Love’s Sacred Song (4 page)

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 Psalm 22:10 
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From birth I was cast upon you; from my mother’s womb you have been my God.

J
ehoshaphat scanned the sea of frightened faces surrounding Shunem’s well. “Take heart, my brothers. King David has died; God has not.”

His own heart was breaking at the thought of the great man’s death, but he dare not show it. Not yet. “Remember that God has placed young Solomon on the throne, and competent men—Benaiah the captain, Zadok the priest, and Nathan, God’s prophet—stand at his side.”

He stepped up on the well curb to regain control before the mournful beating of breasts and rending of garments began. “Listen, brothers. Those of you who wish to honor the years of King David’s faithfulness, meet me at the southern city gate as soon as you can pack your camels. Only dromedaries for this swift trip, and only one man per beast. If we leave soon, we should arrive in Jerusalem by midmorning tomorrow to join the burial procession of our king.”

Stunned faces in the crowd remained silent, and Jehoshaphat knew he must address the raw emotion that still bubbled beneath the surface. “Our king’s death does not make right the wrongs done by his household, but he was God’s anointed.” A few muted tongues began to whisper, and heads nodded their assent. “All of Israel will grieve the customary thirty days, and then I will return to Jerusalem a second time to offer condolences to King Solomon personally. At that time, I will present the concerns of our northern tribes.” Relief eased the tension on the elders’ weathered faces as Jehoshaphat offered his final remark. “If our young king is a righteous man like his abba, he will hear our grievances and my plan for peace.”

At the mention of a plan for peace, the crowd seemed to lean forward as if waiting for more details. When no explanation came, one official voiced the group’s collective concern. “Good Jehoshaphat, we know you are wise, and your past faithfulness persuades us to trust you, but we would sleep easier tonight if—” The man stammered, but nods and jabs from his peers spurred him to complete his thought. “We want to know what plan you will propose to the king.”

Jehoshaphat paused, meeting the frightened stares of many longtime friends. “I have never failed you before. You must trust me now—without knowing all the details.”

A nervous buzz filled the air as Shunem’s judge reached his arm around the shoulders of the king’s messenger. “Please come to my home tonight, son. We’ll get you a fresh camel for the return trip to Jerusalem.”

“Thank you, my lord. King Solomon sent out messengers to all northern tribes this morning, and my dromedary has maintained a quick pace to reach Shunem by nightfall. I’m grateful for your hospitality.” The camel squawked and spit as if realizing it had been mentioned.

Jehoshaphat grinned at the surly beast and patted the messenger’s shoulder. “We’ll be sure both you and your camel get plenty of food and water.”

Relief was written in the rotund youngster’s tear-streaked face. “My camel wondered if she would find food and shelter this evening.”

Jehoshaphat laughed at the boy’s clever reply. Straightforward. Tenderhearted. Quick-witted. Yes, the palace had sent the right man for the job.

While the two moved through the crowd toward home, some men called out their support and promises to accompany Jehoshaphat to Jerusalem this evening, but Shunem’s judge still heard murmurs rippling on the breeze.

“I’d feel better if I knew what he planned to present to the king,” one said.

“Perhaps he’ll tell us more during the mourning period before he returns to Jerusalem,” another said.

Jehoshaphat was determined to focus on his guest and the imminent journey to Jerusalem. Leading the palace messenger toward home, Jehoshaphat asked, “What is your name, young man?”

“Reu, my lord.”

They passed the last stragglers from the crowd, and Jehoshaphat noticed Kemmuel and Igal loitering near one of the market stalls. Waving them over, he said, “Reu, these are my sons, and they will help you tend your camel.” Kemmuel scowled his disapproval, but Jehoshaphat ignored his foul mood. “And then they will escort you to our home for a fine meal.”

Igal mirrored his brother’s sour expression, neither son masking his impatience. Kemmuel kicked a rock across the path while Igal kept his gaze averted. Jehoshaphat was tempted to apologize for their rudeness, but when he turned to Reu, the young man bowed and addressed his grumbling caretakers.

“My camel’s name is Delilah,” he said to Kemmuel, who tried to ignore the jovial young man. “I named her thus because she is a willful female that leads me into sin wherever we go.”

