“Hush, baby. You’re safe now,” she murmured. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
But as she gazed at her trembling child, she wondered if he ever would be the same. The winsome, curious boy who had brightened the palace corridors with his laughter was slipping away like fine silk through her fingers. Watching Eliab die had changed Hezekiah into a terrified child who awoke screaming night after night, afraid to sleep again and risk the nightmare’s return. But today’s sacrifice had severed the last cords of his reason and trust. He’d chosen to escape from the reality of a world that included Molech, retreating to a safer place within his own mind. And Abijah didn’t know how to reach him. She clung to his body as if the force of her love could bring him back.
Part of her wanted to retreat from reality, as well. Her life had veered so far from its natural course of marriage and family that it seemed to descend on a path to Sheol. She had married royalty, a descendant of King David . . . a man capable of killing his own children.
“They will never take you away from me,” she said, crushing Hezekiah to her. “Never.” But she knew it was an empty vow that she was powerless to keep.
Maybe she should pray. Maybe she should call on Yahweh, the God Hezekiah asked for. But wasn’t He the God who had married her to Ahaz? Hadn’t her father’s devotion to Yahweh won her the honor of marriage to the royal family? Abijah had never asked God for anything before. She had learned early in life not to have any wishes and desires of her own.
“You want nothing,” her mother had told her, “except what your father wants for you. What you want doesn’t matter.” Abijah had accepted that, had grown up knowing it would always be so.
She remembered a warm afternoon, shortly before her marriage, when Uriah had come outside to the courtyard of her father’s house where she sat, daring to talk to her alone. “Do you want to marry Prince Ahaz?” her father’s student had asked her.
“My choice doesn’t matter,” she had replied. “Surely you know that.”
“Because King Uzziah made a promise to your father?”
“No, because I’m a woman. I will be given in marriage—given, like a present. Do presents have the luxury of choosing who will receive them?” She had felt no bitterness, she had merely stated the truth.
“And you accept that, Abijah?” Uriah asked.
“Of course,” she replied.
Uriah had stared off into the distance for a moment, gazing at the golden roof of the Temple, barely visible above the trees and rooftops. When he turned to her again, she saw the tender concern written on his face. “Haven’t you ever wanted something so badly that you were willing to fight for it?” he had asked.
Abijah hadn’t answered his question. She hadn’t understood it then. But now she did. And something inside her, an inner strength she didn’t know she had, told her to fight for Hezekiah. She couldn’t let him slip away. She had already lost one son, and she couldn’t bear to lose another.
“Come back to me, sweetheart. Please, come back,” she begged. She took Hezekiah’s stiff little hands in hers and clapped them together, singing one of the rhyming songs he had once loved so much. He didn’t respond.
“Yahweh,” he sobbed.
For the remainder of the day Abijah fought for her son, trying every means she could think of to draw him back to a world he no longer wanted to be part of, a world he feared and mistrusted. The hopelessness of her battle exhausted her. His body remained rigid with fear, his eyes stared sightlessly.
As the afternoon waned she carried him to the window, but he wouldn’t look out. It was nearly time for the evening sacrifice. Then darkness would fall, and the long, terror-filled night would begin for both of them. She rocked Hezekiah gently and felt a sob shudder through him.
“Yahweh . . .”
Where had he learned that name? What part did the ancient God of her father play in this nightmare? She might never know.
Abijah’s maidservant entered the room with a tray of food, setting it on the small table beside the window seat. Her eyes were filled with compassion “My lady, you’ve been holding him all day. You need to eat something. Let me hold him for a while.”
Abijah shook her head. The food held no appeal. Her stomach churned with dread at the possibility that her son might never be whole. Hezekiah didn’t seem to hear the maid enter the room or speak, but when a shofar sounded in the distance, announcing the evening sacrifice, he jumped.
“Yahweh!”
Abijah decided in that moment what she must do for her child. If Hezekiah called for Him then she would call on Him, too. Yahweh held the key to his mind for some reason, so she would find that key and unlock it.
