On This Foundation (3 page)

They reached the Jewish section in the lower city of Susa, breathless from the vigorous walk, and went inside the house of assembly. A fire blazed in the brazier, and Nehemiah removed his outer robe in the overheated room. “I'd like you to meet my brother Nehemiah,” Hanani told his delegation from Jerusalem. He introduced each man to Nehemiah before adding, “He now serves in an even more important position in the palace than he did when I left—he's cupbearer to the king.”

Everyone seemed pleased at the news, but Nehemiah quickly set them straight. “Unfortunately for your delegation, my work as the king's cupbearer isn't going to be of much help to you. If I were an aide, I might have been able to make sure your petition reached the throne room. But while I have very close access to King Artaxerxes and enjoy his utmost trust, I am not allowed to speak in his presence unless he bids me to. However, I will be happy to contribute any insights into the Persian court that might be helpful to you.”

“That would be much appreciated.”

“Maybe it would help if I had a clearer picture of the situation in Judah,” Nehemiah directed. “For starters, tell me about Jerusalem.”

The room fell silent, as if he had asked about a tragic death. Indeed, the leader of the delegation gave a heavy sigh before speaking, his face somber. “Our fellow Jews who survived the exile and are back in the province are in great trouble and disgrace.”

His words and the grave tone with which he spoke shocked
Nehemiah. He let them sink in for a moment before leaning forward in his seat. “Go on.”

“When I look at this magnificent city of Susa with its towering walls and pillars, the stunning citadel perched on the hill, they reflect the splendor of the king who reigns here. Our reigning King is the Almighty One, yet His city is a pitiful reflection of His power and glory. The walls of Jerusalem are broken down, and its gates have been burned with fire.”

“Wait,” Nehemiah said, leaning closer still. “Are you saying there are no walls at all around the city? That the people are defenseless against their enemies?”

“That's right. When the Babylonians burned the city, not only did the gates burn, but the heat of the flames caused the limestone building blocks to crumble. The Babylonian army demolished all our fortifications.”

“And even though the eastern approach to the city has always been protected by a steep slope,” another man added, “all the supporting terraces have disintegrated, first from the fire, then from rain and weather.”

“Some men in our community attempted to rebuild the walls a number of years ago,” the leader continued. “But the enemy nations around us were able to get an edict from the Persian king, forcing us to stop. They even made us destroy what we had begun to build.”

“That's outrageous!” Nehemiah's anger flared like oil on hot coals. “What about the Holy One's temple? Surely that's protected and secure?”

“No, the temple is also unprotected. And without walls, the Levite guards have their hands full safeguarding the temple treasury. We can't trust the governor in Samaria or his provincial guards to protect us, even if he agreed to send them. We're hated by all of our surrounding neighbors—the Samaritans and Edomites, the Ammonites and Arabs. They would like nothing better than to see us all in our graves.”

“There's no way to fortify the city?” Nehemiah asked.

“If we attempted to do it without King Artaxerxes' permission, it would be interpreted as an act of rebellion. And where would we get the funds? As it is, we're here because we can't afford to pay the taxes he has imposed. Rebuilding the walls would be an impossible undertaking.”

Nehemiah shook his head, unable to grasp what he was hearing. “So you're telling me that the city and the temple mount are both completely vulnerable? Our enemies could come in and kill our people and destroy Jerusalem and the Almighty One's temple all over again?”

“Completely vulnerable,” the leader confirmed. “And because of it, the number of robberies and vicious attacks has been escalating after two years of drought. Our enemies strike at night, looking for food and grain because of the famine. No one feels safe.”

“A young friend of mine named Yitzhak ben Rephaiah was killed several months ago,” Hanani added, “when his home in Jerusalem was robbed. Yitzhak was about to be married and had just built a new home for his bride. The thieves killed him and emptied his storehouse. In fact, he lived very close to Ephraim and his family. It could have been him.”

Nehemiah felt a powerful anger building inside him as the picture of the city's helplessness grew clearer. Security was his livelihood, his passion. He was beginning to understand what their leader had meant when he'd said their people were in great trouble and disgrace. But what could he do? “I need to return to my responsibilities in the citadel. We'll talk again,” he promised as he left them.

