Isaiah's Daughter

by Mesu Andrews

  “You’re right,” he said finally. “There’s no reason to rush.” Isaiah wrapped his arm around Micah’s shoulders, reminding himself of the trust on which their friendship was built. Isaiah’s years of experience didn’t exclude him from the need for wise counsel. “Thank you for saying hard things to your old teacher. Can you join us for tonight’s meal and return to camp tomorrow? I’m sure Yaira would welcome an extended visit from her brother.”

  “Of course. My students can spare me for a night. Repairs are going well. We’ve restored the teaching hall, several homes, and the pottery shop. Hosea’s wife and daughter have resumed their pottery sales, which will help pay for supplies.”

  “We can send some grain home with you.” Isaiah yearned to give more, but his coffers were still empty from feeding the needy in Jerusalem. Next month’s food allotment was only a few days away. “If you come back next week, I can share more.”

  Micah stopped and grasped his friend’s wrist, eyes penetrating Isaiah’s heart. “You’re sharing your home with my sister and Ishma. It’s more than enough.”

  8

  [King] Ahaz sent messengers to say to Tiglath-Pileser king of Assyria, “I am your servant and vassal. Come up and save me out of the hand of the king of Aram and of the king of Israel.”

  —2 Kings 16:7

  Two weeks had passed since Micah challenged Isaiah to wait for Yahweh’s instruction concerning Yaira’s role in the prophecy. Isaiah had heard nothing from on high, which fed his growing uncertainty. Not that he doubted Yahweh, but rather he doubted his own ministry and effectiveness. Had he grown too old? Too proud? Too jaded by political scheming at court?

  “Why haven’t you left for class?” Aya stood in the doorway of his study, Ishma at her side. Both looked perturbed. It was Ishma’s first day to join the class of boys, and she’d been nervous for a week.

  “We just finished the morning meal, woman. Give me a moment.” Isaiah pretended to pack his shoulder bag. How could he teach the royal offspring about Yahweh’s instruction to His people when Isaiah himself was struggling to hear?

  As he turned to upbraid his wife for nagging, the heat of Yahweh’s presence descended, driving Isaiah to his knees.

  “I am the LORD your God who makes you holy. Make love to the prophetess. She will conceive and give birth to a son. You will name him Maher-Shalal-Hash-Baz. For before the boy knows how to say ‘My father’ or ‘My mother,’ the wealth of Damascus and the plunder of Samaria will be carried off by the king of Assyria.”

  The heat subsided, and as quickly as Yahweh had come, His presence lifted, leaving Isaiah sweaty and breathless. Aya stood over him, whispering in prayer, and little Ishma knelt beside him, watching him with grave concern. Isaiah kissed Ishma’s head and then stood to meet Aya’s gaze. How does a husband tell his wife God has ordered them to conceive a son?

  “What is it?” Aya’s cheeks lost their color. “Did Yahweh confirm Yaira’s pregnancy?”

  Isaiah’s chest constricted at the realization. No, indeed He did not. Were Micah’s fears warranted? Was Yaira afraid to admit she’d been defiled? “No, my love. Yahweh spoke of something else entirely.” He kissed her forehead. “We’ll discuss it tonight before bed, but as you said”—he grabbed his bag, herded Ishma toward the door, and called over his shoulder—“Ishma and I are already late for this morning’s class.”

  He dared not look back, certain his wife’s stare was burning a hole in his back. Tonight’s conversation would be difficult. Both Isaiah and Aya were middle-aged, almost thirty-six. Their youngest son, Kadmiel, was twelve. How would Aya feel about another baby this late in life? Yahweh, I remember Your throne room, the live coal that touched my lips. Please remind my wife of her calling to prepare her for this news.

  “Master Isaiah?” He looked down and found Ishma’s dark eyes glistening. “Does Yahweh hurt you when He speaks?” She wrapped his legs in a spontaneous hug, and he felt he might melt in a puddle on the cobblestone street.

  He loosened her grip and knelt to meet her fears. “Yahweh wasn’t hurting me, Ishma. He is so holy and good that our frail bodies can barely stand a shadow of His presence. When I hear His voice, it is the most glorious feeling in the world.”

