“The bread will soon be ready,” Esther says, suddenly entering the room.
And when I turn and see my thin, ragged, sad daughter, I hope, in spite of what I’ve said, that God will perform just one more miracle.
Everyone is looking for Jesus to return. They say all the miracles are a sure sign of His coming. Such miracles, they claim, have not been seen since Jesus walked the earth. I remind them that miracles abounded at the hands of the apostles. Why should it be any different now? But they ignore me. Even Zechariah encourages this belief. “Christ is risen. Christ is coming again!” he says to everyone he passes. He is almost giddy with the thought. After all, wasn’t it rumored that his beloved John the Apostle wouldn’t die until Jesus returned, and wasn’t John getting on in years?
Oh, I know, Jesus is coming again, and I wish it were right now, right this minute, but I’m discomforted in knowing that everyone believes His coming is at hand because of my cup. It seems wrong somehow. Besides, have Zechariah and the others forgotten that Jesus said no man knows the day or hour?
Will Zechariah talk about it again at his house today? I hope not. I dress, then fix my hair in preparation of meeting with the other believers. For the past two weeks he has talked of nothing else. “Don’t you know that Jesus was crowned king on Passover, the traditional coronation day for Jewish Kings?” he said. “And though his crown was a crown of thorns in order to take even the curse of thorns and thistles from the earth onto himself, it was still a coronation, and soon he’ll return as King of Kings.”
Amen, so be it. Absently, I secure my plaited hair with a small goathair belt. It’s not well done, but my mind is too preoccupied to attend to such details. “Haven’t many rabbis, for years, been expecting two Messiahs?” I hear Zechariah’s voice drone in my ear. “One, the suffering servant, Messiah ben Joseph; the other, ruler-and-King, Messiah ben David? And anyone who knows the scriptures knows that Jesus, Messiah ben Joseph, has already come. But soon, very soon he’ll come again, this time as Messiah ben David.”
Yes. Yes. Please come Jesus. I’m weary of this life. It’s so hard here. How I long to see your sweet face again, to see you smile, to feel your hand tousle my hair, to look into your eyes and see a well of love that flows into eternity, that will never run dry, that will always refresh and satisfy me, the little girl, yes the little girl still, the one who used to stand by the Hinnom Valley wondering what animal had been sacrificed for her when all along you were that lamb, you were that sacrifice. Oh, what a wonderment! To think you loved me so!
Oh, Zechariah, you are right and I am wrong. You must tell us again how Jesus is coming back. You must tell us over and over again. Never stop telling it. What a blessed hope! And when you tell it today, I pray you look right at Esther, who has promised to join us. And when you look at her maybe, just maybe, she will listen . . . maybe, just maybe, she will hear.
I know I look foolish. My mouth forms a silly upturned arch, grinning at seemingly nothing. But I don’t care. I’m walking arm in arm with Esther down the dusty path to Zechariah’s. Her hair is neatly plaited and covered with a new linen head covering the color of ripe grapes. Her clean tunic is tied by a finely woven belt of dyed goat hair. Her face, free of shadows and dark broodings, shines.
“Maranatha!” says Mary, wife of Simon the bottlemaker, as we pass her house.
Even before I can answer, Esther surprises me by responding. Though her “Maranatha” is barely audible, it sends my heart soaring.
“Save us a place,” Mary yells, as she waters the stock, “that is, if my Simon ever finishes trimming his beard. And they say women take all day to ready themselves!”
To my greater shock, Esther giggles. When was the last time she giggled? I can’t remember. Surely the prayers for Esther, all those prayers of so many faithful saints, are finally being answered. Surely God is pulling her from that dark place where she has been living, and back into the light. I’m so happy I could dance. Instead, I sing Psalms in my head, and before long I’m singing them out loud. Soon, Esther joins me. I can’t believe it! I glance at her to make sure it’s really so. And yes, she’s singing, faintly at first like the mewing of a kitten, then louder and louder. I refuse to spoil the moment with thoughts about tomorrow. Today, Esther is awake from her slumber. Today, Esther walks with the living. And I rejoice in that. And so we go, the two of us—arm and arm, awash in shimmering sunlight and accompanied by the sweet chirping of sparrows—singing how the Lord is our Shepherd. And we do this all the way to Zechariah’s.
