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Authors: Sylvia Bambola
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that is, when they’re not tending the fields or their animals, or maintaining the terraces, or cleaning the cisterns, or doing a dozen other chores.” He laughs merrily, completely undaunted by the many obstacles.
Esther makes a clucking noise with her tongue, then wrinkles her face and mumbles something beneath her breath about going back to Jerusalem.
I ignore her.
Zechariah grins at us both, revealing a mouthful of teeth that look like yellowing ivory. “While you women gather branches for the new roof, Aaron and I will fell trees for hewing beams. And I promise you this—I’ll over-lay it all with mud plaster. It will not be the crude roof that sits over my head. But what does an old man living alone care about such things? That’s not for you, though. You’ll have a fine roof. You’ll see. In no time the house will be beautiful.”
Though he means well, Zechariah’s words are not helpful. I don’t despise God’s provision. The truth is, I’m most grateful, especially considering what I’ve seen in my travels here. This dwelling was proof of God’s continued goodness toward me. I’ll not deny that. But no, I won’tsay this house that stands in ruins before me is beautiful. I’ll not speak a falsehood.
“Esther and I will see to the branches after we’ve unloaded the cart,” I say, signaling Esther to come help. Since Zechariah knows where to make purchases without being cheated, I gave him some coins from my
semadi
. And before bringing us here, he crossed the wadi and spent them all. But he has not disappointed. In the laden donkey cart behind us are fine woven baskets filled with chickpeas and lentils and figs, and cooking pots, plus two oil lamps. There are also jars of oil and honey, empty jars for storage, and tools for farming, including the ax needed to fell the trees. “We’ll see to these things first,” I repeat.
Zechariah nods, pulls the ax and a handsaw from the cart, then gives the ax to Aaron. Before Esther and I even get started, he’s off, whistling some tune I’ve never heard, and heading for the forest. And Aaron has to sprint to catch up, as Esther and I begin unloading the wagon. She carries an empty jar while I carry the basket of lentils to the back of the house where we’ll store them, out of everyone’s way, until the house has been repaired.
While I walk, my mind is full of thoughts I’m determined to share. I must tell Esther what’s on my heart. It’s long overdue. “I miss my husband, too,” I say softly, as Esther positions the jar in front of me. “I know how you feel.”
At once, tears wet Esther’s face. “Then how can you bear it? How can you bear being away from Papa?”
It’s good to hear Esther speak, even in such a surly tone. “I bear it because I must,” I say, pouring lentils into the wide-mouth clay jar. “And so must you. If it’s God’s will, Papa and Daniel will survive. Let God strengthen you through this. He is more than able.”
She brushes away her tears with the edge of the cloth on her head. “The world is upside down. I don’t know if I can live . . . if I
want
to live in it without Daniel.”
“Don’t speak so! It’s God who gives the gift of life. Can you say to Him ‘I no longer want it’?”
Esther looks at me; her forehead is as furrowed as the fields behind our new house. “You’ve seen what the Romans do to the men who oppose them. How they’re nailed to trees.” Her eyes widen. “Suppose Daniel . . . suppose . . . .”
“Hush.” I brush my fingers lightly across her lips. “It’s not for us to suppose. It’s for us to go about the business of living. You’re young and strong. When the war is over we will need young and strong women to help rebuild, and to raise up Godly seed for the Lord.”
When I see that Esther has stopped her ears to my words, I close my mouth, and in silence we carry our new purchases and stack them neatly at the back of the house. After we finish, I inspect the grounds.
Esther makes a clucking noise with her tongue, then wrinkles her face and mumbles something beneath her breath about going back to Jerusalem.
I ignore her.
Zechariah grins at us both, revealing a mouthful of teeth that look like yellowing ivory. “While you women gather branches for the new roof, Aaron and I will fell trees for hewing beams. And I promise you this—I’ll over-lay it all with mud plaster. It will not be the crude roof that sits over my head. But what does an old man living alone care about such things? That’s not for you, though. You’ll have a fine roof. You’ll see. In no time the house will be beautiful.”
Though he means well, Zechariah’s words are not helpful. I don’t despise God’s provision. The truth is, I’m most grateful, especially considering what I’ve seen in my travels here. This dwelling was proof of God’s continued goodness toward me. I’ll not deny that. But no, I won’tsay this house that stands in ruins before me is beautiful. I’ll not speak a falsehood.
“Esther and I will see to the branches after we’ve unloaded the cart,” I say, signaling Esther to come help. Since Zechariah knows where to make purchases without being cheated, I gave him some coins from my
semadi
. And before bringing us here, he crossed the wadi and spent them all. But he has not disappointed. In the laden donkey cart behind us are fine woven baskets filled with chickpeas and lentils and figs, and cooking pots, plus two oil lamps. There are also jars of oil and honey, empty jars for storage, and tools for farming, including the ax needed to fell the trees. “We’ll see to these things first,” I repeat.
Zechariah nods, pulls the ax and a handsaw from the cart, then gives the ax to Aaron. Before Esther and I even get started, he’s off, whistling some tune I’ve never heard, and heading for the forest. And Aaron has to sprint to catch up, as Esther and I begin unloading the wagon. She carries an empty jar while I carry the basket of lentils to the back of the house where we’ll store them, out of everyone’s way, until the house has been repaired.
While I walk, my mind is full of thoughts I’m determined to share. I must tell Esther what’s on my heart. It’s long overdue. “I miss my husband, too,” I say softly, as Esther positions the jar in front of me. “I know how you feel.”
At once, tears wet Esther’s face. “Then how can you bear it? How can you bear being away from Papa?”
It’s good to hear Esther speak, even in such a surly tone. “I bear it because I must,” I say, pouring lentils into the wide-mouth clay jar. “And so must you. If it’s God’s will, Papa and Daniel will survive. Let God strengthen you through this. He is more than able.”
She brushes away her tears with the edge of the cloth on her head. “The world is upside down. I don’t know if I can live . . . if I
want
to live in it without Daniel.”
“Don’t speak so! It’s God who gives the gift of life. Can you say to Him ‘I no longer want it’?”
Esther looks at me; her forehead is as furrowed as the fields behind our new house. “You’ve seen what the Romans do to the men who oppose them. How they’re nailed to trees.” Her eyes widen. “Suppose Daniel . . . suppose . . . .”
“Hush.” I brush my fingers lightly across her lips. “It’s not for us to suppose. It’s for us to go about the business of living. You’re young and strong. When the war is over we will need young and strong women to help rebuild, and to raise up Godly seed for the Lord.”
When I see that Esther has stopped her ears to my words, I close my mouth, and in silence we carry our new purchases and stack them neatly at the back of the house. After we finish, I inspect the grounds.
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