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.
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