Uzzi raced around the corner of the hut, his short legs whirling at top speed, and forcefully collided with his younger brother, Hanan. Both boys hit the ground with a thud and sent a cloud of dust into the morning air. Hanan was the first to struggle to his feet and rubbed his forehead with the palm of a very dirty hand. “You hurt me,” he said to Uzzi, who was still lying on his back in the sand.
“Why weren’t you watching where you were going?” Uzzi asked as he jumped to his feet, uninjured in the collision.
“I was watching where I was going. You ran into me. I didn’t run into you,” Hanan replied.
“I did not. You ran into me,” Uzzi said, his voice growing louder with each word.
“Boys!” Miriam shouted over the noise of the escalating argument, “Gili is sleeping, and if you wake her, I’m going to make you play with her while I finish milking the goats.”
Uzzi and Hanan looked at each other with wide eyes and instantly began to whisper. “Let’s go to the sheep pens and play war. I’ll be an Israelite general, and you can be a Moabite general,” Uzzi said.
“That’s not fair,” replied Hanan in a voice only slightly quieter than he had used before Miriam threaten them. “You always get to be the Israelite.” Turning away, he walked to where his mother stood. “Momma, I never get to be the Israelite,” he whined. “Tell Uzzi he must be the Moabite this time.”
Miriam drew a deep breath and began the same lecture about taking turns that she had given a hundred times before when she was interrupted by the soft cries of a baby. All three of them froze as still as statues, barely breathing, each hoping that the cries would cease. After thirty seconds of on-again off-again whimpers, the little voice from inside the hut erupted into full-scale crying. There would be no playing war and probably very little goat milking for the next hour.
Uzzi was the farthest from Miriam and began slinking backwards into the shadow of the hut to avoid playing with his little sister. He probably would have made it had he not tripped over the dog that had crept up and was lying on the ground behind him. The dog let out a yelp and jumped to its feet, drawing Miriam’s complete attention.
“Uzzi, where do you think you’re going?” Miriam barked as she looked sternly down her nose to where the boy stood. “I told you if you woke Gili, you would be playing with her. You march straight to the door. And you, Hanan,” she said, looking at her other son, “will join him.”
“Ah, Mother, do we really have to watch her?” they both asked simultaneously. “Can’t she play by herself?”
“No, she can’t play by herself, and yes, you really do have to watch her!”
Both boys lowered their heads and began walking to the door of the hut, kicking at dirt and small pebbles with each step.
“When will Father be home?” Hanan asked as he shuffled along.
“Tomorrow for sure, but perhaps later tonight,” Miriam replied as she walked quickly toward the crying baby.
“Tell me one more time. Where did he go?”
“Shunem,” Miriam replied, lifting the latch and going through the door.
Miriam walked up to the small wooden box in which Gili lay. “My, how you’ve grown these past six months,” she said as she picked the baby up, holding her and gently stroking her fine strands of dark brown hair. Upon hearing her mother’s soft voice, the baby changed her cries to contented gurgling sounds. Miriam was continually amazed at how quickly the child calmed. In the six months since her birth, Gili had cried longer than a minute only three, maybe four times. She was simply the happiest, easiest baby Miriam had ever had. On those days when she trekked into Jezreel to the produce market and stopped to visit with the gathered mothers, invariably Miriam was the envy of them all when she told of Gili’s sweet personality.
Miriam picked up a goat skin from a bench in a corner of the small dwelling and gave it a quick shake to dislodge some of the dust that seemed to cling to everything. Placing it on the hard-packed dirt floor, she retrieved a soft woven blanket and spread it out on top of the goat skin. Placing Gili in the center of blanket, Miriam called to Uzzi and Hanan. “Come, boys. You need to keep Gili occupied for a few minutes while I milk the goats.” Turning to her third son, two-year-old Caleb, who had been standing at her side the entire time, she clasped his hand and said, “You come with me to the goats.”
Milking three goats took little time. Anxious to eat the few handfuls of wheat and barley Miriam dumped in the tray, each goat readily jumped up on the wooden stand when it was her turn. As the goats attacked the grain, Miriam expertly milked them. With the milk in a small bucket, she and Caleb left the small pen and began walking toward the hut.
They had only taken three steps when Caleb yanked on her robe and with his arms extended said, “Carry me.”