Zechariah’s courtyard is swollen with the thunderous sound of our voices. Flustered chickens squawk and flap their wings, and run madly in circles. The donkey brays then kicks against the gnarled oak, and a dozen sheep bleat out a ragged rhythm, while we, the small insignificant church of Pella, bellow songs to our God and actually believe He will hear.
“‘Oh Lord our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth!’”
We’ve been singing for hours, Esther too, which surprises me still, for she was never able to carry a tune and has always been self-conscious about it. Her voice now mingles with the host of others. The very air is perfumed with praise. Our hands extend toward heaven, our faces tilt upward as our hearts strive to touch the great I AM; some in petition, some in awe, and some like mine, in sheer gratitude.
Truly, there is nothing too hard for You, Lord.
Mary and Simon stand nearby, and every time Esther sings off key, they look at me and smile. I think they’re the only ones who witness my miracle, who know that something wonderful is happening.
When the last Psalm is finished, Zechariah motions for us to be seated, and I’m disappointed. Oh, I tell you, I could have sung all day! Shuffling sounds and whispers float through the air as people squat or unfurl rush mats and sit. I notice, with added delight, that three Gentiles have crossed the wadi to join our service. One is Kyra, the young servant girl from Argos’s shop. Leah holds her hand and whispers softly in her ear.
All the while, Zechariah, that large bear of a man, has been tenderly cradling the codex of John in his arms, the very arms that have tenderly cradled us—the weak, fragile church of Pella. But he looks rather somber, I think. His customary smile is missing. And come to think of it, he didn’t greet us believers with his usual hug when we first arrived. I suppose my own joy over Esther made me overlook it until now. But no matter, he will read from John’s codex then speak to us again about how Jesus is coming soon, and after a while his troubled heart will no longer be troubled. Speak, Zechariah, speak. I glance at Esther. Oh, Lord, let her hear his words.
But to my surprise, Zechariah hands the codex to a man near him. “I hope you will remember all I’ve taught you these past two weeks ’ about our precious Lord’s soon return. And even if it’s not as soon as we think or hope, we must remember that our earthly life is brief, and our hardships nothing when compared to the joys of everlasting life.”
I shift uncomfortably on my mat. This is not like Zechariah. His tone is too somber, his mouth too rigid, his eyes darting around too nervously as though wishing to avoid our gaze.
“And,” he says with a sigh, “it’s important that we continue to do what we did this morning, that is to praise God no matter what the circumstances or even when our hearts are as heavy as an anchor.” He thumps his large barrel chest. “Like mine. It’s heavy for I know more hard times are upon us. I don’t know why God has chosen to test us so sorely, but last night I heard news, news so crushing that it is sure to break the heart of every Jew.”
At once the mood changes. People move nervously this way and that. They shift their legs, they cough, they whisper, they adjust their head coverings.
Zechariah opens his palms to heaven as though in prayer. It’s only then that I notice tears rolling down his cheeks and onto that wiry gray beard of his. What has happened? His lips part but nothing comes out. He tries again. “A visitor . . . a carpenter who escaped from the Lower City, lies sick . . . in my house,” he final
ly manages to say as he lowers his hands and allows them to hang like scrips by his side. “He came last night from Jerusalem and has told me that the New City—Bezetha, the Second Quarter, the Antonia, all have fallen. And the . . . Temple . . . our Holy Temple . . . has been . . . destroyed.”
Groans, then loud cries, erupt throughout our ranks. Men rip their tunics. Women cover their faces and weep.
“Eleazar has fallen by the sword. Simon and John have fled to the Upper City. Thousands upon thousands lie dead inside the city walls. Thousands more outside. Pray! Pray without ceasing. Pray for God’s mercy. Pray that Titus will have pity on those still alive.”
There’s not one among us who doesn’t have a friend or relative in Jerusalem. I rip my own tunic. Oh Ethan, my love! Oh, my sons! My Aaron and Benjamin, Joseph and Abner. Have you all perished, too? If Eleazar has fallen, surely they have as well, for they would never leave his side. And they would give their last drop of blood to defend the Temple. I double over as though I’ve been kicked. My heart, so full of joy just moments ago, now pounds out notes of unspeakable pain. We are all weeping and wailing as grief rolls over us—all except Esther. She sits beside me, rocking back and forth, and never utters a sound.
