looked at him, longed to go to him and wipe the lines of anxiety from his forehead, but she sat and waited.
He wiped his hands on a linen cloth and cradled the clay cup. “We need to talk.” He held her gaze. “But let us put the food away so the mice don’t eat what’s left. Then we will walk together under the stars.”
Hannah’s stomach twisted into a tight knot. She rose and quickly took care of the leftover food, while Elkanah dumped the crumbs from the linen cloth outside, away from any scurrying animals that sometimes could sneak into cracks or spaces in the walls.
“Thank you for helping,” she said, taking the linen from him and placing it once more on the low table. She brushed the wrinkles from her tunic, grabbed her robe from a peg near the door, and followed Elkanah into the cool night air.
He took her hand and they walked in silence the opposite direction of Dana’s house, toward the river where she had spent most of the day. They stopped shy of the water in an open field where the stars were brightest. Hannah’s heart thumped with every step, fearing, knowing, fearing again.
She could no longer stand the silence. “Why did your father come to see you?”
He stopped walking and turned to face her, taking both of her hands in his. “He wants me to consider my mother’s suggestion that I marry Yafa’s daughter, Peninnah.” The Adam’s apple moved in his neck. Moonlight bathed his face, and he looked up at the heavens as though seeking answers from the stars.
She followed his gaze to gasp at the night’s brilliance. Was God watching over them through the window of the heavens? Could He hear her heart sinking, feel the emotion she fought to keep in check?
“I don’t want to marry her.” His comment made her look at him. She swallowed hard. “I told my father I have you. You are the only one I want, Hannah.”
Tears stung despite her grand effort to hold them back. She blinked, but they would not abate. He moved his thumb to catch one that hit her cheek, then pulled her into his arms. The action broke through the wall of hurt and frustration, and she wept, dampening his robe with her tears.
He stroked her back and held her until her tears were spent. “I’m sorry for the way my family has treated you, beloved. I’m sorry I have not been able to give you a son.”
She held up a hand. “You and I both know that it is God who gives life. For whatever reason, one known only to Him, He has decided to close my womb.” She looked away from him, then studied her feet, so close to his.
“I wish it were not so,” he said just above a whisper.
So he accepted the truth she had been denying for years. The fault lay with her.
“I am still glad we married. I never want to disappoint you, Hannah.”
She looked into his anguished face. Compassion filled her, and she placed one hand on his bearded cheek. “You could never disappoint me.”
Silence followed her words, a pause loaded with feelings she could see in his eyes. She let her hand fall away as he looked beyond her.
He turned slightly away from her, and she wanted to pull him back but for the invisible wall and the sluggishness that had overtaken her limbs.
Please, Elkanah, look at me. Talk to me. She glanced heavenward, but no prayers would come.
“Even if I took another wife?” He spoke so softly she almost missed the words. He turned and faced her once more, took her hands in his. “E
ven if I added a secondary wife to our home?” The repeated question hung between them as though suspended on weighty clouds.
“You mean even if you married Peninnah?” She would not let him use “wife” as though it was a thing and not a person.
Name her. Let me hear you say you want to marry her. But she did not beg him for such a thing. She could not fault him for doing what any man in his position would do. Truth be told, Peninnah’s own father could have married another woman long ago—one who would have given him sons instead of only one daughter. It was the way of things, even if it wasn’t the way God intended them.
And then a sudden thought occurred to her. “What if Peninnah cannot bear you a son? What if she only has daughters or dies in childbirth? Will you take another wife then too?” Her tears came again, and the helpless look in his eyes told her she was pushing too far. “I’m sorry.” She brushed away the tears with her fingers. “I don’t want to share you.”
His expression softened. “Nor I you. And I don’t want you to share me with anyone, beloved. I do not want to marry Peninnah. But I don’t want to look for anyone else either. I am the one who wants to wait like Isaac did, even if it takes twenty years.”
“But your mother and father are anxious for you to father children, and you are tired of disappointing them?” She hated the way the words sounded so bitter, like her life.
He ran a hand through his hair and released a deep sigh. “I don’t know what to do, Hannah. This is why I wanted to talk to you. I want us to be happy. But every month that you don’t conceive, I know you weep in silence. Don’t think me so callous that I don’t see. At first I thought my mother was the problem, that living under her roof was causing you to worry too much, but even here, alone, nothing has changed. You can’t give me a child.”
“I know.” They were repeating the same tired words again, and Hannah had no answers anymore. “We’ve already established that fact.”
He looked at her so intensely with such love that she wanted to break down and weep again, but she stiffened her back and held his gaze, hoping he could see that she shared his love.
A Passionate Hope--Hannah's Story Page 10