Rizpah: Love That Refused To Leave (Parts 1 and 2)

[Timl1980]

Part I — The Decree Without Tears

 

Research Note: During David’s reign, three years of famine exposed old bloodguilt: Saul’s violation of covenant with the Gibeonites. To atone, seven of Saul’s descendants were handed over for execution. Among them were Rizpah’s two sons, Armoni and Mephibosheth. (2 Samuel 21:1–10)

 

Question for Meditation: What does it mean when justice is demanded at the cost of mothers’ sons...and how does obedience endure when mercy seems absent?

 

The hall was silent, but the silence was heavier than hunger.

 

David’s face was drawn, his eyes shadowed by nights of prayer that had not brought rain. The Gibeonites stood before him, their voices steady, their demand unbending.

 

“Blood for blood,” one said. “Give us the sons of Saul.”

 

No mother’s voice rose in that chamber. No widow’s plea. Only the language of covenant and consequence.

 

When David spoke, his words were thin, but final. “Take them.”

 

The decree did not echo. It sank, heavy as a millstone, into the hollow of the famine.

 

Rumor ran ahead of sandals.

 

 It slipped through the market where baskets sat light and loaves were counted by halves. 

 

It found courtyards where women rinsed jars that did not fill, and men avoided each other’s eyes to spare themselves the shame of asking for what was not there. The famine had already hollowed their bellies. Now justice would hollow their homes.

 

Rizpah heard before she saw.

 

A neighbor’s hand on her arm, a voice that would not meet her gaze: “They’ve named your sons.”

 

Her knees weakened, but she did not fall. She pressed her palms against the wall, steadying herself, and whispered their names under her breath as if saying them aloud might keep them alive. She had learned long ago that grief does not wait for privacy. Then she ran.

 

The path blurred beneath her feet. Stones cut her sandals. Her breath tore at her chest. She stumbled once, caught herself, and kept going. Every step was a prayer she could not form into words.

 

At the crest, she stopped. The air was still. The ropes creaked. Seven bodies swayed against the sky.

 

Her breath left her in a shudder. She pressed her hand to her chest as if she could hold her heart in place. Her knees bent, but she forced herself upright. She would not faint. She would not look away.

 

She scanned the bodies, her eyes searching, trembling. 

 

There...Armoni. 

 

His tunic torn at the hem, the same one she had mended by lamplight, her fingers pricked by the needle. 

 

And there...Mephibosheth.

 

Dust clung to his feet, the same feet that once ran barefoot through the courtyard, laughing at the sting of thistle, turning back to make sure she was watching.

 

Her sons.

 

Her grief sharpened, but she did not turn away from the others. Five more hung beside them, sons of Merab, grandsons of Saul. They were not hers, but they were someone’s. She would not let shame or scavengers dishonor them either.

 

A guard shifted uneasily. He tugged at one of the ropes, checking the knot, then muttered, “Woman, go home.”

 

His knife flashed as he cut a length of cord that had frayed, letting one body slump lower. The sound of it made her flinch.

 

But where was home now?

 

Home had been names at her table, feet under her roof, laughter that made the clay jars sound less empty. Home had been a mother’s work...the small obediences that keep a house from breaking: patch the tunic, sweep the ash, share the bread as there is. 

 

But now...now home was hanging on this hill.

 

She stepped forward, her sandals scraping stone. She tore a strip of sackcloth and spread it on the rock. The cloth caught on the stone’s teeth, rough and unyielding. She lowered herself, back straight, eyes burning.

 

She whispered their names again, not to save them this time, but to keep them alive in the only way left.

 

She did not argue with decree. She did not bargain with God. She did the thing love knows to do when there is nothing else left: she kept watch.

 

A passerby paused, then moved on. Another stared, then pretended not to. Rizpah did not measure time by sun or shadow. She measured it by the way the air changed when wings drew near, by the tremble in her calves that meant she would have to rise again, by the grit under her tongue when the dust settled on prayers too heavy for words.

 

Jehovah had not stopped the decree. But she believed he saw. She believed he remembered. And so she stayed.

 

The hillside was too quiet, as if even the wind re

fused to name what hung there. But in the distance, wings were circling.

 

____________________________________

 

Part II — The Hillside

 

Research Note: Rizpah spread sackcloth on the rock and kept watch “from the beginning of harvest until water poured down from the heavens.” (2 Samuel 21:10)

 

Question for Meditation: What does it mean to love so fiercely that you refuse to leave, even when the world tells you to go home?

 

The first bird came at dawn.

 

Its shadow slid across her son’s face, and Rizpah’s body moved before her mind did. She rose from the stone, arms flailing, voice breaking into the silence. The bird startled, wings beating the air, but another circled behind it.