“Hezekiah, Mama has to leave you,” she told him, kissing his forehead, “but I’ll come back in a little while, I promise. Deborah will take you now.”
The maid looked surprised as Abijah stood and beckoned to her. “But . . . where are you going, my lady? You aren’t allowed—”
“I’m going to the evening sacrifice at the Temple,” she said firmly. “That’s allowed.”
Abijah nearly changed her mind when she tried to lift Hezekiah into Deborah’s arms and he clung to her, screaming. But Abijah pried his hands loose, promising him that she would return. Then she covered her head with her shawl and hurried out of the palace, nearly running up the royal walkway to the Temple.
Very few worshipers had gathered for the evening sacrifice—a dozen men, a handful of women. Abijah scanned the Levites’ faces, looking for her father, then searched among the priests for Uriah. She didn’t see either man. As the worshipers fell to their knees in prayer, Abijah fell to hers, as well, crying out to Yahweh for the first time in her life.
“Lord, you know I’ve never asked you for anything before,” she cried. “And I’m not asking for myself now, but for my son. He cries for you, Lord. Please help him . . . please show me what to do to bring him back. I’ll come here to worship you every day—twice a day! I’ll do anything, Lord, if only you’ll hear my prayer and help my son.”
She stayed on her knees for a long time, praying, never noticing that the service had ended. Nor did she notice that a white-robed priest had approached until his voice startled her. “Would you like to make an offering, my lady?”
Abijah hastily wiped her tears. “No . . . I . . .” She didn’t know what to say. She had asked Yahweh for help, but she didn’t understand what she was supposed to do next. The priest crossed his arms and glanced around the courtyard as if impatient to complete his duties.
“My . . . my father is Zechariah, the Levite,” she said. “Do you know where he is? Could you take me to him?”
The priest frowned slightly, then nodded. “Come this way.”
Abijah didn’t know why she had asked for her father. She only knew that her son needed Yahweh’s help and Yahweh was her father’s God. She would do whatever Yahweh required if only He would save Hezekiah. She hurried to keep pace with the priest as he led her inside the Levites’ quarters. She only hoped that King Ahaz would never discover what she was doing.
When Zechariah opened his eyes, he was alone, sprawled on the floor of his room. He had no memory of how he got there. What hour was it? What day? He couldn’t recall. Then he saw the empty wineskin and remembered praying to die. Yahweh hadn’t answered his prayer.
Zechariah slowly pulled himself to his feet, leaning against his bed for support. Through the cracks of his shuttered window he could see that the sun was low in the western sky. He had slept in a drunken stupor all day, and now he was sober again. The numbing effects of the wine had worn off, leaving him powerless to face his guilt and failure, powerless against the memories of Molech’s sacrifice. He searched his disheveled room, desperate for a drink, but the wineskins were all empty. He was too shaky to go buy more. He sank onto his bed and covered his face.
If he could go back and unravel all the mistakes he had made, he would gladly do it. But Zechariah could never go back. And now Eliab had paid for
those mistakes with his life. It was just as the scriptures said—“He punishes the children and their children for the sins of the fathers to the third and fourth generation.”
“No . . .” he moaned. “No, please . . . no more! Have mercy, Lord. Have mercy!”
When the trumpet blast suddenly announced the evening sacrifice, it startled Zechariah as if the voice of God had called out in accusation. Then the distant music of the Levites’ choir began to drift into his room. Zechariah mumbled the words aloud as the choir sang, desperate to drive away the painful images of Molech’s sacrifice: “‘Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord; O Lord, hear my voice . . . If you, O Lord, kept a record of sins, who could stand? But with you there is forgiveness. . . .’”
Zechariah stopped. He had sung the words of this psalm all his life without hearing them. Could they be true? Would the Almighty One really stoop down to where he lay and forgive him? Molech’s image suddenly reared before Zechariah, and it seemed to mock the psalmist’s words. He continued reciting to drive the image away: “‘I wait for Yahweh, my soul waits, and in his word I put my hope . . . for with Yahweh is unfailing love. . . .’”