The leader's words continued to echo in Nehemiah's mind throughout the afternoon and evening, long after he returned to his spare living quarters in the citadel for the night.
“Great trouble and
disgrace.”
The report appalled him, not only for the sake of the people who were being robbed and killed by
their enemies, but for the Almighty One's sake. Nehemiah unbuckled his sword and removed his uniform. His bed had been prepared for him, but he wasn't ready to sleep. He opened the shuttered window and looked out at the vast sprinkle of stars above the roof of the palace.

Just as the magnificent city of Susa brought glory and honor to the Persian king, so, too, should the city and temple of the one true God bring glory and honor to Him. The lack of city walls and gates meant shame and disgrace. The heathens could easily destroy Jerusalem again as they had 140 years ago. Even worse, this vulnerability sent a message to their enemies that the Holy One was unable—or unwilling—to protect His people.

Nehemiah closed the window and paced the floor. Then, knowing that his work would begin before dawn and that he needed to sleep, he snuffed out his lamp and sank onto his bed. Somehow, seeing Hanani again and being reminded twice today of their father's tragic death made him feel like a child—helpless, vulnerable. He had saved himself and his brothers on that long-ago night by hiding in a hollow corner between the wall and the huge wooden chest his father had propped at an angle in the room. Nehemiah and his two brothers had often hidden in that space when playing games. And although all of Nehemiah's instincts urged him to find a way to protect his brothers once again—to protect all of his people in Jerusalem—he had no way to do it.

“Our fellow Jews who survived the exile and are
back in the province are in great trouble and disgrace.”

Alone, in his room, Nehemiah didn't try to stop his tears.

J
ERUSALEM
E
ARLY
F
EBRUARY

T
oday Chana found it hard to believe the words that the Levite temple musicians were singing:
“
Delight
yourself
in
the
Lord
,
and
he
will
give
you
the
desires
of
your
heart
.”
That promise wasn't always true. The desire of Chana's heart had been to marry Yitzhak ben Rephaiah and live in the home he had built for her. But Yitzhak was dead, and God could never grant her heart's desire. She shivered as a gust of wintry wind swept across the temple courtyard. It dragged gray storm clouds with it, and she felt the first sprinkles of rain. They needed rain. In fact, her nation was praying for the winter rains to pour from the heavens in steady sheets, soaking the cracked earth and bringing it back to life. But as quickly as the spitting raindrops started, they stopped again, proving as worthless as the song's promise.

The evening sacrifice at the temple was nearly over. Chana looked forward to returning home again and warming her wind-burned cheeks, rubbing life back into her icy toes and fingers. She watched the priest remove a coal from the altar fire and carry it into the sanctuary. He would use it to light the incense
on the golden altar that stood before God's throne room. As the fragrant aroma ascended to heaven, the priest would offer prayers for her people. It was the moment for Chana to offer her prayers, too—but for what? Hadn't she prayed for nearly a year for her heart to heal so she could feel something besides endless grief? She glanced at her younger sisters, Yudit and Sarah, standing beside her with their heads bowed. Yudit's lips moved as she silently prayed. Chana wondered what she prayed for. Was it for her?

Another blast of wind rocked Chana, plastering her long robe to her legs. She had covered her wavy black hair with a shawl in case it rained, and she reached up to grab it before the wind whisked it away. At last the sacrifice ended. She huddled close to her sisters as they waited for their father to rejoin them. “I love that song that the choir just sang, don't you, Chana?” Yudit asked through chattering teeth.

Chana nodded, guilt-stricken for having pouted the entire time instead of participating in worship. She knew the folly of being angry with the Almighty One. Bitterness was a poison that had the power to destroy her. But on cold, gray days like this one, when the clouds hung over Jerusalem's mountaintops like a smothering blanket, her grief threatened to smother her, as well. After Yitzhak died, she continued coming to the temple to worship God, clinging to a slender thread of faith. Some days, especially during the annual festivals, the bond that connected her to the Almighty One seemed as thick and strong as an anchor rope. But most days the thread seemed gossamer thin, a spider's tendril. No matter how she felt, Chana remained determined to hold on to the Holy One and not let go, even when it seemed He had let go of her.

Minutes passed as she watched the departing worshipers leave the temple courtyards. At last, Abba bustled up to them, his plump cheeks as round and red as pomegranates. “There you are, my beauties! What a lovely sight you are on such a dreary day.”

