A Passionate Hope--Hannah's Story

by Jill Eileen Smith

  Hannah laughed but quickly sobered. “She is fertile, I will admit that. Sometimes I wish Elkanah would stay away, but they are his children. And when he cannot be with me, he goes to her. She is his wife, after all.”

  “And as always you give him your blessing.” Her mother shook her head. “You are too kind to him, my daughter. It wouldn’t hurt you to tell the man how you feel and ask him to keep his distance from her.”

  Hannah’s shoulders slumped, defeat settling over her. “Ima, I can’t do that. We can’t take back what is done. He can’t divorce her, and his children need him. He always comes to me at least once in the day, and next month he is taking me to Shiloh, where we will be away from Peninnah for an entire week.” She realized in that moment how much she longed for the day to arrive quickly.

  Adva nodded. “That’s good. I am happy that you are at peace with this, Hannah. When you told us about your vow . . . well, I must admit I did not want to believe it. Samuel is such a sweet child—” She stopped, choking on the words. She looked at Hannah, her smile sad. “I miss him.”

  Hannah felt the tears creeping up again, suddenly wondering if her mother’s visit was as helpful to her as she’d expected it would be. But a moment later she found herself clinging to the woman who had given her life, grateful that someone else understood her struggle.

  “Would you like to help me with the weaving?” she asked once the emotion had passed. “I’m making a new robe to take to Samuel during the next feast, and I am not quite sure which size to make it. Dana’s samples from her own children are helpful, but I could use your opinion.”

  Her mother nodded, handing Hannah the cup of warmed fruity milk, and the two walked back to the courtyard. The time was sweeter than Hannah expected, for as they worked it struck her that her mother was aging more quickly than she had realized. How much time would they still have with each other, especially when these visits were so rare?

  She looked at her mother and smiled. “Thank you for coming, Ima. You are just what I needed.” If only life could stay this way and everyone she loved never had to walk through the door and leave her.

  Peninnah doubled over from the sharp pain to her middle, unable to keep a cry from escaping. Her new maid, Dalit, hurried to her side.

  “What is it, mistress? Are you ill? Is it the babe?” The girl flitted about the room like a mother hen, straightening cushions on the couch and leading Peninnah to sit.

  “I can’t sit,” she said through gritted teeth. She pressed both hands to her middle and groaned. In six pregnancies she had never experienced such a thing. “I don’t know what is wrong.” She looked at Dalit, wishing not for the first time that it was her mother who stood by willing to help. She would have known what to do. But God had taken her mother to Sheol, and all Peninnah had left was an incompetent young woman hardly older than her own sons.

  “Let me run to get help then.” Dalit’s tone was clearly agitated, and Peninnah realized she would be of no use to her just standing there. She was too young to understand the details of childbirth, and it was clearly too soon for this child to be born.

  “Go to Hannah’s house,” Peninnah said at last, regretting the words the moment she had spoken them. “She is the closest and she will know what to do.” At least she could send for Galia or Dana or someone. Surely they would come to her aid as they had when her mother passed. “And find Moriah.” Stubborn girl was probably off with her sister in the fields picking wildflowers instead of weeding the garden as Peninnah had instructed her to do that morning.

  “Yes, mistress.” Dalit rushed toward the door, then paused and turned back. “Should I take Nadav with me?” At little more than six years old, the boy was always getting into mischief, and his older brothers were off in the fields with Elkanah.

  Elkanah. He was the one she wanted the most. She winced as another pain grabbed her, nearly making her stumble.

  “Mistress?” Dalit hurried closer. “I don’t want to leave you like this.”

  How comforting. At least the girl knew a few words of kindness.

  “Well, you have little choice. Now go! Nadav will be fine. Wherever he is.” She shooed the girl out the door and stumbled to the couch she had earlier refused. She needed to make it to her bed. She should have had Dalit help her there.

  She tried to stand, but the pains would not abate. She sank to her knees and crawled toward the hall where her room was but reached her mother’s old room first. How fitting. Perhaps she would die in the same place her mother had passed.

