Sunday, March 11, 2012

1 Kings 17

The Widow of Zarephath

I admit that I thought I would joyfully throw myself into the Woman of Samaria when the gospel with her story rolled around, but I want to do the second part of the Widow of Zarephath first, and that will hopefully give me time to figure out how I want to handle her story. I've written so much about her I'm not sure what I'd pick.

I had the thought today that there are 3 sections in the work I want to put together. I think I might envision them as separable entities then, once I assemble the three parts, see what I think of weaving them together. Part 1: The Outsiders ("In-Laws of Grace"?), anchors on the Ruth and Naomi story, also taking in Delilah and Jezebel and other women I'll think of in time - the one from the scraps from the table story perhaps? Salome to link with Elizabeth? Moses's wife. Hagar? Part 2: The Mothers, anchoring on I guess Elizabeth? With Widow of Zarephath and eventually Hannah. Maybe even Bathsheba and Solomon? Moses's mother - perhaps even anchoring on her. Hagar and Sarah could both go here as well - particularly Sarah if we weigh in on the Isaac question. Part 3: The Disciples, anchoring on I originally though Mary Magdalene but now think the Woman of Samaria, for how much I love her, and taking in Joanna, Mary and Martha, etc. Miriam from the Old Testament. There might be a fourth part, War Heroes for Deborah and Esther and Judith, but I'm holding off on those for the moment.

All that by way of saying, I'm thinking about how to anchor the story on the Woman of Samaria for tomorrow and for today encouraging any resonances with Elizabeth and the Widow of Zarephath.

So, part two of that story.

WIDOW OF ZAREPHATH

It was hard to convince my mind to relax, my soul to take its rest. For three years, there was precisely enough flour and oil for a loaf of bread, dinner for three, in the jars. Never more. Never enough to save up and feel secure. Never enough not to be totally dependent on this man of God under my roof.

That was how I thought of it. This man was of God, and God was looking after His own. Not me and my son, we were blessed to have this man in our house, to be bless-ed by associated. All those dark thoughts - all those worries of what would happen to us when Elijah chosen to leave, all of those desperate desires for the ability to store up a little food for when that day must come - seemed to be confirmed when my son fell ill.

The utter cruelty to see him spared from starvation only to lose him to sickness. To be denied the right to die with him, preferably before him. To be denied the right to share his fate. To share a final meal with him and know that when he was gone I would have to choke down ashes for the rest of my life.

I turned to Elijah, the holy man I had thought was extending me one final chance for grace, and whom then I had thought was showing me how to depend on God as he did. No, he had deprived me of my peace. My shoulders could not square for this. Not this. To lose him and still to live myself.

"What do you have against me, man of God? Did you come to remind me of my sin and kill my son?"

The sins that start to come easier and easier, to fall faster and faster, as everyone begins to slowly starve to death. The charity refused, the crumbs stolen, the hope crushed under your heel. The advantage taken. The slow contraction of whom you consider it your responsibility to save. Was this God's way of saying that when Elijah came I was too far gone? Of laughing in the face of my squared shoulders, my dream of grace and peace before death? Did Elijah come to ensure I found no such consolation, deserving none?

But Elijah took my son in his arms, and I could not stop him walking away from me. Elijah took him to pray, pray to God for I did not know what. If only he would pray that I might bear my son's sin in his place.

It was a long night, the night of my despair. I made the loaf, the same amount every day. I meant only to eat my portion, but I must have eaten it absently all night, for in the morning itw as gone. Every crumb, as if it had never been. The meal of despair and suffering, the payment for my hubris in planning one of grace and peace.

But Elijah carried my son downstairs, and he placed him on the table before me. I looked up, hollow-eyed and beyond grief. At last he said, as if exasperated, "Look, your son is alive!" I looked down, and I saw the color in his cheeks. He stirred, and there was strength in his limbs.

I melted, shoulders first. Squared in resignation, hunched in despair, now they heaved in relief. In joy. And in laughter at my own stupid foolishness. It wasn't long before I went to the jar, to see if yet it had been replenished. If I could bake again. To settle myself. To feed my boy now that at least he could eat again. To feel the grace of God taking care of us between my fingers as I kneeded the dough.

"Now I know you are a man of God and that the word of the Lord from your mouth is true." It told him.

Elijah was very serious. "Then hear me. Those who seek grace will find it."

When I had baked the bread - so much sweeter than yesterday did it taste! - I returned almost manically to the pot, and I found it full. I baked for the entire town that day. I fed all of Zarephath. For three years. I was ashamed that I had not thought of it before. Elijah told me I should be ashamed. To see a miracle and yet not know God would watch over me.

I had kept it guarded as a kind of close secret, lest they beg for food I could not take from my son's mouth. Lest a more worthy of the town take Elijah in and leave us to starve. Now I shared my joy. My blessing. The abundance of grace and peace I had been shown, when I was willing to settle for so little.

And bread. I set my shoulders and began to bake.