Sarah stood on her toes to kiss him, then linked her arm through his. “We knew you'd be cold, so we made soup to help you warm up. And we baked bread, too. I hope it's still warm.” Sarah was Chana's youngest sister, with hair as dark and glossy as a raven's wing. Thick lashes rimmed her wide, brown eyes, giving her the innocent look of a child much younger than her seventeen years. She and Chana resembled each other the most.

“Wonderful!” Abba said. “I do believe I can smell it from here.”

“No, you can't, Abba,” Sarah said, laughing.

They crossed the open courtyard toward the western side of the temple mount, and as another gust slammed into her, Chana feared they would all be blown off the mountaintop in the wind. She wrapped her arm around Yudit's waist, huddling close as they walked. Yudit was nineteen and the independent sister, the one who didn't care if her curly brown hair frizzed around her face like a lion's mane or her fingernails were ragged and broken from moving stones and digging in the dusty earth to plant rosemary and sagebushes in front of their house. Not that herbs or anything else could grow without rain.

They reached the steep steps leading down to the city, and Chana released her sister to grip the handholds as she descended. Halfway down, Abba paused to catch his breath. “You girls feed me too well,” he said, patting his bulging middle. “Let me catch my breath.” It puffed like smoke in the cold air as he spoke.

They rested for a moment, then continued downhill toward their house, built near the ruins of the city's western wall. Chana hoped the coals on the hearth had kept their house warm while they'd been gone. She longed to run ahead to escape the biting wind, but her gregarious father couldn't help stopping to greet people along the way. As ruler of the half-district of Jerusalem, he always took time to listen to people's concerns and to share their joys. He knew who was ill, which families didn't have quite enough to eat, and who the latest robbery victims
were. The bad news always grieved him. But Abba also loved sharing people's joy. He savored every morsel of happy news in Jerusalem from betrothals to births to bar mitzvahs. Yitzhak's father, Rephaiah, who was ruler over the other half-district of Jerusalem, worked closely with Abba.

“Once we're married, we'll reign over Jerusalem as king and queen,” Yitzhak used to tease. “Our sons will be little princes.”

And now he was gone.

“I'm going to run ahead,” Chana told Yudit, “and make sure the soup is still warm.” Abba had stopped to talk to Uzziel, one of the goldsmiths, and Chana didn't want to get into a conversation with Uzziel's wife, who always gripped Chana's arm with viselike fingers, holding her captive as she recited a list of eligible men, including her youngest son. On any other day, Chana was happy to perform her social duties for her father, but not today. She hurried down the Street of the Bakers to her home near the Tower of the Ovens, named before the destruction of Jerusalem and the exile. No bakers lived on the street anymore, and the ovens and tower lay in ruins.

Thankfully, the main room of their house was still warm and so was the soup. Chana lit two lamps, spread a cloth on the table, and placed cushions and pillows on the stools and chairs so they could sit down to eat as soon as Abba and her sisters arrived. All three of them were laughing about something as they blew in through the door, as if pushed inside by the wind. “Close the door!” Chana chided. “You're letting all the warm air out.”

“You don't have to shout,” Sarah said.

She hadn't meant to. Chana helped her father remove his cloak and hung it on a peg for him. But instead of sitting down, Abba remained standing. He turned to Chana, cupping her face in his icy hands, and kissed her forehead.

“Listen, my angel. It will soon be a year since Yitzhak was taken from us. Even if you had been married to him, a year is
enough time to mourn. He wouldn't want you to grieve any longer. How he would hate to see you so sad!” He caressed her cheek with his thumb.

“And when Mama died, didn't you grieve?” she asked, her throat tight. “Don't you still miss her?”

“Such foolish questions you ask,” he said, lowering his hands. “Of course I do. Of course I understand your grief. A thousand times a day I am reminded of your mother. You have her soft, brown eyes, Chana. And her generous heart. But you're only twenty-three years old, my angel. Your whole life waits for you. Didn't the Almighty One say it wasn't good for man to live alone?”

“Then why haven't you remarried, Abba?”

“That's different. I enjoyed the gift of marriage for more than twenty years. And besides, who says I won't marry again?”