  She brightened a bit. “Can you tell me what He said?”

  He took her hand and started walking up the palace stairs. “I must tell Mistress Aya before anyone else, but He has great plans for our family.”

  “Yaira says Yahweh has great plans for me too. That’s why He saved me from the soldiers and brought me to your house.”

  Isaiah chuckled. “Perhaps we should talk about prophecy in our class today. Would you like that?” His lingering doubts had been relieved by this morning’s encounter.

  “As long as prop-up-seas don’t make Hezi sad.” She frowned. “I don’t want his light to go out again.” Ishma walked confidently past six royal guards at the palace’s only public entrance. One gave her a covert wink. She’d stolen his heart the first week of their visits to Queen Abijah’s chamber. Ishma had marched up to him, tugged at his hand, and asked if he promised never to whip her. Stunned, he dropped to his knees and took her hands in pledge. Ishma had similarly disarmed most of King Ahaz’s guards by the second week of their visits.

  Even Queen Abijah had softened toward her, giving Ishma permission to use the nickname the queen used for her son. “Hezi” had responded to Ishma’s wit and care, returning to the fun-loving boy he’d been before, with only an occasional shadow of Molek stealing his joy.

  After passing through the Great Court, Isaiah turned left down a hallway rather than leading his charge on the familiar path upstairs to the queen’s chambers. Ishma’s grip tightened as they continued down a narrow corridor, turned right, and then right again. Windows lining one side of the hall overlooked the king’s courtyard and allowed the spring sun to warm the limestone floors and walls. Isaiah’s heart skipped a beat when their classroom came into view.

  Would Hezekiah integrate into the class smoothly, or would seeing his friends bring back memories of Bocheru’s death and cause him to retreat into silence? Would the other boys accept Ishma? Or would they complain to their abbas and cause King Ahaz to overrule Queen Abijah’s command that Ishma be admitted to class? Dragging in a sustaining breath, Isaiah stopped in the doorway of the last room on the right.

  The scene was bedlam. Twenty boys pounded each other with pillows, shouted good-natured threats, and laughed over the shouting. Hezekiah was at the center of the mischief with Eliakim as his captain. A satisfied grin settled across Isaiah’s face despite his obligation to end the fun. One of his fears had vanished.

  Ishma pulled him down to hear her whisper, “Boys are silly goats.”

  Unable to curb his laughter, Isaiah’s deep rumble sent his students scurrying to arrange their cushions in the prescribed circle for instruction. When they all sat quietly, Isaiah entered with Ishma in tow.

  The tutor and new student received sidelong glances from most in the class, but Hezekiah scooted away from his younger brother, Mattaniah, making room in the circle. “Ishma can sit by me, Master Isaiah.”

  “Choose a cushion, Ishma.” Isaiah pointed to the far corner where myriad lonely pillows waited for an owner.

  She looked up at him with those large eyes, pleading. If he could spare her the awkwardness, he would do so gladly, but everyone must endure firsts in life. Ishma lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders, then marched courageously across the room. She chose the brightest red pillow in the pile.

  Well done, little Ishma.

  Placing her prize between Queen Abijah’s two sons, she met curious stares with her brightest smile. Ishma had come a long way from the speechless little urchin at Isaiah’s door a few weeks ago.

  “Let me introduce our new student, Ish—”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your class.” Joseph, Isaiah’s friend and the Levitical choir master, stood at the doorway with an odd-looking boy who slumped and studied his sandals. “Might
I speak with you privately, Isaiah?”

  “Of course, Joseph.” Isaiah turned to his class. “I’m stepping into the hallway, and I expect all of you to behave as if your abbas were standing right beside you.” He cast a concerned glance at Ishma, but Hezekiah was introducing her to Eliakim and Mattaniah. She would be fine in their care.

  Joseph nudged the boy into the hall and began talking the moment Isaiah reached the doorway. “This is my youngest son, Shebna. He’s sixteen, but smaller than other boys. Born early. Nearly killed his ima. He couldn’t manage military training or physical tasks at the Temple, so I hoped you could teach him something useful for service in the palace.”

