Welcome, dear reader!

We dip our toes into the world of retelling biblical stories once again, and this will be quite an emotional journey. Let’s join the widow of Nain for this one…

What a difficult day it has been.

The weight of the day’s unexpected event presses heavy on my shoulders, even though the sun has long sunk behind the hills. In the dim glow of the oil lamp, I kneel gently by my son’s sleeping mat, my hands trembling as I observe his fevered body.

His skin is slick with sweat, burning to the touch, yet somehow, he shivers as though the most chilly of winds have slipped under the cracks of our door and have grabbed him by the neck.

How did this happen? He has been fit and hearty all week. Suddenly, he returned last night, complaining of a slight fever. And within a day, it has only elevated to frightening levels. Now he’s in a critical condition.

I am so terrified. I truly am.

“Hold on, my son,” I whisper, my voice breaking as I dip a cloth into the cool basin beside me and wring it out. I press it to his brow, trusting it would cool him a little. I do this a couple more times.

The tremors wracking his frame refuse to cease; he still trembles violently.

“Please, Eliab, please… just hold on. I implore you.”

Tears blur my vision as I pull back to look at him. He’s an absolute mess: his chest rises and falls in uneven gasps, each one more labored than the last. He can barely utter a word; I have not heard one syllable aside a groan depart from his lips the entire day.

My heart twists painfully within my chest. This does not look promising. Whatever it is that ails my beloved son clearly has one aim: to send him to the grave.

That can’t happen. That just cannot happen!

He is my last anchor, my only reason to keep moving since my husband Yohanan unceremoniously made his way to the grave only last year.

And now… I can’t. I won’t let him go too. That will be too much for my already feeble, still-recovering heart.

“Adonai,” I breathe, lifting my eyes to the heavens even though the thatched roof blocks my sight. “Do You see him? Do You see me? Do you see us?”

My words falter, and my throat tightens as I struggle to continue. “I… I have no one else, Elohim. I have… I have nobody. I am but a poor widow with a son who… who cannot leave me. He cannot leave me! Please… please don’t let him leave me, God. Please…”

A movement on the mat cuts my prayer short. I turn quickly.

Eliab stirs, a low and pitiful moan escaping his lips. My hand flies to his cheek, cradling it gently.

Oh, how this ailment truly torments my boy! His skin burns against my palm, and I pull the cloth out of the basin again, allowing the water drip between my fingers as I place it on his forehead to bring him some form of relief, even if temporary.

“You are supposed to grow strong, my son,” I murmur, brushing damp hair away from his face. “You are supposed to walk to the city gates, to make your way in the world, to honour the memory of your dear father and build a legacy for him. Who will do that for us if you leave me? Who?? Tell me, Eliab!”

The words feel horribly bitter on my tongue, but they spilled out before I could stop them. From the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks, they say. My shoulders shake as I lean over him, my lips gently brushing his hot temple.

“I cannot lose you too, I can’t,” I whisper. “Losing your father was devastating enough; you cannot follow him. Please, Adonai, Elohim of Israel, spare him. Let this cup pass from us. I will do anything… anything You ask of me. Please, just don’t take him from me.”

The night stretches on, long, tormenting, unkind and unyielding, each passing minute a thorn in my heart that I just cannot remove. Outside our little abode, the sounds of the village of Nain have quieted, save for the occasional bark of a dog or the cry of a restless infant child in another home. Inside, only one sound reigns supreme: the ragged rhythm of Eliab’s breathing filling up the room.

My heart is so heavy as I press my hands together, kneeling low beside his mat and putting my temple to the ground in prayer and supplication. “You are the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob. The God who hears the cry of the oppressed and the downtrodden. Please hear me now, I pray Thee.” My voice cracks with fear and trembling. “Don’t let my son go where I cannot follow him. Don’t let me bury him, as I buried his father. Please…”

The words turn to sobs, and I rest my head against the edge of the mat. My fingers trace the edge of Eliab’s hand, now so deathly pale.

“Adonai, I pray Thee, spare my son’s life. Please. I cannot bear to lose my son. I just will not…”

Another sharp movement cuts my prayer short.

His body jerks violently for a moment or two…

…before going limp.

My heart stops.

“No… no, no, no, no, no, please…” I gasp, terror clawing its way up my throat.

It can’t be! It can’t be! No, it can’t! No, this can’t happen, please! Adonai, don’t tell me You’ve taken him away just as I pleaded You don’t…

In a state of unbridled panic, I lay my hand over his chest.

His heart still beats beneath it. It’s faint… but it’s present.

Relief washes over me. I place my hand over my chest. My heart hammered against it so fiercely in those few moments of fright.

“Thank You, Adonai,” I whisper. “Thank You…”

I truly am grateful that Eliab is still with me, I truly am. That was such a terrifying moment, but thank God the fruit of my womb is still here.

Nonetheless, it feels like the prayers I have prayed for him feel hollow. Almost as though the heavens have closed their ears and have no intentions to hear me.

And as I stay by Eliab’s side through the night, still whispering prayers, crying tears, and clutching hope like a drowning woman, all I can wonder is…

Does God see me? Does He hear me? Will He answer my prayer and save the only treasure on earth I have left?

Hmmmm, nothing more stressful than caring for your sick child. The worry alone can do a mental number on you…