With a Blow

    I lay on my bed, my eyes closed, fighting to breathe, listening to the whispers around me.
    "The healer says she will last only until the sun sets."
    "Her husband should be with her right now."
    "That man!  It is his fault this is happening!"
    I knew they did not believe I could hear them, but their words still burnt.  Tears welled in my eyes and slid down my cheeks as I remembered the months that had led up to this day.

. . .

    When I entered the room, my husband was staring at the wall, his lips set in a thin line.  The older priest had a grave expression on his face.
    "Your husband claims to have seen a vision from the LORD," he informed me.  "However, he has been robbed of . . . normal speech."  He stared at me.  "Be wary, my daughter," he said, his voice stern.  "Many experiences . . . will not be from the LORD."  I bowed my head as he rose and left our house.  Then I sank down next to my husband.
    "My lord?" I ventured.  "What . . . what happened?"  His eyes sad, he just stared at me, and I remembered what the other priest had said.  "You cannot speak at all?" I whispered.  He shook his head, and my heart leapt.  "Speak to me, then, please!" I cried.  "I would hear the story from your own lips!"  Slowly, he shook his head again, and my heart sank.  I took his hands in mine, laying my head against his chest.  He wrapped his arms about me and I felt him sigh.

. . .

    I only stepped out of the house for a moment, but it was long enough.
    "My lord!" I shouted, beating my fists against the door.  "My lord, please open the door!"  From inside the house, I could hear strange mutters, which made me more frantic.  "Please, my lord!" I shrieked.
    Seven days my husband had spent seated in the marketplace.  Then, without warning, he had disappeared.  Five days later, he had appeared in our courtyard, dusty and looking hungry.  When I went to the garden for vegetables, he had slammed and bolted the door behind me.
    Something was wrong with the man I loved.
    Leaning my head against the door, I closed my eyes.
    "Oh, LORD," I prayed.  "Protect Your servant from the insanity that would take him.  Give Your maidservant wisdom!"
    Then I waited.

. . .

    The men had bound him, but I had soon untied him, unable to bear the grief in his eyes, and he had been free for weeks.  I even dared leave him alone when I went to the marketplace.  One day, when I returned home, he was sitting in the dust in our courtyard.  He had a jumble of things placed in front of him, and a group of small boys was gathered around him.  As I watched, the  children scattered across the yard, shouting war cries and laughing.  I stepped into the courtyard and my husband met my eyes, his gaze solemn.  As I watched, he twisted a few twigs together, then wrapped a scrap of cloth around them, forming a tiny model of a tent.  Crouching, I saw that there were many tents, forming miniature camps, all grouped about a brick.  Against the brick were piles of dirt, larger twigs, and stones lying as if they had been tossed against the brick.  I stared at my husband.
    "My lord?"  He did not answer me, but rose and went into the house.  I stared at the things in front of me.  My husband returned carrying an iron plate which he set upright near the brick.  Looking satisfied, he lay down on his left side and closed his eyes.  I was sure he had fallen asleep, but when I moved, he opened his eyes.  I shook my head and walked into the house.
    "Come back inside when you're hungry," I called over my shoulder.
    The silence I could endure.  But war games?  Child's play?  His sanity was more fragile than I had believed.

. . .

    It had been a fairly quiet day until my neighbor woman burst through the door.
    "Do you know where your husband is?" she cried, her face pale.
    "He's in the courtyard-" I glanced out the window, then froze.  My husband was gone.  I whirled to the woman, grabbing her shoulders.  "Where is he?" I demanded.
    "The- the marketplace . . ."
    I dashed out the door, my heart pounding, and raced to the marketplace.  A crowd was gathered, and I fought my way through it, crying my husband's name.  Suddenly, I halted.  There stood my husband, gripping a sword.  His eyes calm, he turned to look at me.  Someone cried, "Stay back, sister!"  Instead, I stretched my hands out and stepped forward.
    "My lord, put the sword down, please."  I could see his knuckles whiten as he tightened his grip.  I took another step toward him.  He backed away, bringing the sword close to his throat, and my breath came faster.  "Please, my lord, just put it down . . ."  Even as I spoke, he slashed close to his neck.  I screamed, falling to my knees and squeezing my eyes shut.  For a long moment, the marketplace was silent except for my sobs and my husband's ragged breathing.  Opening my eyes, I dared to glance at him.  He stood, clutching the sword in one hand and his severed beard in the other.  I scrambled to my feet.  As I watched, he carefully laid the hair in a bowl, then set about shaving the rest of his hair.  When he was done, he laid the sword aside and sat on the ground, holding the bowl of hair in his lap.  Tears filled my eyes at the sight of him, so bare in public.  I crouched next to him, stroking his bald head.
    "I don't understand," I whispered, burying my face on his shoulder.  "I- I just don't understand . . ."
    For a long moment, he let me rest there.  Then he rose and went to a stall, finding a pair of scales, and weighed out his hair.  I stayed in the dust, silent and grief-stricken.

