Rizpah: Love That Refused To Leave (Parts 3 and 4)

[Timl1980]

Part III — The Long Night

 

Research Note: Jackals were common in Israel, often haunting ruins and desolate places. They became a biblical symbol of abandonment and judgment. (Job 30:29; Psalm 63:10; Isaiah 34:13; Jeremiah 9:11)

 

Question for Meditation: How does faith endure when the night is long, the body is weak, and the silence of heaven feels heavier than the dark?

 

The jackals came back before the moon was high. Their eyes glowed at the edge of the hill, yellow sparks in the grass. Their bodies moved low, circling, waiting.

 

One bark split the night, sharp as a snapped bone. Another answered from the ridge. The sound made the guards shift, though they tried to hide it.

 

Rizpah rose from the stone, her knees stiff, her arms trembling. She lifted another rock, hurled it into the dark.

 

“Not tonight,” she rasped, her voice breaking. “Not while I breathe.”

 

The sound cracked the silence, but the beasts only shifted, patient. They knew she was weary. Her breath came shallow. Her body begged for rest, but she refused. Her hands shook so violently she could barely hold the stone. Still, she gripped it as if it were a staff of command.

 

She pressed her back against the rock, eyes fixed on the swaying forms above her.

 

The ropes creaked in the night air. The smell of death thickened, clinging to her skin, her hair, her clothes.

 

She pressed her hand to her mouth, swallowing hard. She whispered names again.

 

“Armoni. Mephibosheth.” Her voice cracked, but she forced the syllables into the night. Then her lips moved silently, shaping the names of the others. At last she whispered, “Merab’s sons…” The words trembled, but they held.

 

The jackals crept closer. Their howls rose, long and hollow, echoing across the hillside.

 

Rizpah shuddered.

 

She had heard those cries before, in ruined places where no one lived, where walls had fallen and fields lay empty. Now the sound wrapped itself around her vigil, as if mocking her: This hill is a ruin too. These bodies are ours.

 

She rose again, waving her arms, shouting until her throat burned. The beasts slunk back, but not far. She knew they would return.

 

A guard muttered, “Woman, you’ll break before they do.”

 

She did not answer. She had already broken, and yet she stood.

 

Her body shook with exhaustion. She lowered herself to the stone, pulling her garment tight against the cold. She closed her eyes for a moment, just a moment, and memory rushed in.

 

She saw Armoni as a boy, chasing a goat through the courtyard, laughing until he tripped and skinned his knee. She had knelt beside him, pressing her hand against the scrape, whispering comfort until his tears dried. She saw Mephibosheth, tugging at her sleeve, asking if bread would be ready by nightfall. She remembered the way his hand felt in hers, small and warm, trusting. She could almost feel the weight of his head against her shoulder, the way he once fell asleep before the bread was baked, trusting her to finish what hunger demanded.

 

Her eyes opened. The hill was dark again, the bodies swaying above her. She whispered, “Jehovah, you see.”

 

The night stretched on. The jackals circled. Their howls rose and fell, a chorus of desolation. But Rizpah’s voice rose too, cracked and trembling, whispering names into the dark. She would not let them be a portion for jackals.

 

The beasts drew nearer, their paws whispering through the grass. One darted forward, teeth flashing in the moonlight. Rizpah snatched a burning brand from the guard’s fire and swung it wide. Sparks flew. The jackal yelped and vanished into the dark.

 

Her chest heaved. The guard stared, silent now.

 

She dropped the brand, her arm trembling from the weight. She whispered again, “Not while I breathe.”

 

At last, the eastern sky began to pale. The first light of dawn touched the ropes, the bodies, the stone. Rizpah’s body sagged with weariness, but her eyes lifted. She had endured the night.

 

But as the sun rose, the birds returned, their wings blotting out the light. The hillside stirred again, not with mercy, but with the endless hunger of creation. And Rizpah, unblinking, rose to meet it.

 

____________________________________

 

Part IV — The Days of Dust

 

Research Note: Rizpah’s vigil stretched across the harvest season, likely five to six months. During this time, she endured not only the elements and scavengers, but also the scorn of others who could not understand her devotion. (2 Samuel 21:10)

 

Question for Meditation: How do we remain faithful when others mock our endurance, and when obedience looks like foolishness to the world?

 

The heat came like a hammer.

 

By midday the air shimmered, the stone beneath her sackcloth burning her skin. Dust clung to her lips, her tongue swollen with thirst. She pulled the cloth tighter over her head, but the sun pressed through, relentless.

 

The birds circled again, their shadows sliding across the bodies. Rizpah rose, arms flailing, voice hoarse. They scattered, but only for a moment. She sank back to the stone, her chest heaving.

 

A guard leaned on his spear, smirking. “Still here? You’ll cook yourself before the corpses rot.”

 

She did not answer. She pressed her palms against the stone, whispering names: “Armoni. Mephibosheth.” Her lips shaped the others silently, then she breathed, “Merab’s sons.” The words steadied her, a litany against the scorn.

 

A group of women passed on the road below, balancing jars on their heads. One turned her face away. Another laughed, sharp and cruel. “Guarding corpses,” she said. “She’s lost her mind.” The others murmured agreement, their voices fading as they walked on.

 

Rizpah’s cheeks burned hotter than the sun. Shame pressed against her, but she did not move. She whispered again, her voice cracked but steady.

 

Later, a man came with his flock, driving the sheep past the hill. He spat in the dust. “What good is this? They are dead. Go home, woman.” His voice was hard, but his eyes lingered, uneasy. He turned away quickly, as if afraid her grief might cling to him.

 

Rizpah lowered her head. She had no answer for him. Her vigil was not for explanation. It was for love.

 

Her stomach cramped with hunger. She had eaten nothing since the day before. She thought of bread again…bread as there is, broken and shared. She remembered her sons’ laughter, their hands reaching for the last piece. The memory was both knife and balm.

 

As the sun dipped low, a shadow fell across her. She looked up. An older woman stood there, silent. She set down a small bundle...flatbread wrapped in cloth...and a small jar of water beside it. Then she spoke, her voice low but steady: “Jehovah has provided for me. I will provide for you.”

 

Rizpah’s eyes filled. She pressed the bread to her lips before eating, whispering, “Jehovah provides.” She drank, the water cool against her cracked throat. And she knew: this woman would return. Quietly, faithfully, she would not let Rizpah be undone by hunger or thirst.

 

Night came again. The air cooled, but the dust lingered, coating her throat. The jackals howled in the distance. She rose, weary, waving them back. Her arms trembled, but she did not stop.

 

The days blurred into one another. Heat by day, cold by night. Dust in her mouth, sweat on her skin, sackcloth beneath her bones. She whispered names until her voice was gone, then mouthed them silently, lips moving in rhythm with the ropes that swayed above her.

 

Travelers paused at the edge of the road, staring before moving on. Children dared each other to climb closer, their laughter sharp as stones. One boy shouted, “Witch!” before running, his courage spent.

 

Rizpah did not rise to answer. She pressed her palms against the stone, whispering again.

 

One evening, a soldier lingered at the edge of the hill. His armor caught the last light of the sun. He watched her for a long time, then shook his head. “I don’t understand you, woman,” he muttered. But he did not drive her away. He turned and left, his steps slower than when he came.

 

The birds returned, their wings blotting out the sky. Rizpah rose again, arms aching, voice hoarse. She waved them off, her body trembling, but she did not stop.

 

The whispers grew louder. Some said she was mad. Others said she was holy. But all agreed on one thing: she had not left.

 

And in the city, a servant bent low to the king’s ear and said, “My lord, have you heard of the woman on the hill?”