Zarephath

This story is based on Elijah and the widow of Zarephath, from the widow's point of view.

We were in the midst of a famine. The sky had not rained for two years, our land had turned to dust and our crops had died. There was something sinister about this dryness though. For even in the early morning there was no dew. Nothing. It was like the water had been sucked out of our world. The streams dried up, until all that was left was carved scars in the desert where they had been. It was then that we began to worry. The crops were dried up sticks, the animals were dying and the good earth itself was blowing away in the slightest wind. We knew that if it didn't rain soon we would die. This was serious. We were fragile and vulnerable and desperately desperately scared.

I lost my husband many years ago, but he left me a beautiful son to remind me of him. And I feared for him more than myself. It seemed so unfair to die before ever really having the chance to experience life. And I did not want him to worry, so we did not talk of how serious things were. I tried to make life seem normal, keep the fire going at night, to bake what little food we had, and to somehow try and keep our bodies and souls together. So I went outside the town to collect some firewood. There was certainly no shortage of that, with the dry branches of once healthy bushes littering the land. But as I came near the gate of the town on my way back home, I saw a stranger. He asked me for water, even though he had never seen me before in his life, so I went to fetch him some from the slightly muddy supply near the bottom of our fast-drying well. And as I was walking towards the well, he added a request for bread. My heart sank. I had nothing to give him. Nothing spare at all. And so I told him how bad things were for us.

For we were down to our last handful of grain and our last cupful of oil. That was it.

It was to be our last supper. The last meal we would have on earth, for even if the rains came now, there would be no crops for another year. There was to be no return, unless some rich benefactor gave us aid, and that wasn't likely. Why should they? They were having problems enough feeding themselves. But the man didn't bat an eyelid. He came to stand opposite me. Looked me straight in the eyes and said "Do not be afraid". And that is when he made his request. For a little cake from our last meal. But to make his cake before ours. I was stunned. I wanted to be hospitable, but this was all I had, and that was next to nothing. Why ask me? Why did I have to give away everything?

Why not someone else who had enough at least for a week or two? His eyes pleaded with me and in them I saw sincerity and suffering. I knew that he was a man of God. And it was like God himself was asking me in a funny sort of way.

Then the stranger spoke again. He made me a promise. That my jar of grain and my jug of oil would not run out until the rains came once more... could I believe him? Would you have done? Yet something in me knew, that even if it wasn't true, it was the right thing to do to feed him. I could not refuse a request like that... and so I did as he said, with a heavy heart, for I was not just robbing myself of food, but also my beautiful son.

Still there was no need for caution now or fear of this stranger, for we were dying anyway. So I didn't leave the man at the city gate to eat his roll. I invited this stranger into our home, and I divided the flour into three so we could have our last meal together, the prophet and us with the end of our bread.