I deposit the last donkey chip into my willow basket. I once abhorred this job, but I’m used to it now—gathering animal droppings for cooking fuel. I’ve even come to know that donkey dung, if stacked loosely, makes a fine fire, and doesn’t smoke as much as the dung of goats or lambs. It’s become just another chore, like sweeping our flat rooftop or rolling up the bedding. We have all learned to do things we must, in order to survive.
A gentle wind strokes my face, then plays with my loosely plaited hair. Already the early morning sun burns like a furnace on my bare head. But I don’t care. It feels good to be outside; good to labor with my hands. For days I’ve driven myself, working the fields or my vegetable gardens until I drop with exhaustion. But the work has brought a measure of peace, and helped me stop agonizing over what I cannot know. Do Ethan and my sons still live? This is the question my hard work has helped to silence. I’ve finally placed it in the alabaster box of my heart, sealing it until the Lord opens it with His answer.
But Esther . . . she neither cries nor speaks. And though she has worked as hard as I, the work has failed to purge her pain. I see it on her face. It’s always there—in the tight set of her lips; in her dull, blank eyes; in her crinkled forehead. But I refuse to give up, and continue adding more chores to her load. Even now, she’s inside crushing grain to mix with milk for our new kids and lambs. Next, I’ll send her to till a new garden, the produce of which I plan to give the widow Leah and to our beloved Zechariah.
I’m about to carry my filled basket of dung to the oven when I notice several lambs hovering around my legs. Others bleat loudly nearby. Curious. Esther should have prepared their food by now.
“Esther.” I walk to the doorway, then place my basket near the entrance. “Esther?”
The house is strangely quiet, causing me to tread softly across the paving stones. I look in one room then another. In the third, I find my daughter. She sits hunched on a tall stool, her back to me. In front of her is a small table containing a mortar and pestle and some grain. “Esther, the lambs are hungry. What’s taking so long?” When she turns, I see a bloody knife in her hand. “Esther . . . what . . . has happened? Esther?”
She appears not to hear. And those eyes! Dry empty wells. There’s nothing there. She doesn’t even see me. I grab a clean rag and plunge it into the nearby water jar. Carefully, I remove the knife from her hand before washing the blood that covers her arm from elbow to wrist. Has she tried to kill herself?
As I wipe away the blood, I see a dozen small cuts, like rungs of a ladder, on her arm, and my fear turns to anger. Esther has been cutting herself like some heathen mourning her dead. “How could you do this?” My voice is stern.
Esther remains silent.
“You don’t even know if Daniel is dead!”
More silence.
“Speak to me!” I shake her roughly trying to force words from her mouth, but the only sound that comes is a long, low wail.
“Oh Esther.” I cradle her as she wails and rocks back and forth. And silently, I place her in God’s hands for the hundredth time. What else can I do?
“Have you heard that Ira and Rina plan to wed?” Leah says, blowing through the front door of my house like a strong wind.
I look up and smile. I’m sitting on a stool, my foot resting on an overturned willow basket, my tunic tucked between my thighs and belted at the waist. I roll coarse dyed wool back and forth across my bare leg. I’m nearly finished. When I am, I’ll spin it on my spindle.
“Well, have you heard?” Leah repeats breathlessly, her head-covering askew, wisps of gray hair curling across her forehead.
“Who has not heard?” I say, continuing my work. “Surely, even the Gentiles on the other side of the wadi know this by now. Our community has talked of nothing else.” For the past hour this news has been passed from one house to the next, and eagerly devoured. Our Temple is gone. Jerusalem will surely follow. And we’ve yet to learn of our loved ones. We’re all filled with sadness, but never speak of it. Instead, we speak of Ira and Rina—the widow slightly older than Ira who kindly tended his house when he first broke his leg. It’s the sort of distraction we need. And like chickens, we hunt and peck the soil of our lives in search of such morsels.
