Chariots to jordan, p.4
Chariots to Jordan, page 4
Naaman considered all this as well as the challenges that lay before him. After a moment he issued a string of commands. “Tell the camel drivers to immediately begin searching for the camels.” He pointed into the distance. “They’ve probably taken refuge up one of the side canyons. Continue your search for survivors. Kill any mercenaries who are still alive. Assemble everyone else at the hill. If we can find the camels before sunset, we’ll push on. If not, we’ll camp there for the night.”
Looking down at the trickle of blood oozing from between Naaman’s fingers clutching his side, the soldier asked, “What of you, Captain? Do you want me to help you?”
“No,” Naaman replied. “See to the others first.”
The soldier looked down at the expanding blotch on Naaman’s blood-soaked tunic. “But, Captain, you’re—” he stopped in midsentence. Seeing the determination in his leader’s eyes, he said, “What of the dead? How shall we take care of them?”
Naaman scanned the hundreds of dead soldiers that littered the ground and then slowly lowered his eyes to Joram’s lifeless body. Reaching up with both hands, Naaman gently rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers and then wiped his face clean of the blood Joram had coughed on him. Sighing heavily he answered, “Leave them where they lay. There’s no time to attend to them. We must leave here before other mercenaries discover us and attack.”
It took the rest of that day and most of the next morning to find all the frightened camels and their precious cargo. After two more days of painfully slow travel, the badly decimated column finally trekked into Damascus. King Ben-Hadad praised Naaman for his courage during the battle. But mostly the king praised him for safely delivering every one of the gold and silver coins. To show his gratitude, King Ben-Hadad even rewarded the captain with two hundred gold coins and five hundred silver ones, all of which Naaman gave to Joram’s wife.
Now, two years later, as Naaman sat on the bench contemplating his wife’s question, he reflected on the battle scene. But more, he reflected on the blood Joram had coughed into his face and eyes, and the wounds where their blood had so freely mingled. He knew what the small red spot was, and he was certain she knew as well. What he didn’t know was how she would react when they both finally acknowledged the truth. Now, as they sat on the banks of the river, he decided it was time to face the demon.
Letting out an almost imperceptible sigh, Naaman looked at his wife, who was still gazing at the clear water. “Karinah,” he said as he raised his hand to the red spot on his cheek. “I think this is—”
“Leprosy,” she blurted as she turned to face him. “It’s leprosy.”
Chapter Four
He was dressed neatly but not nearly as well as people would expect for someone of his position and stature. His loose, flowing robe hung from his shoulders to slightly below his ankles. It was tan, slightly darker than the endless hills of desert sand and rock over which he passed. The sleeves were long, reaching to his wrists, and about his waist was tied a sash of emerald green. Shielding his head from the intense rays of the sun was a soft scarf, almost as white as snow. But the most striking article of clothing he wore was his mantle. It was deep red with strands of gold thread woven into its long fringed edges and tassels. It was thrown over his left shoulder then draped well under his right arm and then up across his chest to where it once again went over his left shoulder. The quality was beyond comparison, and that article of clothing alone distinguished him from every other man on earth.
“Gehazi, we must hurry or night will overtake us before we reach Ramoth-gilead,” the man said in a calm, dignified voice.
“Yes, master,” the thin-framed wiry man responded without much enthusiasm. He had been pulling, pushing, slapping, and coaxing the recalcitrant donkey on which his master was riding for most of the last two hours, and the animal’s stubbornness had delayed them considerably.
“Stop. Let me get down,” the man commanded. “Perhaps we’ll make better time if I walk and we lead him behind us.”
“As you wish, master,” Gehazi said. He yanked sharply on the lead rope to stop the donkey. It was an unnecessary gesture, but he was frustrated and mad at the beast and wanted to inflict a little unpleasantness in its life.
“Even walking, master, I fear we won’t make it much beyond Edrei until long after dark. Perhaps we should seek shelter somewhere along the way,” the servant suggested hopefully.
“Perhaps,” the man said. “But let us do the best we can for as long as we can.”
