The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

  Hezekiah carried an awareness of his loss with him wherever he went, but suddenly it became an acute pain as he remembered sitting in the olive grove near the Gihon Spring with Zechariah, discussing the kings who had reigned before him. “There’s a lot of Uzziah in you, son,” his grandfather had said. Then Hezekiah remembered what else Zechariah had said—King Jotham had been destroyed by his bitterness.

  Slowly Hezekiah began to see what Shebna had been desperate to show him. All his religious reforms, all the economic prosperity he saw before him stood at risk of being lost because of his own bitterness. He was doing exactly what King Jotham had done, allowing resentment toward God to bring his reign to a standstill. Hezekiah still didn’t understand why Zechariah had to die, but he suddenly knew what these heaps of tithes really meant. This was the beginning of God’s blessings on his nation. God had renewed his nation’s prosperity as His part of their covenant, just as Zechariah had assured him He would. The evidence of Yahweh’s fulfilled promises lay before him, too plentiful to fit into the storehouses.

  Then Hezekiah remembered what else he had talked about with Zechariah that cold, wet morning: taking back the land that Ahaz had lost to the Philistines and Ammonites. “With God you can do anything,” Zechariah had said. “Anything at all.” If Hezekiah was forced to accept Zechariah’s death as God’s will, then he believed God owed him victory over his enemies in return. And Hezekiah was ready to claim that debt.

  As if suddenly awakening from a long sleep, Hezekiah turned to Azariah with renewed vigor and authority. “Start building more storehouses,” he said to him. “Eliakim can plan their design and supervise construction. Conaniah, you and your brother Shimei will be in charge of all the storehouses. See to it that the tithes are evenly distributed among the priests and Levites throughout Judah.”

  The men appeared startled by the sudden change in him. “Yes, Your Majesty,” they murmured.

  Then, without a further word, Hezekiah strode back across the courtyard to where Shebna waited. As they walked down the hill, he told Shebna about his plans for the storehouses and saw surprise and pleasure on his friend’s face.

  “Find General Jonadab and bring him to my chambers for a conference at once,” Hezekiah said when they reached the palace. He saw a broad smile spread across Shebna’s face as he turned to leave.

  “Oh, and Shebna . . .”

  “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  “Thank you.”

  Hezekiah wasted no time. As soon as Shebna returned with General Jonadab, he began to plan his military strategy, pacing restlessly in front of the two men, gesturing forcefully as he talked. “The three of us are going to plan a campaign against the Philistines to win back our territory in the Shephelah and the Negev. It’s time we took back the land that’s rightfully ours.”

  Shebna appeared surprised, Jonadab pleased. “Shebna, you know how badly we need that farmland if we hope to be active in world trade again. And you both know how important those fortified cities are to us. If we win them back, we will control the main routes from Jerusalem to the Way of the Sea. Do you think we can do it?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m ready,” Jonadab said. If he had been wearing a sword, he would have unsheathed it.

  The corner of Shebna’s mouth twitched as if suppressing a smile, and he gave a slight bow. “Yes, Your Majesty. I am sure you can do it.”

  “Good. Now, the storehouses and treasuries are starting to fill up with tithes from what formerly went to Assyria. We will use those resources to secretly purchase weapons and supplies for our armies. Jonadab, over the next few months I want you to mobilize an army for me, all volunteers. Train them and arm them—then let me know when they’re ready. Lachish is the strongest fortified city in the area. We’ll use it as a staging point for attacks on the Philistines in the Shephelah and on the Ammonites in the Negev. It’ll be my headquarters.”

  “You are going into battle yourself?” Shebna asked.

  “Yes, as field commander. I want you to move supplies down to Lachish a little at a time. Jonadab, train your army as secretly as possible. The Philistine army undoubtedly outnumbers ours, so we must achieve surprise at all costs.”

  Hezekiah’s enthusiasm became contagious, and Jonadab could scarcely stay seated. “Your Majesty, we can do it! We can take back those cities and fortify them as Jerusalem’s perimeter defenses. The Philistines will be easy prey.”

  “And if we win back all that rich, fertile farmland,” Shebna said, “we can begin to export goods—which would mean an increase in the goods we could import.”