. . .

    My husband had finally spoken after his months of silence, in a terrible Voice not his own, and the news he bore was not good.
    We had forsaken the LORD, and the LORD would now forsake our people and His chosen city to heartache, famine, siege, pestilence, capture, and death.
    My husband was a madman; he had proven so over the past months.
    The city of Jerusalem- God's chosen dwelling place- would not fall so terribly.
    His words could not be true.

. . .

    The elders had come again to seek counsel.  I remained in the kitchen, trying to busy myself and ignore their voices.  Suddenly, the murmurs burst into excited chatter, and I dashed to the door to see what was happening.  My husband stood stiff, his eyes latched on the ceiling, his arms and legs locked.  I stifled a shriek, for I knew the expression on his face.  I squeezed my eyes shut as the minutes dragged by until I heard my husband take a deep breath.  I opened my eyes.  There was fire in his gaze as he opened his mouth, and I dropped to the floor, covering my ears.
    The Voice was speaking again.  Using my husband's mouth, it boomed out accusation on accusation and horror of horrors.  I could not move, could not even breathe while it spoke.  Suddenly, I heard my husband's voice cry out, and I jerked up from the floor.  There were tears on his face and he was shaking his head, as if he himself did not want to believe the words he was saying.  I scrambled to my feet, shaking so hard I could barely breathe.
    "Pelatiah!" a man screamed, leaping to his feet and shaking the man next to him.  As I watched, Pelatiah clutched his breast, then slumped to the floor.  Chaos erupted.
    "It's the madman!"
    "He has brought this upon us!"  My husband did not even glance at the men, but crumpled facedown on the floor, lapsing into his garbled speech.  I wanted to run to him, to pull him off the floor, to protect him from the rage of the elders.
    Instead, I crept to the darkest corner of the kitchen and sank to the floor.  Folding my legs to my chest, I buried my face against my knees.
    "How long, LORD?" I whispered.
    Only silence answered me.

. . .

    All day my husband had carried his possessions into our courtyard.  Word had spread that the madman was performing again, and by evening a crowd had gathered.  My heart was in my throat as, one last time, my husband stepped out of our house.  The crowd stirred as he bundled his things and began walking. We all trailed after him, out of the courtyard, down the street, through the city, until he reached the wall.  There we watched as he began forcing stones out of the wall and digging through the mortar with his bare hands.
    "What are you doing, madman?" a youth called out, his friends laughing.  My husband turned.  I felt my spine tingle as I glimpsed his blazing eyes.
    "Thus says the LORD God," boomed the Voice I dreaded so much.  "'This burden concerns the prince in Jerusalem . . .'" I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to bear the words he spoke.
    O LORD! I prayed.  Why must it be my husband?
    As he finished speaking, I opened my eyes.  Most of the crowd had drifted away.  They had come for a performance, but had received an unwanted sermon.  With a sigh, my husband hefted his burden on his shoulder.  The hole in the wall was just large enough for him to crawl through.  He paused and glanced over his shoulder at me.
    In a moment, he had disappeared.
    I trudged back to the house.  The beauty of the night sky mocked my pain until I stepped into the house, where the ceiling blocked out the stars.  I crawled into bed, missing my husband's presence.
    Later that night, I jerked awake.  Something had changed since I went to sleep.  Turning, I bumped into something warm.  I bit my tongue to keep from screaming.  Then an arm wrapped around me and I recognized my husband.
    He had not abandoned me.
    Closing my eyes, I curled against his chest and drifted back to sleep.

