over? I know I have no power to secure what I want. I’m helpless to change anything. Neither my talent nor my experience will prevail. God alone has the strength to provide for Jerusalem.”
Nehemiah picked up an exquisite silver goblet, a gift from the king on his last birthday. Absently, he turned it this way and that, blind to its beauty. “You must remember that the descendants of Abraham are supposed to change the world. We are supposed to bless the nations. Instead, we are practically homeless. The provision of God is faithful, Hanani. He hasn’t forgotten that promise. But He asks us to act as His hands and feet on this earth. Should I refuse the Lord’s call because the world might set itself against me? Because the cost is too high?”
Hanani stuck a finger under his high woolen collar and tugged hard. “We were talking about the king of Persia, not God.”
Nehemiah rubbed his hands together. “That is your mistake. This whole endeavor is about the Lord. And His path is never smooth, brother. That does not mean I can veer from it. No. I tell you, I refuse to give up.”
* 446 BC
ONE MONTH AFTER THE DISCOVERY OF THE PLOT TO KILL THE KING
THE TWENTIETH YEAR OF KING ARTAXERXES’ REIGN *
THE MONTH OF NISAN
n
ehemiah carried the king’s golden chalice with three graceful fingers, folding the last two into his palm according to royal etiquette. When he reached the king’s side, he placed the chalice on a carved ebony table. The base of the cup made not the slightest whisper of a sound as it connected with the table. No ripple disturbed the surface of the dark liquid. Using a bejeweled ladle, Nehemiah drew a small amount of wine from the cup and drank from it.
A servant rushed to his side carrying a folded linen napkin and a bowl of water perfumed with jasmine blossoms. With practiced movements, the cupbearer dipped his hand for a thorough washing before drying it. He had performed this duty too many times to consider the danger; he was testing for poison, after all. He waited the required moments. There was no sudden, excruciating pain, no rush of nausea, no telltale signs of venom at work in his body. He offered the chalice to Artaxerxes. The queen, who was supping with her royal husband that evening, had her own cupbearer perform the same duty for her.
She tasted the wine. A deep sigh of appreciation escaped her lips. “This is from Darius’s vineyard in Persepolis if I’m not mistaken.”
“Your Majesty’s palate is discriminating as always,” Nehemiah said. “My lord Darius’s baggage train arrived last week after an unforeseeable delay. Lady Sarah sent the wine over as soon as it had settled.”
Artaxerxes gave a good-natured smile. “She is a thoughtful girl.”
Nehemiah didn’t have it in him to return the king’s smile. He was weary with a burden of sorrow that refused to be lifted no matter how he prayed. Thoughts of his shattered native land had haunted him for four and a half months. Jerusalem’s ruined walls kept him awake at night and tormented his thoughts in the daylight hours.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Turning aside, he busied himself with the practical details of his duty. In the back of his mind Nehemiah could hear Artaxerxes speaking. It must have been an amusing comment as it made Damaspia laugh. Unexpectedly, the king said, “What do you think, Nehemiah?”
Nehemiah reddened. He had been so steeped in his thoughts that he had no idea what the king had said. He looked down; without warning he felt overwhelmed by such a wave of sorrow that he could barely prevent himself from bursting into tears, an unforgivable offence during a royal audience.
The king gazed at Damaspia for a moment before returning his attention to the cupbearer. “Why are you so sad? What grieves you, Nehemiah?”
Nehemiah tried to speak. Words failed him.
Again Artaxerxes spoke. “You don’t appear sick. It must be your thoughts that trouble you.”
Cold sweat broke out over
Nehemiah picked up an exquisite silver goblet, a gift from the king on his last birthday. Absently, he turned it this way and that, blind to its beauty. “You must remember that the descendants of Abraham are supposed to change the world. We are supposed to bless the nations. Instead, we are practically homeless. The provision of God is faithful, Hanani. He hasn’t forgotten that promise. But He asks us to act as His hands and feet on this earth. Should I refuse the Lord’s call because the world might set itself against me? Because the cost is too high?”
Hanani stuck a finger under his high woolen collar and tugged hard. “We were talking about the king of Persia, not God.”
Nehemiah rubbed his hands together. “That is your mistake. This whole endeavor is about the Lord. And His path is never smooth, brother. That does not mean I can veer from it. No. I tell you, I refuse to give up.”
* 446 BC
ONE MONTH AFTER THE DISCOVERY OF THE PLOT TO KILL THE KING
THE TWENTIETH YEAR OF KING ARTAXERXES’ REIGN *
THE MONTH OF NISAN
n
ehemiah carried the king’s golden chalice with three graceful fingers, folding the last two into his palm according to royal etiquette. When he reached the king’s side, he placed the chalice on a carved ebony table. The base of the cup made not the slightest whisper of a sound as it connected with the table. No ripple disturbed the surface of the dark liquid. Using a bejeweled ladle, Nehemiah drew a small amount of wine from the cup and drank from it.
A servant rushed to his side carrying a folded linen napkin and a bowl of water perfumed with jasmine blossoms. With practiced movements, the cupbearer dipped his hand for a thorough washing before drying it. He had performed this duty too many times to consider the danger; he was testing for poison, after all. He waited the required moments. There was no sudden, excruciating pain, no rush of nausea, no telltale signs of venom at work in his body. He offered the chalice to Artaxerxes. The queen, who was supping with her royal husband that evening, had her own cupbearer perform the same duty for her.
She tasted the wine. A deep sigh of appreciation escaped her lips. “This is from Darius’s vineyard in Persepolis if I’m not mistaken.”
“Your Majesty’s palate is discriminating as always,” Nehemiah said. “My lord Darius’s baggage train arrived last week after an unforeseeable delay. Lady Sarah sent the wine over as soon as it had settled.”
Artaxerxes gave a good-natured smile. “She is a thoughtful girl.”
Nehemiah didn’t have it in him to return the king’s smile. He was weary with a burden of sorrow that refused to be lifted no matter how he prayed. Thoughts of his shattered native land had haunted him for four and a half months. Jerusalem’s ruined walls kept him awake at night and tormented his thoughts in the daylight hours.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Turning aside, he busied himself with the practical details of his duty. In the back of his mind Nehemiah could hear Artaxerxes speaking. It must have been an amusing comment as it made Damaspia laugh. Unexpectedly, the king said, “What do you think, Nehemiah?”
Nehemiah reddened. He had been so steeped in his thoughts that he had no idea what the king had said. He looked down; without warning he felt overwhelmed by such a wave of sorrow that he could barely prevent himself from bursting into tears, an unforgivable offence during a royal audience.
The king gazed at Damaspia for a moment before returning his attention to the cupbearer. “Why are you so sad? What grieves you, Nehemiah?”
Nehemiah tried to speak. Words failed him.
Again Artaxerxes spoke. “You don’t appear sick. It must be your thoughts that trouble you.”
Cold sweat broke out over
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