  “Exactly. Jonadab, send your best men out on a scouting mission. Have them report directly to me. Then we’ll plan our battle strategy.”

  The planning in the weeks that followed rapidly consumed each day, diverting Hezekiah’s thoughts from his grief. Gradually the military campaign began to take shape. The scouts returned with their reports, and Shebna stockpiled supplies at Lachish. Jonadab procured weapons and trained a strong corps of volunteer soldiers.

  When everything was ready, King Hezekiah led the army into battle. His forces quickly routed the startled Philistines from Judean territory and chased them as far as the city of Gaza on the Great Sea. It was a stunning victory for Hezekiah and the Judean army. Their losses were minimal compared to the tremendous gains they made in taking back the cities in the Shephelah and the Negev that had once belonged to them.

  The Philistines abandoned many of the cities without a fight, and destruction of the fertile countryside was kept to a minimum, with olive groves and vineyards left untouched. It seemed to Hezekiah that his victory was taken from the pages of the history books in which the Philistines had fled before the armies of his childhood hero, King David. He felt tremendous satisfaction that the campaign he had planned and commanded resulted in such a resounding victory.

  When it was over and the territory was secured, Hezekiah returned to Jerusalem with the Judean army and the spoils of war, assured of his sovereignty and confident in his abilities. His monarchy was firmly established, his authority honored both in his own nation and by his neighboring states. He no longer feared a rebellion from among the nobility, for he had won their respect and homage.

  On the Sabbath day, Hezekiah climbed the hill to the Temple to worship for the first time in many weeks. As he stood before Yahweh’s altar, celebrating his victory, he realized that he had tested his God and found Him faithful to His covenant, just as Zechariah had promised. As the priests slew the sacrifices, and the praises of the Levite musicians reached their crescendo, Hezekiah entered into the praise and worship freely, his anger against Yahweh gone, his grief assuaged.

  That night when Hezekiah came to her chambers, Hephzibah thought her husband seemed happier than he had for a long time. The oppressive cloud of depression he had suffered under had finally lifted. Hephzibah studied him as he lay stretched out comfortably on the ivory couch with his long legs propped on a footstool. His skin was deeply tanned, and his dark, curly hair and beard reflected glints of copper in the lamplight. He seemed changed since returning from battle, as if the war had hardened him, making him tougher, more decisive. Hephzibah was awed by these changes, and sometimes it was difficult to think of him as her husband instead of as the king of Judah.

  Each day Hephzibah had grown more excited about their baby, but she hadn’t mentioned it to Hezekiah since the night his grandfather had died. She wished they could talk about it together and that he would share her excitement, but she wondered if Hezekiah even remembered what she had told him. Perhaps the tragic news of his grandfather’s death had erased her news from his mind. Tonight, when she saw how happy he was and she felt the faint, fluttering movement of his child inside her, she decided the time had come to share her joy with him again.

  “I want to sing a song for you, my lord,” she said.

  “I’d like that. I missed your singing while I was away.”

  Hephzibah picked up her lyre and sang a lullaby, one her mother had sung to her
when she was a child. “Mmm—that was lovely,” he said when she finished.

  She put the lyre down and curled up beside him, resting her head against his chest. “Do you think our baby will like it, too?”

  “Yes, I’m certain he will.” Hezekiah played with a lock of her hair. “I’m very happy about the baby, Hephzibah. I know it must have seemed like I’d forgotten, but I didn’t forget.”

  She hesitated, not sure if she dared to bring up the next subject, but at last she sat up to face him. “If it’s a son, I think we should name him Zechariah—if that’s all right with you.” She held her breath, waiting for his reaction to his grandfather’s name, but Hezekiah’s expression of quiet contentment never changed. His warm brown eyes showed neither anger nor sorrow.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”

  16

  Jerimoth had returned home from the Passover feast convinced that he would find Jerusha waiting for him. He flung open the door of his house calling her name, but only his startled servant answered. Throughout each passing day, Jerimoth had paused from his labors and scanned the horizon, no longer looking for the dreaded Assyrian soldiers, but for his daughter, walking up the road toward home. Before retiring each evening, he gazed longingly in the direction the soldiers had carried Jerusha, watching for her long after the sun had set and the dim light of the flickering stars made visibility beyond the borders of his vineyard impossible. Jerimoth would lie awake late into the night, listening in the darkness for the sound of Jerusha’s footsteps on the hard-packed road. The first rays of dawn would find him hurrying to the highest point of his land, scanning the horizon for a glimpse of his daughter.

