The Quests

Mary came running down the stairs into the courtyard. Zipporah was right behind her. Mary went directly to Philip who had been pacing the earthen floor. Zipporah went to the outside door, saying, "I'm going for my husband." Watching her run by, Philip turned and said, "We heard the baby cry. Everything is all right...isn't it?"

Worry and fatigue from the long night showed in Mary's face as she looked up into Philip's eyes and said, "Son, you have another girl. She came about a month early and is very tiny, but fully developed. Hannah is not doing well. She's asking to see you."

He took off like an arrow to their chamber, taking the steps three at a time, his mother following on the run. "The midwife did everything she could to stop the bleeding, but it just keeps flowing. We made her as comfortable as we can."

He stopped at the door of their room and walked slowly to where Hannah was lying on her pallet. The newborn babe, oiled, rubbed with salt to toughen the skin, wrapped in strips of soft cloth to form straight limbs, and blankets, was lying beside her in the crook of her arm.

The sparsely furnished room was softly lighted by one pottery oil lamp near her bed. The three older children had been bedded in another room for this night. The two sisters-in-law were disposing of the birthing supplies and material. The midwife was hovering over her patient, apprehension showing in the lines of her body.

Elias and Nathaniel, Philip's brothers who had been waiting with him, restlessly remained in the courtyard, according to tradition.

Philip dropped to his knees beside Hannah's bed on the floor. She is so white, he thought, even in this pale light.

Mary cleared her throat and quietly said, "Let's go tell the others." The sisters-in-law’s sad eyes showed sympathy as they looked at Hannah and slowly turned away to go ahead of Mary to tell their husbands. The midwife stepped back and wrung her hands.

Before he could give utterance to words, Hannah breathed softly, "Philip..." She paused.

He waited.

"...I am dying."

Philip's chin dropped. With mouth opened and eyes staring wildly at his precious and devoted wife, he thought: This can't be happening. His eyes narrowed to slits and the tears began to flow down his cheeks. "Oh...merciful God, ...Hannah...don't say that...please don't even think about it..."

Hannah found the strength to place her finger on his lips. As he took her hand in his, she continued, "My life's blood...is draining from me. I want to... ask you something." She rested for a breath.

"What is it, dearest?" Terms of endearment were not unusual between Philip and Hannah.

"I honor you...father of my babies...head of household. I have a wish." Hannah rested again.

Tears choking his voice, Philip replied, "Whatever you want, if I can do it, I will."

Hannah's tired eyes looked into his. "You may marry again...." (It was not unusual for a widower to remarry very soon after the death of his wife.)

Philip jerked and dropped her hand. "No!"

She continued, "...I don't want...our girls...raised by a...stepmother. They're special."

"Yes, I know they are special, but I could never marry again. Never! You have no worry about them being raised by a stepmother. You are the only wife for me."

She closed her eyes and slowly opened them, then went on, "I want my parents...to take them...they will know...how to raise them... ...like they did me."

Philip raised her hand to his lips. Tears moistened the fingers as he caressed them. Choking, he answered softly, "If that's the way you want it, that's the way it will be. I love you, Hannah."