The Strength of His Hand by Lynn Austin

palace first. I’ll catch up with you tonight or maybe tomorrow.”
    “Why can’t we wait for you?” she asked.
    “W-well …” Eliakim stammered, “because …”
    “Because my caravan can’t wait around for him all day—that’s why,” Hilkiah said. “Time is money, you know. Come on, then. Let’s get moving.”
    The servants had efficiently put Eliakim’s plans into action, and all too soon they had everything ready. Jerimoth fussed because his father wasn’t going with them, and much to Eliakim’s distress, he had to speak sharply to his son. The baby whined and cried, awakened from her nap too early. She wouldn’t let Jerusha put her down, and Eliakim could only give his wife a one-armed hug and a quick kiss as she struggled with the cranky baby.
    “I’ll see you later,” he whispered. “I love you.”
    Then his family and the servants were climbing into the carts and waving good-bye. Eliakim stood in the doorway, watching numbly until they disappeared around the corner.
    The house seemed quiet and still when he finally went back inside, but reminders of his family lay all around him: Hilkiah’s prayer shawl, forgotten on the bench near the door; a jar of pink blossoms, the wilted petals beginning to drop; the baby’s basket in the garden beneath a tree; empty pods and beans scattered on the mat where Jerimoth had left them.
    Eliakim wandered through the empty house, battling against the enormous fear that threatened to paralyze him. When he came to his workroom he closed the door, then fell to his knees and cried out to God.
    “Heavenly Father, help me accept your will for my life. Do with me whatever you want, but please give me the courage to face it. I haven’t any… .
    “And, Father, I pray for Abba and my children. They’re in your care now. I trust you because I know you love them even more than I do. Keep them safe, keep them true to your laws, and help them to always remember how much I loved them.
    “But, Father, most of all I pray for Jerusha. You’ve brought her through so much in her life—please be with her in this trial, as well.
    And when I die, please don’t let her lose her faith in you. Please keep her trust and her faith strong. I love her, Father. I love her so much… .”
    Isaiah waited as long as he dared, giving Eliakim the extra time he had promised. But as the afternoon shadows began to lengthen, he knew he couldn’t postpone his task any longer. He walked the short distance to the palace by memory, his vision blurred by grief.
    Here am I. Send me!
    That was what he had told Yahweh many years ago when he first agreed to be His spokesman. Isaiah had endured mocking and insults and even threats to his life in the years that followed his commission; Yahweh had warned him from the start that the task he had volunteered for wouldn’t be easy. But now Isaiah wondered if anything he had done for Yahweh had been as difficult as telling King Hezekiah he was going to die.
    Isaiah had lived through the reigns of four different kings: Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz, and now Hezekiah. None of the others had followed God’s Law as diligently or as faithfully as Hezekiah did. “Why, Yahweh?” he asked again, but he already knew God’s answer: “My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.”
    The royal physicians huddled miserably in the king’s outer sitting room. They looked up when Isaiah entered. He nodded slightly in greeting, unable to speak, then walked past them into the bedroom.
    He paused inside the doorway, and fresh tears filled Isaiah’s eyes when he saw the dying king.
    Hezekiah lay gray and still, his eyes closed, his breathing short and painful. The angel of death seemed to hover over his body, which was little more than skin and bones, waiting for Isaiah to finish his task.
    “Give us a few minutes alone, please,” Isaiah said to Shebna and the servants. Then he walked to Hezekiah’s bedside and laid his hand on his shoulder. After a