  He had done the same when he returned home after celebrating the Feast of Pentecost—but no Jerusha.

  When harvesttime ended and Jerimoth had stored away the last of his crops, he and his family traveled to Jerusalem again for the Feast of Tabernacles, bringing the tenth portion of all his crops as a sacrifice for Yahweh. Once again they stayed with Hilkiah, and, like the other pilgrims, they slept outside on the rooftop in rustic booths to celebrate the long wanderings of their forefathers in the wilderness. The Feast of Tabernacles was a joyful feast, and on the last night the men sang and danced and waved branches in joyful praise to Yahweh.

  But Jerimoth couldn’t rejoice as the other men did. He was eager to return home, to be reunited with his daughter. He knew she would be waiting for him. And as his feet moved in rhythm beside Hilkiah’s, Jerimoth’s dance became an endless, silent plea to God for his daughter Jerusha’s return.

  On the last night of the feast, Eliakim returned home from the festivities with the other men long after sunset. His feet hurt from dancing in his new sandals, and he was ready to sleep. But his father and Jerimoth seemed oblivious to the late hour. Instead of heading to bed, they settled down in the large main room of Hilkiah’s house, lighting all the oil lamps, talking together.

  “It’s hard to believe that the festival is over already,” Jerimoth said.

  “Yes, it has gone quickly, hasn’t it?” Hilkiah agreed. “Tomorrow is the final convocation already. I suppose you’ll need to start for home afterward?”

  “That’s when our caravan is leaving.”

  “I hate to see you go, my friend. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy our visits together.” Hilkiah’s eyes twinkled warmly in the lamplight. “Naturally, Eliakim and I will look forward to seeing you again in the spring for Passover. Right, son?”

  “Absolutely!” Eliakim replied. As much as he hated to admit it, his father had been right once again. Eliakim had grown very fond of Jerimoth and Hodesh and their little girl. Only the ghost of their lost daughter, Jerusha, who intruded into every conversation, made Eliakim uncomfortable.

  “Then it’s settled, yes?” Hilkiah asked. “You will come to see us again in the spring?”

  Jerimoth gave a tired smile, a rare sight on his mournful face. “Thank you. I’m honored to stay in your home. And next spring you will meet my older daughter, Jerusha.”

  “She will be our guest of honor!” Hilkiah said. “We will bring our thank offerings to the Temple and hold a huge feast, won’t we, son?”

  Eliakim didn’t reply. The other two men didn’t seem to notice as they talked on and on, making elaborate plans to celebrate Jerusha’s homecoming next spring. Eliakim wanted to go to bed, but as he listened to them, he made up his mind not to sleep another night until he had a serious talk with his father about Jerimoth’s unrealistic expectations. He didn’t want to belittle his father’s faith in Yahweh, but discussing Jerusha had become unbearable for Eliakim. It was time that Hilkiah admitted the truth: she was never coming back. Eliakim gazed sullenly at the floor, his head in his hands, until finally Jerimoth bade them goodnight and retired to the roof.

  Hilkiah yawned and stretched. “My, it’s late. I guess I’ll go to bed, too.”

  “Abba, wait. There’s something we need to talk about first.”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Abba, I don’t know how to say this. . . . I don’t want to hurt you, but we can’t say good-bye to Jerimoth tomorrow until we straighten a few things out.”

  “Straighten out? What’s to straighten?”

  “I can’t sit through any more evenings like tonight, Abba. I just can’t.”

  “What are you talking about? We had a wonderful evening.”

  “Don’t you understand? I can’t bear to hear you talking to that poor man about this fantasy you’ve created and nurtured for so long. You keep encouraging Jerimoth as if—as if Jerusha could walk through our door any minute.”

  “Fantasy?”

  “Yes, that’s what it is—a fantasy. Jerusha isn’t coming back, Abba. Not now, not next spring, not ever.”