 

She had not slept. The stone beneath her was sharp, the night air cold, but her eyes had not closed. Every creak of rope, every rustle in the grass had kept her upright. Now the sun was rising, and with it came the scavengers.

 

She waved them off, her arms trembling, her throat raw. A guard leaned against his spear and laughed under his breath. “Madwoman,” he muttered. She ignored him. She would not let shame touch them.

 

Her eyes lifted to the bodies again. She whispered the names of her sons aloud, her voice cracked but steady: “Armoni. Mephibosheth.” The sound of them filled the air like a prayer.

 

Then her lips moved again, silently this time. She shaped the names of the others, one by one, though no sound escaped. At last she whispered, “Merab’s sons…” Her voice broke, but she held the word like a thread of dignity. They were not hers, but they were her kin. She would not let them be forgotten.

 

Her stomach clenched with hunger. She pressed her hand against her belly, willing it to quiet. She thought of bread...bread as there is, broken and shared in lean years. She thought of how her sons had once fought over the last crust, laughing until she scolded them. The memory cut her, but she held it close.

 

The sun climbed higher. Heat pressed down. Sweat stung her eyes. She tore another strip of sackcloth and draped it over her head, shading her face. The cloth smelled of dust and ash. She breathed it in and steadied herself.

 

A boy appeared at the edge of the hill, barefoot, carrying a jar. He hesitated, eyes wide, then set it down and ran. Water sloshed inside. Rizpah lifted it with shaking hands, drank, and let the rest spill onto the stone. The rock darkened, drinking with her. She whispered, “Jehovah sees.”

 

The guard scoffed. “You’ll die here, woman.”

 

She did not answer. She had already died in part. What remained was duty.

 

As the day wore on, more birds gathered. Their cries pierced the air, sharp and mocking. Rizpah rose again and again, waving them off, her arms aching, her legs trembling. Each time she sat, they returned. Each time she rose, they scattered. It became a rhythm, a liturgy of grief.

 

When night fell, the air grew cold. Shadows lengthened. She pulled her garment tighter, shivering. In the distance, she heard the low growl of jackals. Their eyes glinted in the dark, circling closer. She picked up a stone and hurled it, her voice breaking into a cry that was half prayer, half warning. The beasts slunk back, but she knew they would return.

 

She pressed her back against the rock, her body aching, her eyes fixed on the swaying forms above her. She whispered their names again...her sons aloud, the others mouthed silently, Merab’s name spoken like a vow.

 

Her voice cracked, but she kept speaking. She believed Jehovah heard. She believed He remembered.

 

The night stretched long. Her body begged for rest, but she refused. She would not close her eyes. She would not leave them.

 

The wind shifted. The ropes creaked. The smell of death thickened. Rizpah pressed her hand to her mouth, swallowing hard. She would not turn away.

 

She lifted her eyes to the sky, searching for stars. They were faint, blurred by tears. 

 

She whispered into the darkness, not demanding, not accusing, only confessing what her heart knew: “You see.”

 

The hillside was silent again, but the silence was not empty. It was waiting.

 

And in the distance, the jackals began to howl.

[Hope]

Beautiful. You've heard Bro Noumair's Gilead talk on Rizpah, right? "The Glowing Coal"? Very touching.. 🥲

Edited Saturday at 05:29 PM by Hope

[Timl1980]

Just now, Hope said:

Beautiful. You've heard Bro Noumair's Gilead talk on Rizpah, right? "The Glowing Coal"? Very touching.. 🥲

 

No, I hadn't!! At least I don't remember it. Thank you for pointing it out for me, I was completely fascinated with her as a biblical character!

[Hope]

It is incredible! It came out a year that my son was df'd. I used to sit in the back row, saving a seat for him in case he came to meeting.. which he didn't for a long time. 😢 It was my way of keeping the birds and animals from his body.. 😭

Edited Saturday at 05:35 PM by Hope

[Timl1980]

I thought I would write about her, I tried to keep this story as accurate as possible. She was an extremely brave sister!

[Hope]

Here's my link: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1X64Z1sdNtd9TqGUEPng4iYKPrdLZ2mfh/view?usp=drivesdk

 

It's from the 143rd Gilead Class (2017)- before the talks were all separated out, I think. It brings tears to my eyes every time..

[Timl1980]

11 minutes ago, Hope said:

It's from the 143rd Gilead Class (2017)- before the talks were all separated out, I think. It brings tears to my eyes every time..

 

That is an excellent talk!! I extrapolated a little on the details of my story and added a few brush strokes here and there, but I actually stayed pretty close to what he described. Thank you for that talk, that lets me know I did at least an okay job on this story. 

 

If you would like the rest of the story upfront, please shoot me a message and I will send it to you.

[nicolette]

“Rizpah was not a victim of her circumstances rather she became a victor over her adversities. “

 

Teaches you to take life indignities with dignity!