  The thought brought a wave of sudden, overwhelming fear. Oh God, I don’t want to die. Women died in childbirth. She knew that. And women lost babies before their time and lived. And sometimes both were lost.

  She crawled onto the bed in the room that they had planned to use for Nadav and the new baby. Tears slid down her cheeks as the pain increased. There isn’t going to be a new baby, is there? It was a prayer, as best as she had ever prayed, but she expected no answer. Why should God respond to her when all of her life she’d been angry with Him? Hated the way her circumstances had turned out? Hated everyone she came into contact with, even Elkanah? Yes, she even hated him for not being the husband she expected.

  Bitterness tasted like bile as another pain rocked her. Would Hannah come? Would she send for help or let her die here alone? Please don’t let my children find me as I found Ima. They still needed her. She was too young to die.

  Tears wet the pillow beneath her head as she lay there begging God to have mercy.

  “Mistress Hannah, Mistress Hannah!”

  Hannah looked up at the sound of Dalit’s voice calling from the road as the girl raced toward the courtyard. Adva exchanged a worried look with Hannah, who stood and hurried to meet Peninnah’s maid.

  “What’s wrong, Dalit? Tell me quickly.” For a blinding second she feared, as she did on occasion, that something had happened to Elkanah, then quickly realized that Dalit would not be near Elkanah at this hour.

  “It’s Mistress Peninnah. She doubled over in pain and said she needs help. I fear it’s the baby, Mistress Hannah. She asked me to get you.” Dalit’s words were rushed, her breath coming fast.

  Hannah touched the girl’s arm. “Calm down, Dalit. It will be okay.” Would it? “I will gather linens and bring the water I drew from the river this morning.” She looked at her mother, who now stood beside her. “I will need your help.”

  Adva nodded, then met Dalit’s worried gaze. “Run next door to get Dana, and either have her send for Galia or go get her yourself. We will help Peninnah.”

  Dalit raced off without needing to be told twice. Hannah hurried into the house to gather linens, her mind whirling. It sounded like Peninnah was going to lose the baby, but would she live through the ordeal? Oh Lord, is she dying? There were so many risks with childbirth. Peninnah had been blessed with six children and never had a problem, but she was older now. Was that the reason? Hannah was five years Peninnah’s senior, and Samuel’s birth had been easy. But there had been no children since, she reminded herself. There did come a time when birthing children became impossible.

  She snatched everything she could think to take and met her mother in the courtyard, handing her the cloths while she lifted the heavy jug of water. The two made their way quickly down the path.

  “Peninnah would surely have water,” her mother said.

  “But if she is losing the baby, we will need more than we normally draw. And if it takes hours, her family will need to be fed, and that means water to make bread.”

  They would put some of the girls to work grinding so the men would not go hungry. Surely Dana would bring her daughters, and Peninnah’s daughters were capable—if they would listen to her. Suddenly Hannah wasn’t so sure. Peninnah had done nothing to make her children obey or even listen to Hannah over the years. There was no reason to think they would obey her now.

  A sigh escaped. “I wonder why she called for me.” Hannah glanced sidelong at her mother.

  �
�You were the closest.” Adva shrugged. “She must be truly hurting to do so or she would have bypassed you for Dana or Galia.”

  “True.” Hannah hurried up the incline and entered the courtyard. She set the clay urn in a niche in the ground, and the two women rushed into the house.

  “Peninnah?” Hannah called, half running down the hall. She stopped short at the room Yafa once occupied. The groans coming from her rival wife were disconcerting, and for a moment Hannah stood speechless. This was much worse than when Peninnah was simply grieving her mother’s loss.

  She stepped into the room and knelt at the woman’s side. “Where does it hurt, Peninnah?”

  Peninnah groaned and clutched her middle. Hannah heard the heavy breathing, saw the tears tracing down her cheeks. She moved to the end of the bed and noticed blood staining the sheets. She looked at her mother, whose grim expression brought a hard knot to Hannah’s middle.