  Hilkiah wore a look of incomprehension and confusion, as if Eliakim were speaking a foreign language. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “No, Abba. The question is—how can you keep saying such a ridiculous thing? Jerimoth will never see his daughter again. Surely you know the truth in your heart.” He rested his hand on his father’s shoulder.

  Hilkiah appeared stunned. Then the laughter always present in his eyes turned to anger, a rare emotion for Hilkiah. He shrugged Eliakim’s hand away. “I know nothing of the sort. What I know in my heart is that Yahweh answers prayer!”

  “Yes, yes. Yahweh answers some prayers—but not all prayers. Not one hundred percent of the time. Surely you know how impossible this situation is, Abba. You’re asking for a miracle.”

  “And surely you know that Yahweh is the God of miracles! Haven’t I taught you anything at all about faith?”

  “Abba, be reasonable. Think about it. She was captured more than a year ago. The Assyrians killed all the other girls—”

  “But not Jerusha. They never found her body.”

  “Yes, but even if she’s still alive, the Assyrians never set their slaves free. Never! And no one has ever escaped and returned home, least of all a woman. How can Yahweh possibly answer your prayers?”

  Hilkiah’s face was flushed with controlled fury. “I don’t care if no one has ever escaped from the Assyrians before! There’s a first time for everything! And as the Torah says, ‘Is anything too hard for Yahweh?’”

  “But you’re not being fair to Jerimoth. If you’re his friend, you should help him face the truth so he can get on with his life. It’s not fair to encourage this irrational hope that—”

  “And you think it’s fair to deprive him of that hope? Is that what you’re asking me to do?”

  “No, Abba, but—”

  “What, then?”

  Eliakim exhaled. “Jerimoth has a fine wife and another daughter to live for. I’m saying we should help him see that, help him accept the truth that Jerusha is gone. She’s dead. He needs to admit it and get on with his life.”

  “Jerimoth has a right to have faith in God!”

  “All right, then! All right!” Eliakim shouted. “Let Jerimoth believ
e what he wants to, no matter how irrational it is! But you don’t have to encourage him, Abba. You can’t honestly believe he’ll ever see Jerusha again, so how can you go to the Temple with him all the time and offer a bunch of useless, pious prayers? You’re a hypocrite!”

  The expression of rage and shock on Hilkiah’s face was frightening. He drew his hand back as if to strike Eliakim—the first time he had ever done so in his life—then he stopped. He could barely speak through his anger. “I offer my prayers for Jerusha in faith! Because I believe that Yahweh answers prayer! And if there’s any hypocrisy in this household, Eliakim, I might ask why you attend morning and evening prayers every day if you don’t believe any of it!”

  “Then why did Mama die?” he shouted. “We both prayed, we both believed, but she died anyway, Abba! She died! And so did my brothers! Where was Yahweh then? Why didn’t He answer our prayers?”

  Eliakim stopped, stunned by the bitterness in his voice, alarmed at the look of horror and pain on his father’s face. Things had gone too far. They had both said things to hurt each other, words that could never be taken back. But before Eliakim could speak again, he heard Jerimoth’s trembling voice behind him.

  “Please . . . don’t let there be angry words and discord in this household because of me.”

  Eliakim’s stomach knotted in shame. “Jerimoth, I’m sorry . . . I—”

  But Jerimoth held up his hand to silence Eliakim. “Forgive me, my friends. I never intended to eavesdrop. I came back to tell you something and heard you shouting.” He sighed heavily, and his melancholy green eyes seemed more sorrowful than ever. “If I had known that I would cause a rift between father and son, I never would have set foot in your house. So listen to me, please. Eliakim, I’ll go to my grave believing that God is able to answer my prayer. Somehow, someday, He will do the impossible and bring Jerusha home to me. Even if Hilkiah agreed with you—and I know that he doesn’t—he could never talk me out of this conviction. Never. And, Hilkiah, my dear friend—I beg you not to be so hard on your son. Let him question his faith. Let him voice his doubts. You’ve taught him well, both with your words and by your example. His questions will make his faith stronger in the end. I know that his love for you is very, very deep. How I envy you, Hilkiah! How I wish that Eliakim were my son.”