With barely a pause in her stride, Miriam stooped down, wrapped her right arm around the boy’s waist, and hefted him onto her hip. Caleb wrapped his arms around her neck and held on tightly as she navigated her way over the rock-strewn path, the fresh goat milk sloshing in the bucket in her left hand.
Every morning for the past three days as she walked from the goat pens to the hut, she scanned the barren land in hopes of seeing her husband’s lone figure approaching the hut. He was two days overdue, and her anxiety was building. This day anxiety turned to excitement as she scanned the flat, treeless plain that stretched beyond the hut.
Setting the bucket of milk on the ground, she extended her arm and pointed in the distance. “There’s Daddy,” she exclaimed. The young boy instantly wriggled around in her arms so he could see where she was pointing. He was still too far away to make out his features, but Miriam could tell from his loping gait that it was her husband.
It took Gideon only fifteen minutes to cover the distance to the ramshackle hut and the waiting arms of his wife and children. After the hugs, bursts of laughter, and excitement had died down and the children had scampered off to play, Miriam took out a loaf of unleavened bread and began cutting Gideon a thick slice. “Well, how did it go?”
Gideon forced a smile and said, “The bread smells delicious, and I’m starving.”
“But how did it go?” Miriam asked, unable to conceal the anticipation in her voice as the blade of the knife sliced through the bread and lightly gouged the wooden table.
Gideon watched Miriam’s rapid sawing and chuckled. “If you continue sawing away like that, I’ll have to build a new table.”
Miriam dropped the knife and set the slice of bread and a cup of the fresh goat milk in front of Gideon then plopped down in a chair. “Gideon,” she said eagerly, “what did he say?”
Gideon looked at the excitement in his wife’s eyes and dreaded what he was about to say, but there was no way to ease into it. He let a small sigh escape from his lungs. “Not well, not like I expected.”
The smile faded from Miriam’s face, and her body visibly slumped. “What do you mean, not like you expected?”
Gideon looked down at the few crumbs that littered the table and pursed his lips. He knew his hopes of moving from this crude hut paled in comparison to his wife’s. She had been hoping and praying the old man and woman in Shunem would consent to sell their house and property to Gideon. More than anything else, she wanted to leave this despicable hut, with its parched land and rocky fields. Anywhere would be better than this, she had told herself countless times.
“He said no?” she asked anxiously.
Gideon licked his lips and nodded his head slowly. “He wouldn’t even consider it. He told me I was trying to take advantage of him.”
Miriam’s shoulders sank in despair, and she sat motionless, staring at Gideon, her hopes shattered. Their only chance of escaping this forsaken place was gone. The dreams that had filled her nights—abundant water from a stream, tall trees, and especially a house—were gone, replaced with the gritty reality of more days in this dreary place.
Gideon leaned across the table, tenderly clasped her hands in his, and gave them a gentle squeeze. With the slightest smile on his face, he continued, “But a strange thing happened as I was traveling back.”
Miriam’s thoughts were far, far away. She looked at him blankly and said without interest, “What was that?”
“As I was walking from Shunem, I came upon a man traveling the road. He was an old man with a crutch, who had a difficult time walking. Since we were both going the same direction, he asked if we could travel together. I agreed and offered to carry the pack he had slung on his back. At first we spoke of small things: the weather, the birds, and such. Eventually he told me he had been to visit his brother in Tirzah and was returning to his home in Edrei.”
Miriam managed to shove enough of the disappointment she was feeling from her mind to ask, “Where is Edrei?”
“It’s a village north of Ramoth-gilead. It sits in a valley on the edge of the volcanic fields, near the border of Syria.”
“Hmm,” Miriam acknowledged, not really certain where he was talking about and struggling to concentrate on what he was saying. “And then what?”
“He asked where I had been and the purpose of my trip,” Gideon said. “When I told him I had been to Shunem, trying to buy a house and farm with little more than a few pieces of gold and a promise to pay more, he asked if I had ever been to Edrei.”
“Have you?” Miriam asked quizzically.
“No, never,” Gideon replied. And then with a coy smile, he added, “That is, until yesterday.”
Miriam tilted her head and looked at Gideon, confusion all over her face. “You went to Edrei?”
Gideon caressed Miriam’s face and said facetiously, “I know you love this place and would hate to leave it, but would you consider moving to Edrei?”
“Edrei?” Miriam replied cautiously.
“The house needs a little repair, but it’s nestled against a hill with tall cedar trees out back and a well out the front door. It even comes with three cows!” Gideon said with a smirk.