. . .

    Day by day, my husband kept crying out against everything he should have been loyal to. Day by day, public sentiment turned against him.  Day by day, I watched him continue to spiral from a respected priest to a laughingstock.
    I burned to step in, to stop it, to change things.
    But I could not.
    I was only a woman, the wife of the madman.
    And I had come to know that what he said was true.
    My husband was not mad.
    He spoke for the LORD, and akin to righteous men of the past, he was scorned and mocked by the unrighteous.
    I feared the day I would see Jerusalem crumble- the city of the temple, the city of my God.
    Yet I knew, by my husband's words, the time was close.
    Dread in my heart, I watched, and waited, and prayed.

. . .

    My husband had spoken to the people.
    Jerusalem was under siege.
    It was too early for anyone to confirm his message, but I needed nothing else to believe the words of the LORD.  My heart pounding, I stood in the crowded marketplace, listening as my husband described what would happen to our holy city.  Many wept, but my eyes were dry.
    We forsook the LORD, and now He has forsaken us.  The day I dreaded has come.
    My husband caught my eye, and hesitated in his speech.  I glimpsed something I did not understand in his eyes.  Then he looked away and I was sure I had imagined it.  Yet, suddenly, hope stirred in my heart.
    Are you ready, dearest? a gentle voice whispered deep inside my soul.
    My head was beginning to ache.  As my husband finished speaking, the crowd dispersed, muttering.  I fixed my eyes on the ground, feeling unsteady and nauseated.  Then an arm slipped around me, and I leaned against my husband.  For a moment, he held me close against his chest as I wrapped my arms around him.  His chin rested on the top of my head, and I closed my eyes, listening to the soothing thud of his heart.
    My husband helped me home and into bed.  He brought the healer woman, who checked my forehead, my throat, my feet and hands, then went away, shaking her head.  With grief-filled eyes, my husband sat next to me, holding my hand.  I could barely keep my eyes open.
    My husband stayed with me until a group of women drove him away while they bathed me.  Once they laid me back in bed, they huddled about me.
    "The healer says she will last only until the sun sets."
    "Her husband should be with her right now."
    "That man!  It is his fault this is happening!"
    I wept, praying for my husband's return.  In a moment, the gossiping voices faded, and footsteps pattered away.  Forcing my eyes open, I saw my husband standing in the doorway.  I raised my hand toward him, and he came to me, clasping my hand.
    There was much I wished to say- how I was sorry I had thought him mad, how I regretted allowing others to use force against him, how I wished I had been loyal to him no matter what.  I wanted to confess that I had mocked him in my heart, that I had refused to believe his words, that I had turned from the way of the LORD.  I longed to tell him that I now knew that all he had said and done had been from the LORD our God.  My throat closed up, and I found myself unable to speak.  I shut my eyes.  My husband was trembling.
    Not for me, dearest.  Grieve for the city of God.  Mourn for the people of God.
    I opened my eyes, staring straight above me.  Instead of the ceiling, I glimpsed a dark cloud, filled with fire and lightning and smoke and terrible darting figures.  I gasped in fear, and felt my husband touch my face.  I looked at him, and saw desperation and understanding in his eyes.  He nodded at me.
    He saw this, too . . .
    It made sense- the fire in his eyes, the stiffening of his joints, the Voice.
    Yes- the Voice.  It's here.
Like a cloud, the Voice rolled over me, blocking out all else.
    I hear it, dearest.  I understand now.
    Somehow, after all the months of hating and cowering away from the Voice, I was not afraid anymore.  I closed my eyes once more.
    I am ready.  Let me hear what You would say . . .




    And so she was gone.
    By the terror and sheer delight in her face, I knew she had seen the LORD.
    As the LORD had commanded me, I did not mourn and I did not weep and my tears did not come.  I groaned silently; I made no mourning for the dead.  I bound on my turban and put my shoes on my feet, and did not cover my mustache and did not eat the bread of men.2
    In my heart of hearts, though, I wailed and mourned more than any man ever had for the woman he loved.


    May the name of the LORD GOD be praised.

they say that breaking up is hard to do

He stood in my kitchen, where we'd had so many talks, shared so many secrets, laughed together so many times,

             and told me we were over.