Kemmuel’s eyes bulged and searched Igal’s face as if making sure his slow-witted brother had heard. Suddenly both of Jehoshaphat’s sons collapsed in a fit of laughter and finally gathered their wits enough to move toward the waiting Delilah. The young messenger looked over his shoulder and winked at Shunem’s judge. Jehoshaphat wished he could win his sons’ fondness so readily.

With a sad shrug, he turned toward home, dreading the news he must give Arielah. She would be disappointed that the treaty bride announcement must wait, but she would understand. Leaving the crowd behind, he saw only a delicate silhouette in the moonlight, waiting by his courtyard gate. He could hear gentle sniffing and knew his daughter was crying.
Of course
, he thought.
She must have heard everything from her hiding place in the market.

Approaching in the darkness, Jehoshaphat spoke only when close enough to whisper. “Your ima chose your name rightly.” Tilting her chin up, he said, “Truly, from the womb you have been our lion of God, and tonight is yet another circumstance in which you must stand strong.”

A new wave of tears overtook her, and she melted into his arms, releasing giant, heaving sobs.

“I’m so sorry, little one,” he said, holding her tightly. “I could not pronounce you as Israel’s treaty bride tonight—as the one who will salve the wounds of Abishag’s disgrace. In light of King David’s death, I felt in my spirit that Solomon should hear the proposal first, before the northern tribes approve it.” Arielah’s tears quieted, and he whispered to his daughter’s broken heart, “I ask you the same question I asked the elders of Israel’s northern tribes. Can you trust me to do what is best for you without knowing all the details?” Jehoshaphat held her at arm’s length, awaiting her response, searching her eyes for the truth.

“I trust you wholeheartedly,” she said. “I know you will do what is right for me—and what is best for Israel.”

Jehoshaphat felt the dampness of her sleeve.
She must have wet it with her tears
, he thought
.
Then a cool breeze blew, and her robe fluttered. The clouds cleared, and the moonlight revealed the complete trust on Arielah’s face—and something more.

Blood.

Jehoshaphat was stricken. He studied her torn robe and for the first time noticed the bloodstains on her head covering and mantle. The control he’d displayed as Shunem’s judge vanished, the restraint of his emotions evaporating like morning mist.

“Arielah, are you all right?” He gathered her in his arms again, grief nearly choking him, and his heart was torn in two. “What happened?” he whispered in her ear. But in his spirit, he knew. Arielah’s silence confirmed her brothers’ involvement. From the time they were children, she had yearned for their acceptance, hoped for their repentance, but only reaped their wrath.

Jehoshaphat squeezed his eyes shut.
Jehovah, wisdom fails me when it comes to these rebellious sons of mine. What am I to do?
He had been praying for his sons’ transformation for years and loved all three of his children deeply; yet how does one separate hatred for deeds from the persons themselves?

Arielah pulled away to meet his gaze. “I thought tonight would be the beginning of my escape from my brothers’ cruelty. I thought I could hold on as long as I knew the treaty bride plan was in place, as long as I knew God had a plan for me . . .” Her voice trailed away into quiet sobs, muffled in her abba’s shoulder.

Jehoshaphat felt a tear slide down his cheek. Surely his heart would break in two. “Oh, my precious lamb,” he said, “Jehovah
does
have a purpose for all this.” As he held her tightly, their shoulders shook, unified in sorrow.

When their tears had ebbed, she nestled her head against him. “I believe it is as you said, Abba. From the womb, Jehovah has called me to be a lion of God, but when my brothers’ hatred flares, I feel like a frightened lamb.”

“My precious girl,” he said, “I have tried to protect you—”

“Abba, this is
not
your fault!” she said, stepping away, passion in her tone. “You can’t change their hearts. And you can’t protect me every moment.”

Gathering her into his arms again, he continued. “I know I can’t watch over you all the time, but if you were married . . . sometimes I wish you were called to an ordinary life, to marry a shepherd and give me a multitude of grandchildren.” His words were choked by the tightness in his throat. When he could speak again, he did so in a whisper. “But when one is called to great heights, Arielah, the pathway up the mountain is often riddled with deep ruts.”