  The boy didn’t speak or meet Isaiah’s gaze. Who would with an introduction like that? Isaiah examined Shebna more closely. The boy was the same height and build as ten-year-old Eliakim but had scraggly hairs on his chin. A sixteen-year-old with Shebna’s appearance would find life among his peers difficult.

  “Do you want to attend my class, Shebna?”

  The boy nodded but didn’t speak.

  “Answer the teacher,” his abba growled.

  “Yes, my lord.” The three words seemed forced, a phrase he likely recited often.

  “There. You see? He’ll be a good student, Isaiah. I assure you. If he causes any trouble, simply tell me, and I’ll make sure he obeys.”

  Isaiah felt less inclined to help his Levite friend the more he talked. “I’m sure Shebna would be a great addition to my class, but perhaps if you spent more time with him, Joseph. Perhaps he could compose psalms or play the flute or—”

  “Please, Master Isaiah.” Shebna’s head snapped up, eyes pleading. “Please let me join your class.”

  The grief on the boy’s features was more convincing than his abba’s demands. Isaiah found his heart consenting though his mind warned of the consequences. The royal advisors would complain about a girl in the class, and now he was adding a student from the servant class of Temple workers. The noblemen would be livid that a boy like Shebna was given the same education as their royal sons. “We’ve been friends a long time, Joseph, so I’ll admit Shebna to my class.”

  Joseph nodded once. “Shalom, Isaiah.” He turned and left without a backward glance.

  Shebna, head bowed, whispered, “Thank you, Master Isaiah.”

  Isaiah laid his arm across the boy’s shoulders and jostled him. “Come. Let’s meet the rest of the class.” Inside, Isaiah was screaming, What have I done? His students would tell their abbas, and the advisors would tell King Ahaz that Isaiah had lowered the standards of royal education. The palace tutor would be demoted again. Where to now? Royal stable boy?

  Isaiah nudged Shebna into the room and began introductions. “Class, we have two new students this morning, so I’ll work my way around the circle, introducing everyone. This is Shebna. His abba is the director of music at Yahweh’s Temple.” Isaiah noted the sneers from several young royals whose veins already surged with arrogance. Next he introduced the student who had shown great promise in their private sessions. “This is Prince Hezekiah, second-born of King Ahaz. To his right is Eliakim, son of Hilkiah, the royal treasurer.” He continued around the circle, naming each child with his abba’s position in court. “And finally, this is Ishma, a child who lives under my care.”

  “Why would you teach a girl?” asked a nine-year-old boy, the son of the forced-labor director. “Abba says women are useful only for cooking, cleaning, and procreating.” His brow wrinkled. “What is procreating, Master Isaiah?”

  Before Isaiah could answer the delicate question, Eliakim shouted the reply. “Giving birth, you Philistine. The real question is, why does Master Isaiah try to teach you?” The younger boy’s cheeks bloomed red as a rose.

  “That’s enough, both of you.” Isaiah used the quarrel to sidestep a procreation discussion. “Perhaps we should focus on gratitude rather than begrudging Yahweh’s blessing on others.” He turned to Shebna, who had slipped behind him. “Choose a cushion from the pile and join the circle.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Shebna lumbered toward the cushions while Isaiah chose a scroll.

  When he looked up, Shebna had placed his cushion outside the circle. “Oh no, Shebna. No one is excluded or sits at the front or back of this class. I stand in the middle of the circle to ensure everyone has equal opportunity to learn.” He took his place and waited for Shebna to move.

  None of the advisors’ sons would scoot aside. If some tried, the stronger boys pressured the weaker to refuse Shebna space. Just before Isaiah enforced his authority, little Mattaniah scooted over, making a place between him and Ishma. Shebna looked as if he’d eaten a rotten fig but set his cushion between them. Yes, it would be a miracle on the order of dividing the Red Sea if Yahweh kept Isaiah from being demoted by morning.

  Refusing to surrender to defeat, Isaiah studied the scroll in his hand. He remembered the sunny day years ago, when he spoke these words to King Ahaz. “Today we’ll begin a discussion on prophecy. Years ago, I relayed to King Ahaz God’s promise to protect Judah from the kings of Israel and Aram and a warning if our king did not trust in Yahweh alone. God prom—”

  “But Yahweh didn’t protect us, Master Isaiah.” Hezekiah interrupted, which he often did.

