Chapter 1

Scene 1

Mother Tears

Of second thoughts there were plenty. “I was too rash. Certainly no one would expect a mother to carry out such a promise! How could I go on living?” 
     Second thoughts were outnumbered only by tears; from the silent escapees that slipped 
off her chin and into the family stew to those that convulsed her body when she was 
alone in the fields.“No, God, no!” 
     But the words of her promise always came back—sometimes like a horrid dream—

 	“O Yahweh, Great God of all, 
	if You will really look on the affliction of your maidservant 
	and remember me, and not forget me, 
	but will give Your maidservant a son, 
	then I will give him to Yahweh all the days of his life. 
	He will be dedicated to You forever.”

     She had said these words under the most extreme circumstances. A barren woman was 
the most pitiful creature in the village—no, the second-most pitiful creature. The only 
thing more wretched than a barren woman was a barren woman whose husband’s other
wife had children. This was a living death. This was Hannah. 
     Every day was torment, but the most torturous day of every year came when the whole 
family—the rival wife and all four . . . five . . . six! of her plump healthy boys and girls 
packed up their cart for the bumpy pilgrimage to the Tent of Worship. These were 
supposed to be the happiest days of their year, but for Hannah, they were the worst. 
Every year it was the same: when the great feast arrived and the freshly roasted lamb was 
portioned out to the hungry family, her husband, Elkanah (the Clueless), would give 
Hannah double the amount of meat he gave to anyone else, for, you see, he loved Hannah 
best. (This explains, of course, why Penny, the other wife, was often heard sobbing into 
her pillow beyond the curtain back home.) 
     Every spring, as the awkward day approached, Penny saw to it that Hannah paid dearly for her husbandly affections. “Husbands may say one thing, dear, but we all know what they value most in the end is progeny. Pension. Padding!” she laughed, patting her once-again swelling abdomen.  “Who else is going to take care of them in their old age? It certainly won’t be you!” 
     By the time the steaming rack of lamb landed on her platter, Hannah was too sick to eat a single bite.
     That is what prompted the rash vow. Hannah could take it no longer. She clawed and 
stumbled her way from the family table to the doorpost of the Tent. There her heart 
erupted forth in the desperate plea, “O God, O God, O God . . .” 
     The old Preacher at the Tent of Worship saw her praying. He thought she was drunk. (Ironically, it was Penny who was drunk that day.) He scolded her, until she cried out in anguish, “I am not drunk! I am in torment! I am praying!”
     The embarrassed old man fumbled for the right words. “Um, uh . . . yes, well, go in 
peace . . . and may the God of Israel give you whatever you’re asking for.” It was a weak word, but it was enough to give Hannah renewed hope. 
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Two things pierced the heavens that day: the audacious word of a tottering old 
preacher, and the rash promise to give . . . a child . . . away. 
The King in the heavens bent low and listened.
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     Hannah went home. 
     And got pregnant.
     When she found herself expecting a child, her ecstasy knew no bounds. When she gave 
birth to a boy, it was as if the sun had risen for the first time since her wedding day many 
years before. 
     But as the baby grew, so did the dark cloud. Give him away? How could  she? Indeed, would she? This new torment was worse than the former. But a promise is  a promise, and Yahweh had clearly kept His end of the bargain. 
     “Until he is weaned,” she told Elkanah and all her friends. She nursed him a good bit 
longer than was customary in her village. The sucking toddler began to turn heads. She 
could put it off no longer. He was nearly four years old. This would be the year—when 
they made the pilgrimage—that she would give him to the Lord. 
     This spring, Penny held her tongue. That was a wonder. Each dusty step, each creak of 
the wooden wagon brought Hannah closer to the dreadful moment. Sammy-Name-of-
God skipped and trotted beside the road. If not for his innocent chatter, it would have 
been a very quiet trip. 
     Elkanah had done what he could. Instead of a seventy-pound lamb to slaughter, he brought a seven hundred pound bull! Half the village would benefit from this year’s celebration. 
     Hannah had done everything she could think of to prepare the boy for the shocking moment. She had created a colorful tunic and sash—far better than anything the other children possessed—she would give it to him right before she told him the plan. She would tell him that she would be back next year with another pretty new one! (“Won’t that be nice!”)
     But what do four-year-olds know of years? 
     The hand-off went as well as could be expected. Elkanah tousled Sammy’s blond hair, 
cleared his throat and quickly returned to the harness and wagon. Even Penny found 
herself speechless as too-familiar tears rolled down her cheeks. The older half-brothers 
and sisters, all the playmates Samuel had known, did best of anyone. They chattered and 
cajoled and made outlandish promises, (“We’ll see you next week!”) until the final 
moment came. 
     Hannah stood up from a long hug and flurry of kisses. “Good bye, 
Sammy!” they all called out, trying to act as if this was as normal as a first day of school. 
     It wasn’t until the good bye’s that he began to understand what was happening, and then 
the shock so unnerved him that he couldn’t move a muscle. He didn’t speak, he didn’t 
run, he didn’t cry. He just stood there with his eyes open wide and one little drip of 
slobber falling slowly off his hanging-open bottom lip. 
     Hannah saw the drop fall with a tiny splat in the dust between his bare feet . . . then the wagon rounded a corner . . . and he was gone.

Nothing would ever be the same.