  “It’s going to be all right, Peninnah,” Hannah said, bending close to the woman. “I need some cool cloths,” she said to her mother.

  Her mother retrieved them and Hannah placed them on Peninnah’s forehead. She slowly coaxed Peninnah onto her back so her mother could examine her. She did so, looked up, and shook her head.

  “We will need the birthing stool,” Adva said, “and pray Galia or Dana gets here soon.”

  “Someone needs to send for Elkanah,” Hannah said, having no idea who to send. “Where is Nadav?” The child should be in the house or napping. Dalit should have kept him with her. Thoughts of Samuel surfaced, and she realized that if she could trust her son to God and Eli, she would have to trust that God would take care of Peninnah and her children.

  Adva rummaged through the house until she found the stool Peninnah had used to birth six children. But Peninnah seemed unable to move to help herself. She simply groaned and slipped in and out of fitful sleep.

  Hannah looked on, feeling completely helpless. Where was Galia? Or Dana? They had given birth far more often than Hannah. She looked at her mother and motioned to the hallway.

  “What are we going to do? I can’t lift her, and she hasn’t any strength to push.”

  “The babe will come of its own accord. It’s the way of things in a miscarriage. The babes are so small—she won’t need to push. There will just be pain and blood.” Her mother’s gaze held a faraway look. “At least that’s how it was for me with the daughter I lost before you were born.”

  Hannah stared at her. “I didn’t know.”

  “There was no need to tell you.”

  “Were you as listless as she is?”

  Adva shook her head. “No.”

  Hannah glanced back at Peninnah. “I’m scared, Ima. I’ve never watched anyone die, and I don’t want to lose her. Her children need her.”

  “We will do our best to save her.”

  At that moment Dana and her older daughters burst into the house. They met Hannah in the sitting room. “Galia is coming,” Dana said, breathless. “What happened? How is she?”

  “She is losing the child and she is in and out of consciousness. I don’t even know if she can hear me.” Hannah clutched her hands to her chest, trying to still the fear.

  Dana’s eyes widened, and she immediately looked at her daughters. “Go now and gather Peninnah’s children,” she said to the oldest. “And you two run to the fields and find Elkanah and your father.”

  They rushed off to do as Dana had said.

  “I didn’t want them to hear this, but if Peninnah is dying, we need to get busy. Perhaps we can yet save her.”

  Hannah nodded and followed Dana numbly into the room, her mother at her heels.

  “We must try to help her up and hold her over the stool,” Dana said. “Once the child is born, we can mix herbs and try to ease her pain and hope and pray that sleep will heal the rest.”

  “There is so much blood.” Hannah’s stomach recoiled at the sight. No matter how often she had seen blood spilled in a sacrifice, she never got used to it, especially the lifeblood of a human being. “It is worse than it was a few moments ago.”

  Her mother grabbed some cloths to sop up the flow while Hannah and Dana tried to lift Peninnah to the stool.

  “Perhaps if we can just keep her propped up,” Dana said after their efforts proved unsuccessful. “She’s too much weight without her helping us.”

  “Peninnah, can you hear us?” Hannah knelt close to her ear. “Dearest, you are going to give birth, but we need you to help us.” She replaced the cloth on her forehead. “Please, Peninnah. I know we don’t get along, but think of your children. They need you. Elkanah needs you.” She paused, not willing to lie but desperate to get through to the woman. How frail she looked compared to all of the times she had been so cruel.

  “I need you, Peninnah.” Hannah realized she meant the words. She could not take Peninnah’s place as mother to her children, even if she wanted children to raise. They needed their mother.

  Please, Adonai, have mercy. She needs time to get to know You. I don’t think she has ever given herself a chance to trust You.

  But the prayers did little good as the baby, too small to survive, came forth, and Peninnah lay still in an unwakeable sleep.

  38

  Elkanah half ran, half walked ahead of Tahath, following Dana’s girls to Peninnah’s house. Something was terribly wrong, but Dana had obviously kept the full truth from her unmarried daughters. Was it the babe? That Peninnah was pregnant with her seventh child had surprised them both, but Elkanah had thought it a good distraction because of Peninnah’s listlessness since the loss of Yafa.