“Well, good news is worth retelling.” Leah moves closer as though examining my work. I’m used to her. She’s always stopping by with questions or a bit of news. “What’s the wool for?” she says, her eyebrows peaking.
“A rug for Ira and Rina. I only hope I can finish it before the wedding.”
“Such a gift! You’re very generous, Rebekah. If only my hands . . . well, there was a time . . . .” She sighs, turning her gnarled hands over as if examining them. “My gift is not so generous. I’ve pledged thirty loaves of my olive-and-rosemary bread for the wedding feast. For that I don’t need fingers. I can work the dough with my palms. But fuel for the oven is a problem. My few sheep will be unable to produce enough dung.”
“Did I tell you? I’ve bound too many thistles and acanthus.” I continue rolling the wool, not bothering to look up for I’m trying to conceal ’ my smile. I gesture, with a flick of my head toward the bundles. “See for yourself.”
“Ahhhhhhh.” The sound rolls slowly from Leah’s mouth when she sees the pile of bound thistles and spiny acanthus in the corner. “Yes . . . you have a sizable heap.” She looks down again at her gnarled hands. “When I was younger . . . when my hands were younger, I could bundle this amount in a day. Now . . . .”
“They are a nuisance. More than once I snagged my tunic and nearly ripped it. You must take some. I’ve more than enough. It would lessen the pile and prevent me from getting entangled.” When she shakes her head I add, “It would be a service to me.”
“Well, just one or two bundles . . . maybe three. If I mix them with dung, it will be enough for my bread.” She glances at her hands. “I never planned on becoming this useless.”
“Useless? Oh, Leah, you are far from useless. Doesn’t everyone come to you for prayer? I hear you as I pass your house praying for Tirzah’s baby, for Amos the cheesemaker, for our crops to be fruitful, for every need we bring you.”
She bends and kisses my forehead. “And I haven’t forgotten about your request, either. I’ve been praying day and night for Esther.”
Crash. I roll over, dragging the woolen blanket across my shoulders. Thud. My eyelids are as heavy as anvils but I force them open. What . . . was that? I did hear something . . . I think. Or . . . a dream? Have I been dreaming? I listen. All is quiet. I rub my face and pull myself up on one elbow. Then I glance over to where Esther sleeps quietly on a nearby mat. Yes, a dream, nothing more. Of late, my sleep has been fitful and full of images of Ethan and my sons, and Esther, too. Sometimes I wake up wet with sweat or tears. I ru
n my hands across my body. I’m not wet now. Only warm—the soft moist kind that comes from sleeping beneath a cover. I pull the blanket over my shoulders, and just as I close my eyes there’s another crash.
This is no dream. Someone is in the house.
I crane my neck and listen. Voices. Men’s voices! Then footsteps on the paving stones, all heading for the ladder. Perspiration beads my forehead and rims my neck. I glance at Esther. She’s still asleep. Thank God she can sleep through anything. But what to do? My mind swims through a murky sea of choices. Only one seems right. I must go downstairs to prevent them from coming up here and hurting Esther. I descend the ladder while sending up desperate prayers. God, please help me.
My feet barely touch the stone flooring before two men surround me. One holds an oil lamp, the light of which splashes unevenly across his face, creating shadows beneath his eyes and across both cheeks and make him look like an eerie specter. His hair is twisted into strange knots. Argos? Who else can it be? But the other man I don’t recognize.
“Why are you in my house?” I say, facing Argos.
“Where’s the cup?” he hisses. “Give me the cup and no harm will come to you.”
“You have no right to be here.”
“I must have the cup.” His free hand clamps my arm. I can’t believe his strength. Is it possible? This little man? He holds me so fiercely I fear he’ll snap me like a reed. “Everyone in Pella knows I’m a healer. They know that Isis, the Queen of Heaven, has given me this power. You’ll not defame her with these false healings of yours.”
The man near Argos moves towards me. For the first time I see the club in his hand. It has strange markings carved on one side. He raises it threateningly, but lowers it when Argos waves him off.
“I’ll take the cup to the temple and dedicate it to Isis.” Argos’s eyes widen as though visualizing the dedication. “And as reward, she’ll surely increase my powers.”
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