Zechariah remembered once serving a God of unfailing love and forgiveness. If only Yahweh’s forgiveness could end this bitter cycle of sin and punishment and death for Zechariah’s children and his children’s children. His soul wanted that, longed for that, more than life itself. He shut his eyes, reciting with the choir: “‘O Israel, put your hope in Yahweh . . . with him is full redemption. He himself will redeem Israel from all their sins.’”
Full redemption. Zechariah suddenly realized that redemption was the bridge that would lead him back across the chasm of sin, back to God. And Yahweh himself would provide that bridge. Zechariah fell on his face before Him, pleading with God to forgive him for what he had done.
“‘Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love . . . Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin . . . Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight. . . .’”
Zechariah understood now. His life had been dedicated and consecrated to Yahweh, yet he had lived only for himself. That was his greatest sin—wasting the life that belonged to God. Zechariah cried out, praying King David’s prayer of repentance from the depths of his heart and soul. “‘Wash me, and I will be whiter than snow. Let me hear joy and gladness . . . Hide your face from my sins and blot out all my iniquity. . . . Restore to me the joy of your salvation. . . . Then . . . then . . .’”
Zechariah paused, stumbling over the words. Outside, the sun was rapidly sinking below the western hills. The light was fading, the shadows lengthening. He felt as though time was running out.
“Then . . . then . . .” What came next? What could Zechariah possibly promise God in order to make restitution for all of his sins? “‘You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it; you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings . . .’” The blood of a thousand lambs and goats could never bring Eliab back or give Zechariah another life to live over again. He struggled against the pain in his heart to remember the rest of the psalm. “Then . . . ‘Then I will teach transgressors your ways, and sinners will turn back to you.’”
“O God, forgive me!” he pleaded. “Forgive me and give me another chance. Let me make up for the wrong I have done. I will teach transgressors your ways, Yahweh. Please give me another chance to serve you. Please!”
The shofar sounded again in the distance, signaling the end of the sacrifice. As Zechariah opened his eyes and looked around, he realized that the images of Molech had all fled. He remained where he lay on the floor, reveling in the peace he now felt, afraid to disturb it—until he heard a soft knock on his door. He rose to his feet and stumbled across the room. Had he forgotten something? Was he supposed to be on duty at the Temple?
He opened the door to find his daughter, Abijah. Her lovely face was streaked with tears, her eyes red with grief. Zechariah drew back, expecting hatred and reproach for his part in Eliab’s death, but Abijah fell into his arms.
“Abba, please help my son Hezekiah,” she begged. “Night after night he dreams about the sacrifice to Molech. And now that he’s witnessed it for a second time, he . . . I don’t know if he’ll ever be the same.”
Zechariah shuddered. Images of the fire god had tortured his own mind for weeks. How much worse it must be for a child.
“His mind isn’t the same,” Abijah said. “Fear is destroying him. Please help him, Abba.”
“H-help him?” Zechariah stammered. “I don’t know how.”
“I don’t know, either! But he cries for Yahweh, your God, over and over again, and I don’t know why.”
Yahweh—his God. The God of forgiveness and unfailing love. Zechariah felt so helpless, so unworthy. He couldn’t help his grandson. He didn’t know how. And he desperately needed another drink. “What do you want me to do?” he asked, releasing Abijah from his arms.
“I don’t know. Just sit with him, talk to him. Maybe you can find out why he asks for Yahweh and what he wants from Him. Please come and talk to him.”
“Come? Come where?”
“To the palace.”
“No,” Zechariah said abruptly. “No, I can’t go back to the palace.” Everything in his life had begun to go wrong when he’d lived in the king’s palace.
Abijah began to weep, and her grief tore at Zechariah’s heart. “I have no one else to turn to, Abba. My son Eliab is dead, and I don’t know how I’ll go on living if I lose Hezekiah. Please help me!”