  Had something happened so soon into the pregnancy? He had heard of such things, but Peninnah had always been so strong—despite her bitter outlook on life.

  What would he do if he lost her?

  The thought brought a sick feeling to his gut. It wasn’t that he loved her. Not like he did Hannah. But how would he handle her children—the younger ones . . . the girls?

  He ran faster and only slowed when the house came into view. His mother greeted him in the courtyard, where she was standing over a fire stirring linens in boiling water.

  “How is she?” he asked, afraid of the answer.

  His mother shook her head. “The babe is lost.”

  A weight as heavy as a millstone settled in his middle. “And Peninnah?”

  Galia shook her head again. “It is too soon to tell. She was not conscious when she lost the babe, and we cannot wake her even with the strongest herbs. I do not know if she will recover.”

  Elkanah turned away and kicked a small rock from the court into the yard, just missing Tahath. “Sorry,” he said. He rubbed a hand over his face.

  Tahath put a hand on his shoulder. “Not to worry, brother, but try not to kill me.”

  Elkanah found himself wrapped in his brother’s arms. “What will I do if I lose her?” he rasped. “Who will care for the children?”

  “Hannah would help you. You know that.” Tahath held him at arm’s length. “And we are family. We will all take turns caring for the young ones.”

  Elkanah stared at the ground. “I should go to her.”

  Tahath patted his back and nodded agreement.

  Elkanah shuffled forward, past his mother, barely able to make his feet move. A lump had formed in his throat and he fought the threat of tears.

  Hannah met him in the sitting room and came to him.

  “How is she?” Though he had already asked his mother, he wanted to see the truth in Hannah’s eyes.

  “Not good.” She searched his face. “We are doing all we can. If you know of a physician we can send for . . . We have always relied on each other for our knowledge of herbs, but, well . . . I don’t know what else to do.”

  The look in her eyes scared him in a place he did not want her to see, lest she think his heart was bound to Peninnah. But the woman was the mother of his children, and he could not deny that to lose her was not something he wanted to bear. “The elders may know of a
physician.” He looked toward the hall where Peninnah lay.

  “I will send Tahath to ask them,” Hannah said, sounding relieved.

  Elkanah nodded. “Good. Good. In the meantime, take me to her. And pray, beloved. God alone is the One who heals.”

  Hannah led the way down the hall. She pointed to the dim room where Kelila sat near Peninnah. Hannah waited behind as he entered the room and came to kneel at Peninnah’s side. He couldn’t blame Hannah for not joining him, though a part of him wanted her near.

  “Peninnah?” He spoke close to her ear as Kelila stood and walked away from the bed. “Can you hear me, beloved?” So few times he had called her that.

  No response. He touched her forehead, then replaced the cloth with a cooler one. She felt warm to his touch, which increased his anxiety. “Peninnah, please don’t leave me. I need you,” he whispered.

  She did not move or speak despite his pleas.

  He took her hand and stroked the back of it. He waited, hoping, praying for some change, but after nearly an hour had passed, he kissed her cheek and left the room. Pray God she would be better by morning.

  Hannah watched Elkanah’s lined face as they sat over a simple meal a few days later. Peninnah had improved only a little, but at least she was awake now, and Elkanah seemed relieved by the news.

  “Do you think she will make a full recovery?” he asked, breaking the bread.

  “I think there is a chance she will heal. But I don’t know if her heart will heal.” Hannah searched his gaze. “She has lost much—first her mother, then her place as the only mother of your children, and now the babe. Only God knows whether she will recover from the grief. Some never do.”

  “You mean like Rinat after she lost her husband and daughter.”

  She nodded, surprised he remembered the old woman. “Yes. In a way.” All hopes that Ezer was Rinat’s long-lost grandson had been impossible to prove, and Rinat had died shortly after Samuel’s birth, leaving no more chances for Ezer to claim her as family. “Though Peninnah still has you and her children.”