Jehovah Jireh, My Provider

It’s another True Fiction Friday! I think I’m on a roll with this feature, and it seems to be resonating with you guys, too. Thanks for your feedback, suggestions, and for sharing these posts. Like last week’s feature, this story comes from a reader’s comment (thanks Richard!). I’d love for you to suggest a character you would enjoy seeing in a future post. Just leave your idea in the comments!

Based on 2 Kings 4

Moonbeams slips between the worn thatch on my window and dapples the sleeping faces of my sons. I prop myself on my elbow and study their peaceful features, wishing there was a way this blissful escape could linger after sunrise. But a glance at the empty spot on the pallet beside me is all it takes to bring the bitter tang of fear to life, like the pith of lemon, on my tongue.

My husband is dead. To be more precise: my husband, the prophet, is dead. 

Though the Living God saw fit to share some of His secrets with my mate, He did not bother to confide to him about his impending, untimely end. My husband knew, on occasion, about a forthcoming drought or other disaster, but he was not privy to the weakness lurking in his own heart. One that would cause it to fail him after a long, hot day cutting and setting stones to repair the wall outside our cottage. 

No, God did not see fit to prepare my husband—or me and my sons—with any hint of forewarning. Instead, I’m left with my sweet boys, ages eleven and twelve, and my husband’s debtor at my door. In the last month since my husband died, this harsh man has brought weekly threats to our home, promising to take my sons as slaves to cover the cost of the lumber and thatch used to erect this humble abode. 

Thus far I’ve pacified him by offering what little I owned of value in exchange for more time. A small bottle of myrrh, a cask of wine, and a beautiful tapestry that was a gift from an appreciative, wealthy merchant after my husband suggested he relocate his fleet of ships before the onslaught of a particularly violent storm.

But now I’ve nothing left of worth beyond a bottle of oil, which could, perhaps, earn another day or two of freedom for my boys. But in turn, we would forfeit our daily bread, which is what I use the oil for in the first place. I haven’t allowed us to burn any in our lamp in well over two weeks. 

What can I do? I am desperate. Rather than lose the two of them, I shall beg for the man to take me as a slave as well, so we can at least remain together. What might compel him to take on a limping, arthritic woman like myself I cannot say, but I can only pray that he will take pity on me when I throw myself at his feet. 

If he will not listen, then I shall ask God to take me as He took my husband. At least the dead have no knowledge of the suffering of those they love. As tears slip down my cheeks, I shift onto my back and stare into the bleak night, certain that our futures looks equally dark.

———

My gaze travels across the menagerie of jars and pots that more or less cover the top of our wooden table. Their dark, empty maws seem like myriad mouths agape, mocking my faith as either futile or laughable. 

I eye the small pot of olive oil that squats beside my bread trough. Just enough left for a single loaf of bread. Tomorrow’s bread.

This morning, in the midst of kneading the dough for today’s bread, my boys came barging in from their chores to announce that the Prophet Elisha was traveling our road with his retinue. I hurriedly wiped the flour from my hands and covered my head, rushing outside to speak with him, if possible, before he passed our home.

What a surprise to learn that he had gotten word of my husband’s death and was making a point to check on me and my boys while visiting our village. He asked if there was anything I needed.

I wanted to cry out, “A lot of money or a miracle.” But, instead, I reported our predicament, with only a few tears. As I spoke, I saw compassion in the eyes of the holy man. My husband had studied under Elisha when he became a member of the Company of Prophets a dozen years earlier. This man, who had been mightily used by our Lord, who was a legend on the scale of Moses in my own mind, now stood before me with a gentle smile and kind, tearful eyes.

When he asked if I owned anything of value, all of my admiration was momentarily snatched away. Did Elisha want some sort of payment for helping me? 

But, no. He only inquired as a way to instruct me on how to get out of this predicament. Could it be that the Lord God brought Elisha to my gate because He heard my cries of despair? 

As I survey the spare jugs and jars and pots that my neighbors donated to us, I feel a stirring of hope. Elisha instructed us to ask our neighbors for empty containers so my sons and I had spent the afternoon going door to door to scrounge whatever we could. We’ve amassed quite a collection now, but when I glance at my own jar of oil, knowing how little remains inside that clay cocoon, I feel my earlier enthusiasm fail.

Am I really supposed to fill these many containers from this one, pitiful supply? Well, if it hadn’t been Elisha himself that had given me these instructions, I may not have the followthrough. Even though my husband had been a prophet, I confess I would have balked if this had been his idea. 

Still, what have I got to lose beyond the means to make one more loaf of bread?

I hope my face doesn’t reflect my uncertainty as I instruct my boys, “Bring me containers and return them to the table as I fill them with oil.” I turn my back on them, busying myself with tying on my apron as a means to hide my emotions.

I notice that they both select small jars to begin.

Small jars. Small faith. Big hopes.

———-

“That’s the last one, Mama,” my youngest says. 

We both watch as the oil from my own jar dribbles to a stop as the final container fills. Tears of joy spatter my cheeks, much like the last few drops spattering out. I laugh and swipe the last of the oil from the rim with my finger then suck it’s buttery sweetness away. 

My eldest claps his hands and his brother and I join in, our gaze sweeping across the contents on the table. Every jar glistens with the miraculous. I raise my hands and thank the Lord, my heart swelling, my feet dancing, my mind repenting of the bitter words and thoughts that churned inside just the night before.

The kindness of God is stunning.

“Shall we load up the cart and head to market, Mama?” asks my eldest. 

I look at him, amazed at how responsible he has become since his father’s death. His daddy would be so proud. My breath catches. 

I came so close to losing them both. 

Oh, Jehovah Jirah, thank you!