                        I didn't believe him.

He stood in my kitchen, tall, relaxed, confident,

            everything I wanted, everything I'd thought I'd had.

                        I couldn't yank my eyes away from him.

He stood in my kitchen, recounted all his reasons, paused, his silence asking for my approval, my response.

            I was silent, for

                        all I could see were his dark eyes, dark but not mysterious to me.

                        Until now.

He stood in my kitchen, saying he was leaving now.

            I stood up, put my hands out.

                        "I don't understand," I said.

He stood in my kitchen, still tall, but his shoulders tense, his hands jammed in his pockets.

            I waited.

                        "It just has to be," he mumbled.

He stood in my kitchen, eyes on the floor, not moving, as

            I sobbed, my tears gushing like a flood, my shoulders shaking.

                        All I wanted was his arm around my shoulders, his hand in the middle of my back.

He stood in my kitchen, and

            I knew, by the way he rubbed his eyes,

                        he was crying, too.

He stood in my kitchen, finally raising wet eyes to me.

            "Can’t you see why?" he asked, his gaze begging me to give the answer he wanted.

                        I shook my head.

           

                                    "No,

                                                I don't see,

                                                            I never will,

                                                                        don't leave me."

He stood in my kitchen, one last time, his eyes sweeping over

            the curtains,

                        the plants on the windowsill,

                                    the spoon collection hanging on the wall,

                                                the photos on the fridge,

                                                            the cheery sunny yard outside.

                                                                                    He looked at everything

                                                                                                                        but

                                                                                                                            me.

            "Let me go," he pleaded.  "Just please let me go."

                        I couldn't fight it anymore.  I squeezed my eyes shut.

                                    "Yes," I whispered.  "But please . . ."

                                                                        "Anything."

                                                                                    "Hold me one more time."

He stood in my kitchen, his arms open toward me, but hesitated.

            "No," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.  "No.  No, I can't."

                        I closed my eyes, and remembered . . .

                                    His strong arms wrapped close around me, his head curved over mine, his hand pressing my ear against his heart, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to curl himself around me.

                        I tattooed the memory into my heart, my brain, my soul, any part of me that would remember.

                                   

He still stood in my kitchen, hunched miserably, when I opened my eyes.

        "You can go," I told him, wiping tears from my eyes (a losing battle).  "Just go."

                        He finally looked into my eyes, but I closed my soul against him.

He stood in my kitchen, and his eyes were sad.

            "I didn't want this," he said.

                        I turned away, staring at the wall.

                                    I couldn't believe him.

at any occasion, be ready for the funeral

            You know what is the deepest tragedy of all? The lost time. The time I could have had with her. The time I could have spent talking with her, sitting next to her, memorizing her habits, touching her, comforting her, holding her close to my heart.

            It hurts more, thinking about all that empty time, than thinking about losing her.

            What about the moments when I saw her, sitting alone, and thought, "I should talk to her," or "I should sit down with her for awhile," or "I should ask her what she's reading"? What stopped me?

            There was this huge lump of fear in my throat. I don't know why.

            If I'd known this feeling, I would never let that fear stop me.

            What about later, after I did talk to her, when I'd look up and she'd be smiling that soft smile and I'd just look away, wondering what I should do? What about that time she fell in the snow and I pulled her up and she didn't pull her hand away until I let go on purpose?

            I didn't want to look stupid, didn't want to make her think I was crazy.

            I was, though—crazy for her.

            Why did what I looked like really matter?

            What about those times when I would walk into the room, see her eyes light up, meet her smile, see the empty seat next to her, and walk across the room to a different chair? Why did I do that to her . . . to me?

            It was too hard to sit next to her, watch her shoulders rise and fall with her breath, feel her joy radiating from her body, see her smiles sweep across her face, study the way she chewed her pen caps, catch the scent of her skin and the soap she used.

            It broke my heart . . . but nothing like this.

            No.

            Nothing ever prepared me for this.