  “True, but we must look at the full prophecy. Yahweh’s protection was conditional. He said, ‘If you don’t stand on your faith, you won’t stand at all.’ He then challenged King Ahaz to ask for a sign, an unprecedented gift—anything the king asked in the deepest depths or the highest heights. The king refused.” Isaiah paused, letting the weight of the statement settle in. “Think of it, children. If God threw open the gates of heaven and said He would do anything to show you the vastness of His power, what would you ask Him to do?”

  “I want a horse!” Mattaniah shouted. His round face beamed.

  Isaiah chuckled. “Think bigger, young prince. What about you, Shebna? How would you ask Yahweh to display His power?”

  “I would ask Him to change my lineage.” Anger boiled just beneath the surface. “Why do only Aaron’s descendants become priests, while Levites clean waste pots and pound on drums?”

  Some students snickered, while others looked wide eyed at the outspoken new boy.

  “Surely, Shebna, you realize your abba and the Levites do much more than that.”

  The boy bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.”

  Determined to continue, Isaiah probed his other new student. “Ishma, what would you ask of Yahweh?”

  Her cheeks instantly flamed, and the light in her eyes faded. Perhaps he shouldn’t have called on her the first day. He was about to call on Eliakim when he heard her small voice. “I would ask for my abba and ima to come back from paradise and live with us at your house.”

  Isaiah nearly choked on sudden emotion. He hid behind the scroll in his hands, trying to regain composure. Clearing his throat, he lowered the scroll and was encouraged to continue by the upturned faces. It seemed today’s topic had sparked his students’ interest. “Very good. All of you. Did you notice everyone asked for something personal? But because I prophesied to King Ahaz publicly, he didn’t dare ask for something personal, so he asked for nothing at all. Therefore—”

  “Maybe Abba didn’t ask because he was afraid Yahweh wouldn’t answer.” Hezekiah’s voice again. “Yahweh doesn’t always answer, you know.”

  Other boys nodded, and Ishma’s eyes grew wide, as they always did when she was gathering her courage. “Yahweh didn’t answer when I prayed for the soldiers who killed my parents to go away. Why is that, Master Isaiah?”

  Isaiah felt a stab of fear at the consequence of his undertaking. He wasn’t simply teaching Israel’s history or even prophetic interpretation. He was shaping the foundational truths that would grow these children into their adult faith. Yahweh, give me wisdom!

  “Hezekiah, you’ve reminded me of an important fact. Only God knows the motives of a man’s heart, so I can’t know the reason your abba refused the sign from Yahweh. Howeve
r, when God promises something, He most certainly will do it. Someday—it may not be today or tomorrow or even in our lifetimes—but someday all Yahweh’s promises will come to pass.”

  Eliakim raised his hand. “What else did Yahweh promise?”

  The question hit Isaiah like a stone. In the specific prophecy they were discussing, Yahweh promised that a virgin would conceive, but he’d promised Micah he wouldn’t discuss Yaira’s possible role in the fulfillment until Yahweh gave clear direction.

  “In this particular prophecy, God’s promise was twofold. First, He promised that a virgin would conceive and give birth to a child who would embody God’s presence on earth.”

  The appropriate oohs and aahs filled the room. “I received another prophecy this morning,” he said, “in which Yahweh promised His people would see a time such as we’ve never seen before—when Assyria attacks us.” The room fell so silent, a feather would have clattered on the floor.

  Isaiah looked into terrified little faces and prayed for more wisdom. “We don’t know how or when Yahweh’s promises will be fulfilled, but the reason for His promises is always the same. Can anyone tell me the single reason Yahweh will send a child with the embodiment of His presence and why He will send Assyria to harm His chosen people?”

  The silence lingered. Heads bowed. Only one hand lifted tentatively.

  “Eliakim?”

  “Could it be the same reason my abba swats me with a stick?”

  “Explain.”

  “When I disobey, Abba swats me, and it hurts. But he hugs me after and says he disciplined me because he loves me. Maybe God will send His presence to comfort at a time when His discipline is most severe.”

  “Eliakim, I think you explained it even better than I could.” Isaiah must tell his friend Hilkiah that his son was soaking up his wisdom.