“Have you met someone, Abba?” Sarah asked. She had been making such a racket, clattering the dishes and tableware, that Chana was surprised she had overheard their conversation.

“No, my little cherub, I haven't met anyone.”

“Promise us you won't marry a Samaritan or an Edomite,” Yudit said. She was taking the bread from the warming shelf above the hearth, wrapping it in a cloth so it would stay warm and moist.

“Never!” he said with a frown. “No need to worry about that! Not only does the Almighty One forbid mixed marriages, but Gentile women lack spirit. It's probably beaten out of them by their fathers. I like a woman who isn't afraid to speak her mind, like your mother—and like her three beautiful daughters,” he added with a smile. Chana tried to brush past him and end this uncomfortable conversation, but he stopped her.

“Listen, my angel. I'm not bringing up this subject to cause you more pain but because it just so happens that I know someone who would like to be introduced to you.”

“Oh, Abba, no! Please—”

“Just hear me out. He serves as a member of the council with me and is the ruler of the district of Beth Hakkerem, about an hour's walk west of Jerusalem.”

“‘House of the Vineyard?'” Sarah asked, translating the district's name. “Are there any vineyards left in Judah after two years of drought?”

“Your friend must be pretty old if he's a district ruler,” Chana said. “I don't want to marry an old man.”

“He's only thirty-seven. I already asked.”

“Abba, that's fourteen years older than me.”

“Yitzhak was ten years older than you,” Yudit said. Chana rolled her eyes at her.

Abba was relentless. “He's a nobleman. And the fact that he has risen to such an important position on the council at such a young age should tell you how brilliant he is.”

“Well, I can see that you're already an admirer of his, Abba.”

“I am. He has offered some very wise advice during some of our council meetings, and I've never heard him raise his voice or lose his temper—like several other members I could name.”

“Who, Abba? Who?” Yudit asked, always alert for juicy gossip.

“Never mind, my cherub. I shouldn't have said that.” He turned back to Chana. “He's a landowner with extensive vineyards. And quite wealthy. Some of his wealth is inherited, but most of it he earned by his own hard work and shrewd business skills. You would have a lovely home and servants to wait on you and—”

“And if he's such a good catch, why isn't he married?” Chana asked. “Let me guess—he's ugly as a toad.”

“No, I bet he's as short and bristly as a sack of straw,” Sarah said.

“I think he must be tall and spindly like a palm tree,” Yudit added, not to be outdone. It was a game the three of them played since childhood, watching people passing by and comparing them to objects or animals.

Abba ignored them, still praising his friend. “Well, he was married, but now he is a widower, so he's well acquainted with grief. He has two sons—around age sixteen or seventeen, I think.”

“Abba, they're nearly grown. They'd never accept me as their mother.”

Abba exhaled and took Chana's hands in his. “Well, my dear . . . now that I've heard all your objections and excuses, you should know that I've invited my friend to visit this evening. You girls can decide for yourselves if he's a toad, a sack of straw, or a palm tree.”

“Not for dinner!” Chana said.

“No, just for a glass of wine before he heads home.”

“Abba—”

“And he's bringing the wine. It's from his vineyards. He has been bragging to me for ages about how wonderful his wine is—and I have been bragging to him about my three beautiful daughters. We decided it was time to put the truth of our claims to the test.”

Chana broke free from Abba, shaking her head. She strode to the hearth to fetch the soup. His clumsy attempts at matchmaking annoyed her but didn't surprise her. In fact, it was Abba who had convinced her to consider Yitzhak for a husband. He had sung Yitzhak's praises for months before she finally agreed to meet him. And they had fallen in love. But it would take a miracle for it to happen a second time. Chana wished she could invent an excuse to avoid meeting their guest tonight, but her fierce love for her father would never allow her to disappoint him. Abba was a good man, a righteous man, down to the very marrow of his bones. Yet regardless of what this noble wine-maker looked like, how wealthy or wise he was, Chana already knew he could never measure up to Yitzhak. It wasn't only her grief, she decided, that kept her from enjoying life again. It was the anger that refused to ease or go away.

Anger at Yitzhak's murderers and at her own helplessness. If only his killers had been caught and brought to justice and punished, maybe then the rage that burned in her soul would finally die out.