Rizpah: Love That Refused To Leave (Parts 9 and 10)

[Timl1980]

Part IX — The First Drop

 

Research Note: After the bones of Saul, Jonathan, and the seven were gathered and buried with honor, “God responded to the entreaty for the land.” (2 Samuel 21:14) The famine ended with rain.

 

Question for Meditation: What does it mean that heaven itself answered after a mother’s long vigil, and that her endurance became part of the nation’s healing?

 

The sky broke before her eyes.

 

For months the heavens had been brass, the earth cracked, the jars empty. Rizpah had learned to live with dust in her mouth, with thirst in her bones, with silence that pressed like a weight upon her chest. She had watched the sun rise and fall without mercy, had seen the moon climb and fade without promise. The land had groaned, and she had groaned with it.

 

But now, as the soldiers carried the last of the bones into the tomb, the air shifted. The wind rose, cool and sharp, carrying with it a scent she had almost forgotten...the scent of water. The clouds gathered, heavy and dark, their edges bruised with shadow.

 

Rizpah lifted her face. A drop struck her cheek, cold and startling. Then another. And another.

 

Her breath caught. She pressed her hand to her face, feeling the water mix with her tears. She whispered their names one last time...“Armoni. Mephibosheth.” Her lips shaped the others silently, then she breathed, “Merab’s sons.” The rain carried the words away, scattering them into the air like seed.

 

The sky opened. Water poured down, drenching the hillside, soaking the stone where her sackcloth still lay. The ropes darkened, the dust turned to mud, the air filled with the scent of earth reborn.

 

Rizpah stood in the downpour, her garment clinging to her skin, her hair plastered to her face. She lifted her arms, trembling, her voice breaking into the storm. “Jehovah, you DID see me.”

 

The rain did not stop. It fell and fell, filling the cracks, softening the ground, washing the land clean. The famine was ending. The nation would eat again.

 

Rizpah closed her eyes. The water ran over her, down her face, into the lines of her hands. For months she had fought off birds and beasts, endured hunger and scorn. Now heaven itself had answered.

 

She sank to her knees on the stone, her body shaking, her lips moving in prayer. The rain mingled with her tears until they were one.

 

The hillside changed before her eyes. Where dust had ruled, rivulets formed, running in silver threads down the slope. The stone glistened, dark and alive, as though it too had been waiting for this moment. The air was filled with sound...the drumming of drops on rock, the rush of water gathering in hollows, the low thunder rolling across the sky.

 

She thought of the long nights when she had whispered names into silence, wondering if heaven heard. She thought of the days when her arms had ached from waving off wings, when her throat had burned from dust, when her heart had nearly broken from the weight of shame. And now...this. Rain falling not in mockery, but in answer.

 

The soldiers who had carried the bones paused in their march, lifting their faces to the sky. Some spread their arms wide, laughing through tears. Others bowed their heads, lips moving in prayer. The people in the city lifted jars and bowls, catching the water as it poured from the heavens. Children ran barefoot in the streets, their shouts rising above the storm.

 

But Rizpah remained on the hill. She did not run. She did not shout. She knelt on the stone, her sackcloth heavy with water, her body trembling with exhaustion and awe. She whispered again, not names this time, but thanks.

 

The rain fell harder, drumming against the earth, filling the air with a roar that drowned every other sound. It was as if the land itself was drinking, as if the soil had opened its mouth to receive what it had long been denied.

 

Rizpah lifted her face once more. The drops struck her skin like blessings, like promises. She whispered, “Thank you for remembering, O Jehovah my God.”

 

And when she opened her eyes, the hillside was no longer silent. It was alive with the sound of water, the sound of remembrance. The famine was ending. The land was breathing again.

 

But the rain did not stop. It fell and fell, as though heaven itself had more to say.

 

____________________________________

 

Part X — The Stone That Remembers

 

Research Note: After the burial of Saul, Jonathan, and the seven, “God responded to the entreaty for the land.” (2 Samuel 21:14). Rizpah’s vigil ended, but her act became part of Israel’s memory.

 

Question for Meditation: What remains after grief has done its work, and how does Jehovah’s remembrance outlast even the strongest sorrow?

 

The rain did not stop for days.

 

It filled the cracks, softened the ground, washed the dust from the stones. The famine was broken. The land breathed again.

 

Rizpah stayed until the soldiers returned from the tomb. They told her the bones had been laid with honor, Saul and Jonathan beside the seven. Their words were simple, but their faces carried the weight of reverence. She bowed her head, lips moving in silent prayer. Her task was finished.

 

She gathered her sackcloth, heavy with rain, and folded it against her chest. The cloth clung to her arms, soaked through, its fibers dark and swollen. It smelled of smoke and dew, of long nights and unyielding stone. She rose from the rock where she had kept vigil, her body weak, her steps unsteady.

 

She turned once more to the hill. The ropes still swayed in the wind, empty now, their ends frayed and darkened by weather. The stone was dark with water, scarred by months of her watch. It bore the marks of her knees, the stains of her tears, the memory of her whispered names.

 

She pressed her hand against it. The rock was cold, unyielding, but it had borne witness. It had held her vigil, her tears, her prayers. It had heard the names spoken into silence. It would remember.

 

The rain fell harder, running in rivulets down the slope, pooling in hollows, carrying away the last traces of dust. The air was alive with sound...the drumming of drops, the rush of water, the low murmur of earth drinking deep. The famine was broken. The land was fed.

 

Rizpah stood for a long moment, her sackcloth clutched tight, her head bowed. She thought of the months behind her...the circling wings, the prowling beasts, the long nights of silence. She thought of the shame that had driven others away, the whispers that had called her mad. She thought of the names she had spoken until her lips were raw.

 

And she thought of the rain.

 

She turned and walked down the hill. Her figure grew small against the horizon, her steps slow but steady. The sackcloth was heavy in her arms, but she carried it as if it were treasure. She did not look back again.

 

The stone remained. The ropes swayed. The rain fell.

 

And Jehovah remembered.

 

(And now, for my sisters)

 

Sisters, this is your story first.

 

You know what it is to keep vigil when no one else sees.

 

You know the weight of small obediences that hold a house together, the ache of losses that don’t always get named, the strength it takes to stay when others walk away. Rizpah’s stone is your stone. Her endurance is not foreign to you...it is the shape of your own faith, lived out in kitchens, in sickrooms, in quiet prayers whispered when no one else is listening. You are not forgotten. Jehovah sees.

 

Brothers, we learn something as well: we learn not to simply pass by and say or do nothing. Rizpah’s vigil is a mirror for us. It teaches us to honor the endurance of our sisters, to see what we would rather not, to remember that strength is not only in decrees or battles but in compassion, in listening, in dignifying what others overlook. Leadership is not only command...it is remembrance. Rizpah reminds us that sometimes the truest courage is not in the sword, but in the patience to stand beside grief until Jehovah answers.

 

And all of us...we know the dust. We know the long nights. We know what it is to whisper names into silence and wonder if Jehovah hears. But we know, too, that Jehovah remembers. That rain does fall. That no vigil is wasted.

 

The stone remembers. But more than stone, Jehovah remembers. He holds the names we cannot speak, the tears we cannot count, the vigils we cannot finish. And that is enough.

 

*Thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed this story. I might have to wait a few days until I post the start of my next one, my grandma is passing away and I have been trying to be there for her and my mom while she is in hospice care in her memory care unit.

 

I'm trying to wear many hats at the moment, so to speak, while still working and taking care of my family spiritually as well. Again, thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed the stories I've put out so far, I have more coming...so stay tuned.