Zechariah looked into his daughter’s eyes and realized that she wasn’t blaming him for his part in Eliab’s death—or for arranging her marriage to an idolater. It was as if she had already forgiven him for all his past wrongs and wanted only his help. And Zechariah knew, then, that Yahweh had heard his prayer. Yahweh was offering His forgiveness, too. Zechariah could make restitution for all the wrong he had done by helping Hezekiah. The journey back to the palace stretched before him like a slender bridge, reaching back across the gulf, back to God.
“I’ll come,” Zechariah said hoarsely. “I’ll do what I can.” His hand trembled as he gripped Abijah’s and followed her out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Zechariah walked down the hill to the palace, down to where his life had veered off course, as if unraveling a tapestry that had gone awry. He would return to where his first mistake had been made and start all over again, with the twisted mess he had made of his life coiled at his feet like a tangled pile of wool. He would begin anew, not seated beside King Uzziah in the splendor of the royal throne room, but with his grandson in the palace nursery.
As the guard admitted them inside, Zechariah wondered how long it had been since he’d last been here. It had been many years, yet the bitter memories seemed as fresh as yesterday. He had failed both his God and his king.
Abijah led Zechariah through the familiar corridors, then up a flight of stairs that were unknown to him. He’d never been near the forbidden harem or the palace nursery before, and he wondered if he would be stopped and sent away. King Ahaz certainly wouldn’t welcome his interference if he learned of it. Zechariah slowed his steps as he considered turning back, but then he heard a child crying in the distance and he followed Abijah as she ran the last few yards to her son’s bedchamber.
The servant girl was exhausted from struggling to soothe Hezekiah, and Abijah quickly lifted him from her arms. The boy clung to his mother, staring straight through Zechariah with wide, frightened eyes as if he wasn’t even there. The only word he spoke was “Yahweh,” whispered in a hoarse voice.
I’ve done this to him, Zechariah thought. This is all my fault. The Torah said don’t be like the other nations—they sacrifice their children to idols. But he hadn’t heeded the warning. He sank down on the bed across from Hezekiah’s and prayed for forgiveness as Abijah rocked her son in her arms to soothe him.
It took a long time for the boy to fall asleep, and Zechariah could see
how weary Abijah was from her efforts to comfort him. “I’ll stay and watch over him,” Zechariah said when she finally laid him in his bed. “Why don’t you get some rest?”
At first she was reluctant. “We need to help him, Abba. He’s terrified.”
“I know. He’ll be safe with me.”
“What if he wakes up again?”
“I’ll send a servant to fetch you if he calls for you.”
Zechariah finally convinced her. But after Abijah left he sat down on the empty bed again, wondering what he could possibly do for his little grandson. He certainly wasn’t strong enough to fight off Ahaz’s soldiers if they came back—although he knew he would sooner die than let Ahaz sacrifice this child.
Gradually the oil lamps burned lower and the room darkened. A gentle breeze blew through the open window, bringing cooler air after the hot, dry day. The room was quiet except for the sound of Hezekiah’s breathing. But Zechariah wasn’t sleepy. He needed a drink. He knew where the palace wine cellars were and where to find the chief steward. If he just slipped downstairs for a moment, he could return with a skin of wine. He rose to his feet and shuffled to the door.
Suddenly Hezekiah’s cry shattered the stillness. It startled Zechariah so badly that he feared his heart would leap from his chest. For a moment, he couldn’t think what to do. Then he turned and saw Hezekiah sitting up in bed, screaming in terror, and Zechariah quickly gathered him into his arms. The boy clung to him, sobbing.
“Yahweh! Yahweh!”
He seemed so small, so vulnerable, that Zechariah’s eyes filled with tears. He felt a heavy weight of guilt for the part he played in Hezekiah’s nightmare, but he didn’t know how to help him. “Shh . . . shh . . .” he soothed as he stroked Hezekiah’s curly hair. “Yahweh’s here with us. Yahweh’s here. . . .”
Then, not knowing what else to do, Zechariah began reciting from the Psalms, stirring up the nearly forgotten words from somewhere in his memory. “‘Yahweh is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? Yahweh is the stronghold of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?’”