The two men walked side by side in silence, Gehazi leading the donkey and looking mostly at the ground ahead of him. Although the other man was old and had witnessed much of life, he walked with his shoulders back and head erect, his eyes scanning the grass-covered rolling hills in the distance and the rugged mountains beyond. He wasn’t searching for anything in particular. He was simply soaking in the details around him: the small sparrows darting through the late afternoon sky, the lizards scurrying over rocks and sand, the grass gently swaying in the breeze. He marveled at it all. He had walked this road many times in the past, but he never tired of the contrast between the serene welcome of the fertile plain and the steep harshness of the mountains.
After an hour of walking, the sun was sinking quickly in the sky, and it was obvious they would never make it to their destination before dark. “Gehazi, we will seek shelter for the night in Edrei at the home of Ziba, the widowed man.”
Although Gehazi had never met the widower, he knew exactly about whom his master was speaking and where the home was located. “Excellent, master,” he replied with enthusiasm. He was tired after a day of walking and wrestling with the donkey, and he was ready for food and a bed—as poor and uncomfortable as the food and bed would be.
Fifteen minutes later, just as the sun was casting its last bit of light over the western hills, the two men approached the door of the home. It was perfectly situated on a slightly sloping hillside: far enough from Edrei to afford privacy but close enough to have the conveniences of civilization. The home wasn’t large, but it was well built and had once even been attractive, but now it showed signs of neglect. The walls were made of thick square blocks stacked straight. The once-white paint was faded and flaking off in many places. The house was one level, with a roof that sloped gently from front to back. A fence made of cedar post and rails encircled the home, and inside the fence, a short distance from the front door, was a short wall of rocks that formed a circle around a deep well of cool, crystal-clear water. On the far side of the yard, a narrow path descended down the steep hill to an enclosure for cattle and sheep.
Gehazi tied the donkey’s lead rope to a rail of the fence, and the two men walked to the door, where Gehazi rapped sharply with his knuckles. When there was no response, he rapped again, this time more vigorously with the heel of his hand.
“I’m coming. I’m coming,” came a raspy voice. And then, with a distinct tone of irritation and annoyance, came the words, “Be patient.”
With a quick yank from inside, the door flew open to reveal a stooped old man with a single crutch tucked firmly under his left armpit. He had shed his robe after a day’s hard labor and stood clothed in what had originally been a white linen tunic. It was now brown with dirt, filled with holes and poorly mended patches, and stained with sweat; the man smelled as though he hadn’t washed in several days. His face was streaked with dirt—at least the part of his face not hidden by a matted gray beard and long, stringy hair. His hands were stained with pomegranate juice, and his broken and chipped fingernails had grime caked beneath them.
Upon seeing the men at his door, he did what any believing Israelite would have done: he bowed very deeply. Still looking at the ground, he uttered the familiar Israelite greeting with reverence, “Jehovah with you.”
“And Jehovah bless thee,” the man in the red mantle replied in a gentle voice.
Rising slowly, the grimy and smelly old man said, “The prophet of Jehovah does me a great honor by stopping at my house. I am unworthy, but please enter.” Clinging to his crutch, Ziba awkwardly stepped to the side to allow his visitors to enter.
The inside of the home resembled the man who lived there—cluttered and dirty. The old man closed the door and hobbled to the nearest chair, where he removed clay pots, broken trinkets, and rags and placed them on an already overcrowded table. “Please, sit, kind sir,” he said, motioning to the empty but still dust-covered chair.
The prophet Elisha offered a warm smile, seeming not to see the dust on the chair or the clutter that littered the room. “Thank you,” he said with genuine gratitude as he lowered himself into the chair.
The man looked at the prophet as if in a trance, overwhelmed by his presence. He appeared to have forgotten that Gehazi was also in the room.
Pointing to Gehazi, the prophet said, “This is my servant, Gehazi.”
Realizing he had forgotten to offer the servant a place to sit, the man quickly removed clutter from a chair in the corner and motioned for Gehazi to sit. Gehazi said nothing as he plopped down and let out a deep sigh.
“We have come from Samaria,” Elisha explained, “and are on our way to Aphek. We began our journey later than intended, and it has taken longer than expected. We are in need of a place to spend the night.”
