ELISHEVA’S FINGERS TRACED patterns in the dust coating the window ledge. The setting sun cast long shadows across the upper room where most of the talmidim had drifted into quiet conversation or sleep.
“Do you remember those first years?” Her voice barely carried to where Zekharya sat beside her.
“Each month was fresh pain.” Zekharya’s hand found hers, warm and solid.
Zekharya moved closer, his youthful face carrying the wisdom of their shared decades. “When you would slip away to weep alone?”
“The women at the well, they whispered. Called it divine judgment.” Her voice caught. “Each passing niddah just brought more pain, more shame.”
“Yet you never stopped praying.”
“Like Channah before the Mishkan.” Elisheva’s hand dropped to her side. “How many times did I pour out my soul, bargaining with Ha-Shem? Promising to dedicate any child He might grant us to His service?”
Zekharya touched her shoulder. “You bore it with such grace.”
“Grace?” A bitter laugh escaped her. “I raged inside. Questioned. Felt worthless before you—a kohen’s wife who couldn’t even bear a son.” She turned to face him. “But you never reproached me.”
Moments of silence passed. Then her fingers tightened around his. “Did you ever wish you had married another . . . a wife who could bear you sons?”
“Never.” The force of his response drew curious glances from across the room.
“But you were a kohen. The bloodline—”
“Was less important than you.” Zekharya shifted to face her. “Remember what the psalm says? ‘He settles the barren woman in her home as a joyful mother.’ I believed those words.”
“Even when the years stretched on? When my hair began to gray?”
“Even then.” He brushed a strand of now-dark hair from her face. “You taught me patience, ahuvi. Each time you rose to serve Yahweh despite your pain . . .” His voice roughened. “Your strength made me a better kohen.”
Tears spilled down Elisheva’s cheeks. “I felt so worthless. Empty. Like a water jar with a crack—useless for its purpose.”
“You were never worthless.” Zekharya wiped her tears with his thumb. “Your love filled our home more completely than any son could have.”
“Until Yochanan.”
“Until Yochanan.” His smile held decades of shared joy. “But even before him, you were enough. Always enough.”
“The Lord lifts the poor from the dust,” Zekharya quoted softly, almost to himself. “He raises the needy from the ash heap.”
“To seat them with princes.” Elisheva completed the psalm. “You would hold me when I wept, remind me of Sarah’s story, of Rachel’s. Of Channah’s victory.” Her eyes glistened. “Even in my darkest moments, your faith never wavered.”
“How could it? I saw your devotion, your persistence in prayer. Like Channah, you poured out your heart before Yahweh.”
“But unlike her, I sometimes lost hope entirely.” Elisheva’s voice dropped to a whisper. “There were days I couldn’t even look at you, knowing I had failed to build your house.”
Zekharya’s fingers traced the edge of his wife’s palm. “You never had reason to fear losing my love.” His voice carried the weight of decades of devotion.
“Like Elkanah told Channah—” Elisheva began.
“‘Am I not better to you than ten sons?'” Zekharya completed the verse, his voice rough with emotion. “But you were better to me than ten wives could have been.”
Tears once more welled in Elisheva’s eyes. “Even during those endless years of emptiness?”
“Especially then.” His thumb brushed away her tears. “Your faith through suffering taught me more about serving Yahweh than all my years in the Temple.”
A breeze stirred through the upper room, carrying the scent of evening’s approach. Elisheva leaned into her husband’s touch, decades of old pain dissolving under the certainty of his unchanged love.
“Remember that spring festival? When Reuven’s wife bore twins?” he asked.
“I couldn’t face the celebration.” Elisheva’s fingers twisted in her robe. “I hid in the olive grove, thinking you would be ashamed of my absence.”
“And where did I spend that afternoon?”
“Sitting beside me under the trees.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “You missed the entire feast.”
“The only feast I needed was your company.” Zekharya took her hand, his thumb tracing circles on her palm. “Ha-Shem gave me a gift far greater than sons when He gave me you.”
“Even when the other kohenim pitied you for having no son—”
“Having no son?” Zekharya’s voice carried an edge of steel. “They never understood. How could they? They saw marriage as duty, children as obligation. They didn’t know what it was to find their other half, to be completed by another soul.”
Elisheva leaned into his touch, remembering countless moments when his quiet strength had anchored her through storms of doubt and grief. “You never once blamed me.”
“What blame. We walked this path together, wherever Yahweh led us.”
As the last rays of sunlight painted the upper room’s walls in amber, Elisheva’s hand drifted to her belly, remembering the fierce kicks of the child who would become the voice in the wilderness.
“Gabriel’s words seemed impossible.” Zekharya’s voice held a note of wonder. “A son in our old age . . . filled with the Holy Spirit from birth.”
“Like Shmuel.” Elisheva’s fingers traced invisible patterns on her robe. “Another child dedicated before birth.”
“But harder.” Zekharya’s jaw tightened. “At least Channah could visit Shmuel at the Mishkan. Our Yochanan—” His voice caught.
“Lived in the wilderness.” Elisheva closed her eyes against the memory of harsh sun and bitter herbs. “Eating locusts and wild honey.”
“‘He will go on before the Lord in the spirit and power of Elijah.'” Zekharya quoted the angel’s words. “We thought we understood what that meant.”
“Did we?” Elisheva’s voice cracked. “When he stormed into Herod’s court, calling out the king’s sin, did we truly understand?”
“I remember your face when he first left us.” Zekharya’s hand found hers. “You stood at the door until sunset.”
“Just like Channah must have watched Shmuel walk away with Eli.” Elisheva’s fingers tightened around his. “But at least she knew where to find him.”
“‘To turn the hearts of the fathers to their children.'” Zekharya’s voice roughened. “The angel’s words seemed so glorious then.”
“Until we realized the cost.” Elisheva’s free hand pressed against her heart. “Our son, crying out alone in the wilderness while we—”
“While we hid from Herod’s men.” Zekharya completed her thought. “Never knowing if each day would be his last.”
Silence fell between them, heavy with memories of years spent wondering if their miracle child still lived, if his voice still rang out against injustice. The prophecies that had once seemed so wonderful had carved deep channels of grief in their hearts.
“Was this how Avraham felt?” Elisheva whispered. “Knowing his son was dedicated to Ha-Shem’s purpose, even if that purpose meant—” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
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