            He stared down at her still pale face, wondering why he felt he never knew the girl that lay in front of him. The features and hands and hair were right, but without her spirit, the body made no sense, left no feeling in his heavy heart. Stooping, he brushed one hand over her cheek, shuddering at the cold stiffness that greeted his fingertips. He stood straight and glanced around the room. People were staring at him with gazes full of pity, sadness, confusion . . . he didn't know what all. He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to think at all.

            She was gone. And he had no more time left.

            So many empty years where I never knew her . . .

                        and all that stretches ahead of me . . . is even more empty . . .

            With a sigh, he took one last look at the body. His eyes caught on the slim gold ring on her left hand, and he felt tears squeezing his throat closed. Turning, quickly, he strode away from the box that held the body. It wasn't his beloved lying there; it was just a body. The body was dead, and because of that, her spirit had left.

            And that—that was more than he could bear.

tea time II

            I am going to die. The thought pounded in her head as she slumped over her knees. The wicked north wind bit at her neck, sweeping her hair over her face, but she didn't move.

            It is simply not worth it anymore. As if in reply, the wind howled around the apartment complex, swirling the dry leaves into a hissing, dizzying cyclone. She lifted her eyes to watch, but barely saw what was right in front of her.

            Does it really matter, anyway? she wondered, biting her lip. She was entirely alone—no parents, no siblings, no husband, no children, not even a pet.

            No one would really miss you, another voice suggested. Gasping, she squeezed her eyes shut again.

            No, no, she whimpered in her mind. Go away! I won't listen to you!

            You must.

            I won't!

            You're only lying to yourself!

            Leave me alone!

            Suddenly, another voice interrupted, a voice that was louder and brighter and harsher and truer than the one that whispered her doom.

            "Hello, there!" Her eyes popped open and she stared at the speaker. There before her stood a woman with greying hair and bright eyes. Her hair was short and permed; her feet were shoved carelessly into bright purple-and-pink dotted galoshes. A peacoat was thrown over her shoulders, but not buttoned, and her hands were shoved deep into the pockets. Despite her unkempt appearance, her skin was clean, and she smelt pleasantly of face powder. The woman nodded, then glanced at the overcast sky. "Storm's moving in, honey; it'll be a doozy."

            "Yes," the girl murmured, feeling dazed. Is this really happening? she wondered. In a moment, though, she had no choice but to believe in reality.

            "Would you like to come in for some tea?" the old woman asked. Startled, the girl stared at her, wondering if she was as crazy as she sounded.

            "Tea?" she repeated, feeling stupid. The old woman nodded.

            "It'd be good to have some company," she remarked, pulling a hand out of her pocket and inspecting her fingernails. She turned a warm smile on the girl. "It'd be nice if it was you." Slowly, the girl unhooked her arms from around her knees and unfolded her legs.

            "I . . . I suppose I could do that," she muttered, feeling shy. The woman's eyes lit up and she threw her head back and laughed.

            "Come right in, then!" she crowed, marching up the steps and unlocking the front door. She held it open for the girl and stepped into the hallway after her. "I'm on the top floor, dearie," she directed as the girl hesitated. At the door of the apartment, the woman stopped and unlocked three locks on the door, then threw it open as well. In a moment, she was bustling about the small kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove, pulling out a box of store-brand cookies and piling them on a plate, rummaging for and discovering six variety boxes of tea, and choosing two cups and saucers from a high cupboard with glass doors. "Milk, lemon, honey, sugar?" she called to the girl, who was standing, dazed, in the middle of the living room.

            "Uhm . . . honey, please."

            "Is that all, sweetie?" the old woman asked, popping her head around the door. The girl nodded, her eyes roving around the living room. The old woman stopped what she was doing and came into the living room. She smiled as she followed the girl's eyes over the oil paintings, charcoal drawings, watercolors, pencil sketches, and pen and ink drawings. "Marvelous, aren't they?" she said, her voice soft. As if she was suddenly awakened, the girl jumped and turned wondering eyes to the old woman.

            "They're—they're fantastic," she blurted, her breath coming quickly. "So—so good they—they hurt." She pressed both hands to her heart, and the old woman nodded.

            "That's what I always told him." Her voice caressed the word him, and she brushed aside her bangs and stared at the floor. "But no—always better, always better! He said they were never quite good enough." She laughed under her breath and shook her head, glancing up at the girl. "My son," she explained. "This was the last one he did for me." She motioned toward a bright oil painting hanging by a window. The girl stepped forward, her eyes devouring the reds and yellows and blues, her lips parted as she fought for breath.