Ziba’s eyes widened. “And you’ve chosen to spend the night in my humble dwelling?” he asked incredulously.
Elisha smiled and nodded his head but said nothing.
“Jehovah be praised,” Ziba said, seeing the smile. “I have very little to offer, but such as I have I freely give. Come. First you must wash and refresh yourself, and while you’re washing, I shall fix a meal for you.”
Looking at the dirt on the man’s hands and clothes, Gehazi wasn’t sure he wanted to eat food prepared by Ziba. He quickly offered, “Kind Ziba, you must be tired from your day’s labor. If you will but show me where your food is, I will be happy to prepare the meal while you and the master rest and talk.”
With obvious excitement, Ziba said, “You are gracious to offer, and I will agree. First, we will all wash, and then I will happily allow you to prepare a meal.”
Ziba provided warm water for Elisha and Gehazi to wash their faces, hands, and feet as well as oil and salve for their feet. He showed Gehazi where he kept the mutton, goat cheese, and unleavened bread; then he disappeared into another room.
It was nearly an hour later when the three men again assembled in the same room. When Ziba entered with his crutch, neither Elisha nor Gehazi was certain they were looking at the same man. He was clean. The dirt and grime from his hands and face were gone. His hair and beard were clean and had been brushed. The dirty tunic had been replaced with a clean one. But most noticeable was the smell. The foul odor that had previously emanated from him was replaced with the sweet scent of spiced oil. He was a changed man.
Gehazi had cleared the clutter from the table and set it with three small plates he’d found in a cupboard. He had prepared some salted, dried mutton and thick slabs of fresh goat cheese and placed it all on the table. Brass cups were filled with cool water he had drawn from the well, and the three men sat down at the table.
“Shall we give thanks to Jehovah?” Elisha asked.
“I would be honored if you would do so,” Ziba responded, bowing his head.
Elisha and Gehazi both bowed their heads, and Elisha offered a simple but heartfelt thanks for the food they were about to eat and for Ziba’s generosity.
Once Ziba got over his anxiety of having the prophet of God in his home, the conversation came easily. It drifted pleasantly over several topics before it settled on Ziba’s situation. “She’s been gone two years,” he said when Elisha asked how long he had been living alone.
“And what of your children?” Elisha asked.
“Jehovah blessed me with a wonderful wife, but we did not have any children,” Ziba replied sadly. “And now I am a lonely old man without family.”
“What are your plans for the future?” Elisha asked, taking a small bite of the soft goat cheese.
“Only to sell this place and move. Since my wife died, I have lost interest in it, and as you can see, I no longer take care of things as I should. A few weeks after my wife died, I tripped while herding a cow, and she stepped on my leg. She is a huge animal, and the bone snapped like a twig. Since then,” he chuckled, holding up his crutch, “this piece of wood and cloth has become my best friend.” More seriously, he added, “Since then I have had difficult times, and my money is gone. I have a brother whom I visit in Tirzah. Perhaps I will move nearer to him.”
Elisha nodded his head as if he understood and approved of the man’s plans, but then he abruptly stopped. A slight wrinkle creased his forehead, and he placed the small crust of bread he was holding onto his plate, resting both forearms on the edge of the table. He looked deeply into Ziba’s eyes for a full minute, long enough for Ziba to shift uncomfortably under his gaze, and then Elisha peered out the small window into the dark night.
Ziba watched in silence as Elisha’s countenance changed. The wrinkle in his forehead disappeared, and a quiet peace visibly spread over him. After another full minute, he said to Ziba, “In less than six months’ time, two men will come to you seeking to purchase your house and property. The first will offer you very little money. The second will offer you far more than the land is worth. If you sell to the first, you shall be blessed with a great posterity. If you sell to the second, you shall have the riches of this world and live in comfort all your days.”
Ziba’s hands dropped to his side, and he looked at Elisha in confused awe, unable to respond. Great posterity? Riches? he thought. The promises the prophet of Jehovah had just given him were overwhelming, and he sat quietly, completely lost in his thoughts. It was Elisha’s voice that jarred him back to reality.