Just then, Jehoshaphat felt a hand on his shoulder. Releasing Arielah, he slipped his arm around his wife’s petite waist. Jehosheba must have heard the elders’ meeting adjourn and saw the two standing by the courtyard gate. She melted into her husband’s side and looked tenderly at Arielah.

“Come, daughter. I’ve heard enough and seen enough to know that our sons have again dealt with you harshly.” Jehosheba turned and stroked Jehoshaphat’s cheek. “And I can see from the look in your eyes that the meeting with the officials must not have gone well.” She reached for Arielah’s hand without waiting for her husband’s confirmation. “The news of the meeting can wait, my love, but our daughter’s wounds cannot. Come, precious one.” Arielah cast a backward glance at him while Jehosheba guided her to the back corner of their courtyard for privacy.

Jehoshaphat gathered the water jar and stool, followed the women, and positioned the stool so that Arielah could sit between them. Jehosheba reached for the rag to tend the head wound, but Jehoshaphat stopped his wife’s hand and gently reached for the cloth. He met his wife’s gaze, united in their grief as only parents of suffering children can be.

Caring little about the propriety of his actions, he removed his daughter’s mantle and tenderly unwound her blood-caked headpiece while Jehosheba tended Arielah’s side and leg. When he lit a clay lamp to see the cut on her head, a soft groan escaped his lips.

“It’s not so bad, Abba,” she said, squeezing his hand. “It will heal quickly.” Love and tears formed an unbroken circle as two weeping parents ministered to their beloved girl. Finally, Arielah stood, ready to go inside for fresh clothes.

“Arielah,” Jehoshaphat called. She stopped, waiting for him to speak, but his throat was clenched tight. Washing her wounds had magnified the very real dangers that awaited Arielah as Israel’s treaty bride. Did she fully understand, or was she blinded by her dreams of Solomon? “My lamb, as Israel’s treaty bride, you will experience great joy, and our nation will reach unparalleled unity.” He paused, emotion constricting his throat. “But joy and unity come at a price. You’ll face great danger in Jerusalem. This commitment could require enormous sacrifice.”

Eyes glistening, she nodded. “As I said, Abba, I believe the hardships I’ve borne have prepared me—”

Jehoshaphat stepped toward her, taking her hands in his. “But here I’ve been able to provide some protection for you. In Jerusalem you’ll be alone in the king’s household.”

“Abba, I am never alone.” She reached up to brush a tear from his cheek. “When I was a child, you protected me from Kemmuel and Igal. I am not a child anymore, and now only Jehovah can protect me—whether in Shunem from my brothers or in Jerusalem as Israel’s treaty bride.”

Jehoshaphat’s resolve shattered into a thousand teardrops. “Are you sure you want to do this? Do you want to give your life to Solomon—knowing the turmoil of our country and the fate of life in a king’s harem?”

Arielah fell silent, her eyes searching. “I admit that I’m afraid of what awaits in Jerusalem. But I have loved Solomon all my life, and because of what I suffer at my brothers’ hands, I am learning to call on Jehovah as my only helper. It is a good lesson, Abba.” Arielah turned toward the house but was stopped abruptly by a figure from the shadows.

Even Jehoshaphat’s breath caught as Kemmuel’s dark presence dimmed the light of hope in their midst.

Fear strangled Arielah and threatened to rob her of air. She exhaled slowly, and her heart stilled as she recalled the words she’d spoken moments ago.
Only Jehovah can protect me.
She recalled that unveiled glimpse of vulnerability in Kemmuel’s eyes, a hatred rooted in his belief that she’d stolen their abba’s love. Kemmuel wasn’t a leviathan; he was her brother. And for the first time in many years, she met his dark, foreboding gaze. She saw hate and the pain beneath it.

Igal rounded the corner with the king’s messenger and stopped short in awkward silence. His eyes darted from the bloody rags in his parents’ hands to Arielah, and then to Kemmuel. His gaze fell to his sandals and lingered there. Arielah wondered, as she so often had, if her impressionable second brother would do the right thing if Kemmuel weren’t there.