            "The . . . last?" she managed, chewing on her bottom lip. The old woman nodded.

            "He . . . he killed himself a month later." Sadness tinged her voice, and she wiped her eyes. "Ahhhh . . . nothing was ever good enough for him, poor dear. He knew Jesus, had so many reasons to live, but the darkness—it was just too much for him." The girl stood still in the middle of the floor, her eyes downcast. Then, suddenly, she whirled to the old woman and threw both arms around her. The old woman's arms went around her, and they stood there—two sorrowing hearts, clinging to each other for comfort—until the tea kettle screamed its disgust. Letting the girl go, the old woman laughed shakily and handed the girl a tissue. "My lands, honey; you're crying, too." The girl shook her head, accepting the tissue and blowing her nose.

            "I . . . I'm so sorry," she managed. "I—I can't imagine . . ."

            "Oh, sweetie, don't try to, please. It's not something I'd wish on anyone." The old woman searched the girl's face, her eyes concerned. "You understand him, don't you?" she remarked, her voice soft. The girl froze. Then, slowly, she nodded her head.

            "I –I'm completely alone," she admitted, hanging her head. "Sometimes it doesn't seem worth it to stay around." The kettle shrieked again and the old woman turned toward the kitchen.

            "Well," she said, her voice brisk again. "Let's talk about it over tea. Maybe we'll sort some things out."

            "It's way more complicated than that." The girl couldn't fight the bitterness in her voice, but the old lady just laughed her soft laugh again.

            "Of course not. Not in one day. You can always come back, though." With that, she busied herself about the tea things, setting the plate of cookies on the table, pouring hot water into the cups. The girl stepped toward the kitchen, but paused and stared back at the bright, frightening, cruel painting. It mesmerized her, called her to join it and its creator.

            "Coming, sweetie?" The bright voice interrupted her, once more, and she shook herself.

            "One minute," she called back. Her eyes drifted from the painting to the window next to it. Outside, the sun was breaking through the thick clouds. Its weak beams sifted into the room, playing against the walls.

            The girl smiled for the first time in months.

tea time I

    He had no idea how long they'd been there. Supper had ended and the dishes had been cleaned up long ago. Only a few cafeteria workers remained, straightening chairs and tables, cleaning counters, and prepping for the next day. Most of the other students had left, but the few that remained were all huddled together at one table. He reached forward, clasping his warm mug, and met the eyes of another young man across the table.
    "Doesn't it waste our time to argue about this?" he insisted. "No matter what we humans think, God is the only One Who will ever know what exactly predestination entails." The other young man shook his head and pushed his chair back with a loud screech.
    "You're wrong about this one," he argued. "I'll give you predestination—you made your point there. But this—evangelism goes along a completely different tack." Opening his mouth, he was about to reply, when he was cut off.
    "Does it really?" Her voice was soft and warm as the tea in his mug. He stopped and stared at her. Her eyes were earnest as she glanced back and forth between the two young men. "Just like predestination, only God really understands evangelism. I think . . ." She paused and stared down at her own mug. He leaned forward farther, eager to hear what she would say.
    "Yes?" he prodded. She swirled her tea a bit, then bit her lip.
    "I think it's something that should be argued about less and practiced much, much more." Her voice was firm, yet quiet, and he found himself admiring her self-assurance. Letting out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, he took a drink of tea and nodded.
    "You're right." He extended his hand to the other young man. "Should we call it a truce?" he said, grinning. After a moment, the other young man smiled, his expression wry, and leaned forward to shake his hand.
    "All right; we'll leave it at that, then." He shook his head, pushing his hands deep into his suitcoat's pockets. "Good discussion, though—very good."
    "As always," his opponent added. The girl across the table from him brought her mug up and took a sip of tea. As she did, he caught her gaze over her tea. Her eyes were warm, deep, twinkling. He found himself captivated by them, and wondering at the soul behind such eyes. She put her mug down, smiled, and looked away.
    Nothing, though, could erase that glance. He knew it in his bones. And he knew, somehow, that it was only the the first glance of many . . .