“Ziba, we are tired from our day’s travels. Will you show us where we may rest our weary bodies in sleep?”
“Huh? Oh yes, yes, of course,” Ziba said as he jumped from his chair. Lighting an oil lamp, he said, “Follow me, and I shall lead you to your room.”
* * *
Sleep came late to Ziba. After sitting in a chair in his room and pondering for hours about how an old widower could have a great posterity—especially when he didn’t have any prospects for a wife—or how he could be rich when all he had was this farm, he lay down on his bed only an hour before the first golden rays of the sun burst over the mountains to the east. He was so weary that he didn’t hear Elisha and Gehazi walk from the house, retrieve their donkey, and continue their journey.
Chapter Five
Uzzi raced around the corner of the hut, his short legs whirling at top speed, and forcefully collided with his younger brother, Hanan. Both boys hit the ground with a thud and sent a cloud of dust into the morning air. Hanan was the first to struggle to his feet and rubbed his forehead with the palm of a very dirty hand. “You hurt me,” he said to Uzzi, who was still lying on his back in the sand.
“Why weren’t you watching where you were going?” Uzzi asked as he jumped to his feet, uninjured in the collision.
“I was watching where I was going. You ran into me. I didn’t run into you,” Hanan replied.
“I did not. You ran into me,” Uzzi said, his voice growing louder with each word.
“Boys!” Miriam shouted over the noise of the escalating argument, “Gili is sleeping, and if you wake her, I’m going to make you play with her while I finish milking the goats.”
Uzzi and Hanan looked at each other with wide eyes and instantly began to whisper. “Let’s go to the sheep pens and play war. I’ll be an Israelite general, and you can be a Moabite general,” Uzzi said.
“That’s not fair,” replied Hanan in a voice only slightly quieter than he had used before Miriam threaten them. “You always get to be the Israelite.” Turning away, he walked to where his mother stood. “Momma, I never get to be the Israelite,” he whined. “Tell Uzzi he must be the Moabite this time.”
Miriam drew a deep breath and began the same lecture about taking turns that she had given a hundred times before when she was interrupted by the soft cries of a baby. All three of them froze as still as statues, barely breathing, each hoping that the cries would cease. After thirty seconds of on-again off-again whimpers, the little voice from inside the hut erupted into full-scale crying. There would be no playing war and probably very little goat milking for the next hour.
Uzzi was the farthest from Miriam and began slinking backwards into the shadow of the hut to avoid playing with his little sister. He probably would have made it had he not tripped over the dog that had crept up and was lying on the ground behind him. The dog let out a yelp and jumped to its feet, drawing Miriam’s complete attention.
“Uzzi, where do you think you’re going?” Miriam barked as she looked sternly down her nose to where the boy stood. “I told you if you woke Gili, you would be playing with her. You march straight to the door. And you, Hanan,” she said, looking at her other son, “will join him.”
“Ah, Mother, do we really have to watch her?” they both asked simultaneously. “Can’t she play by herself?”
“No, she can’t play by herself, and yes, you really do have to watch her!”
Both boys lowered their heads and began walking to the door of the hut, kicking at dirt and small pebbles with each step.
“When will Father be home?” Hanan asked as he shuffled along.
“Tomorrow for sure, but perhaps later tonight,” Miriam replied as she walked quickly toward the crying baby.
“Tell me one more time. Where did he go?”
“Shunem,” Miriam replied, lifting the latch and going through the door.
Miriam walked up to the small wooden box in which Gili lay. “My, how you’ve grown these past six months,” she said as she picked the baby up, holding her and gently stroking her fine strands of dark brown hair. Upon hearing her mother’s soft voice, the baby changed her cries to contented gurgling sounds. Miriam was continually amazed at how quickly the child calmed. In the six months since her birth, Gili had cried longer than a minute only three, maybe four times. She was simply the happiest, easiest baby Miriam had ever had. On those days when she trekked into Jezreel to the produce market and stopped to visit with the gathered mothers, invariably Miriam was the envy of them all when she told of Gili’s sweet personality.
