Rizpah: Love That Refused To Leave (Parts 5 and 6)

[Timl1980]

Part V — The Market Rumors

 

Research Note: Rizpah’s vigil did not remain hidden. Her endurance became known, stirring whispers in the city and eventually reaching the king himself. (2 Samuel 21:11)

 

Question for Meditation: How does one quiet act of faith ripple outward, unsettling others and forcing them to see what they would rather ignore?

 

The market carried her name before she knew it.

 

It began as murmurs on the road...traders passing with their donkeys, women balancing jars. But soon the talk spilled into the stalls where figs were counted and barley weighed.

 

“She is still there,” a man said, weighing dates in his palm. “Guarding the dead.”

 

A butcher laughed, his knife flashing in the sun. “Madness. Who keeps watch over corpses?”

 

A spice seller leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Or faith. Perhaps she knows something we do not.”

 

The words spread like dust, clinging to every corner. Some mocked her, calling her cursed, a woman chained to grief. Others grew uneasy. They could not shake the image: a mother on a rock, waving off birds, whispering names into the wind.

 

Children repeated the stories with wide eyes. “She hasn’t blinked in a month,” one boy bragged. “She eats only dust.” His sister whispered, “She speaks to the sky and the sky listens.” Their mother hushed them, but her hands trembled as she counted coins.

 

A potter muttered as he shaped clay, “She is nothing. The king will not notice her.”

 

But a scribe passing by stopped mid‑stride, his scroll half‑rolled. “The king will hear,” he said quietly. “He must.”

 

The market swelled with rumor. Some laughed, some scoffed, some fell silent. But all agreed on one thing: she had not left.

 

Back on the hillside, Rizpah felt the weight of unseen eyes though no one stood near. The air itself seemed to carry whispers. She pressed her palms against the stone, whispering again: “Armoni. Mephibosheth.” Her lips shaped the others silently, then she breathed, “Merab’s sons.” The words steadied her, a litany against the noise she could not hear but knew was there.

 

At dusk, she thought of the voices in the market, the laughter, the unease. She thought of her sons once running through crowded streets, chasing each other between stalls, their laughter rising above the bargaining cries. She pressed her hand to her chest, whispering their names again.

 

The stars wheeled overhead. The ropes creaked. The smell of death thickened. Rizpah pressed her hand to her chest, steadying her heart.

 

And in the darkness below, a new sound rose...not the cry of beasts, but the laughter of men. Their voices carried up the hill, rough and mocking, drawing closer with every step.

 

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Part VI — The Relatives Visit

 

Research Note: All five of Merab’s sons were executed with Rizpah’s two. No brother survived. But Saul’s family was large, and other kin remained...cousins, uncles, men who carried the shame of the house. Israelite mourning often included tearing garments, throwing dust on the head, covering the face, or falling to the ground. (2 Sam. 1:11–12; Job 2:12; Jer. 14:3–4)

 

Question for Meditation: What happens when another’s endurance forces us to face grief we have tried to bury?

 

He came at dusk, when the shadows were long and the air smelled of cooling dust.

 

Rizpah saw him climbing slowly, his steps heavy, his cloak drawn close. He stopped a few paces away, his eyes fixed on the ground. She knew him...a cousin of Merab’s sons, kin to the house of Saul.

 

For a long moment he said nothing. His gaze lifted to the bodies, then dropped again. His hand seized the hem of his garment. With a sharp rip, he tore it. Dust clung to his fingers; he pressed it to his head. Then he sank to his knees, his face hidden in his cloak. His shoulders shook, but no sound came.

 

Rizpah rose, waving off a bird that had settled too close. The man flinched at the movement, then covered his face again. At last his voice broke the silence, raw and low. “They said you were here. I did not believe it. I could not come before. I could not bear it.”

 

Rizpah’s lips moved. “Armoni. Mephibosheth.”

 

Then silently, one by one, she shaped the names of the others. At last she whispered, “Merab’s sons.” Her eyes met his. “They are not forgotten.”

 

The man’s hand struck his chest once, sharply, a gesture of grief. His voice cracked. “You shame us all. We left them. You did not.”

 

Rizpah lowered her gaze. “I stay because love does not leave.”

 

He rose unsteadily, dust still clinging to his hair. He looked at the bodies again, then at her. “I will tell them,” he said. “I will tell them what you are doing.”

 

He turned and walked down the hill, his steps slow, his shoulders bent. Rizpah watched until he was gone. Then she sank back onto the stone, her body heavy, her eyes burning.

 

The night deepened. The ropes creaked in the wind, the smell of death thickened. Rizpah pressed her hand to the stone, whispering names into the dark.

 

Another evening, a different figure appeared...an older uncle, his beard streaked with gray. He did not climb all the way. He stood at the base of the hill, staring upward, his hands trembling. He tore his garment too, but he did not approach. He turned away quickly, as if the sight of her vigil was more than he could bear.

 

Rizpah did not call after him. She only whispered again, steady as breath.

 

The days stretched on.

 

Sometimes she saw them from a distance...kin who lingered at the edge of the road, their faces half‑hidden, their steps faltering. Some came closer, kneeling in the dust, pressing their foreheads to the ground. Others turned away, ashamed, unwilling to face what her endurance revealed.

 

One cousin knelt beside her, his tears falling freely. “We thought silence would protect us,” he confessed. “But your silence is louder than ours. You have made us remember.”

 

Rizpah touched the stone with her palm. “The rock remembers. Jehovah remembers. That is enough.”

 

The man bowed his head, pressing dust to his forehead. He left without another word.

 

At times, the visits brought her small mercies. A woman from the family left a jar of water at the edge of the hill, not daring to speak but glancing back once, her eyes wet. A boy, no older than her sons had been when they chased goats through the courtyard, crept up with a bundle of figs. He set them down quickly and ran, his bare feet scattering pebbles.

 

Rizpah ate sparingly, whispering thanks, her lips cracked but steady. Each gift was a confession, each visit a testimony. Her vigil had become a mirror, forcing them to see what they had tried to bury.

 

The birds circled. The jackals howled. The ropes swayed in the wind. She rose again and again, waving them off, whispering names into the night.

 

And in the city, the whispers grew louder. The king himself would soon hear.

[Miss Bea]

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