The Warrior: Caleb (19 page)

“We have fought!”

“Some have died.”

“The Lord is not protecting us! He is far from us!”

“Because we have sinned!” Caleb cried out in anger. “Because you lack the faith to follow the Lord.”

“How have we sinned, Father? Tell us. We have worshiped the Lord just as you have.”

“I have scars to show for my faith, Father! And so do countless others. I have grandchildren. I want to have time to enjoy my inheritance. Don’t you?”

“We don’t need the plains, Father. We have enough land here in the hill country.”

Caleb could not believe what he was hearing. “We will be at war until the enemies of God are all dead like the generation who perished in the wilderness. You cannot give up. You must arm yourselves.”

“We are tired of fighting!”

“We can do no more in the plains!”

“And what of Hebron?”

Mesha gazed at him, defeated. “Don’t you remember, Father? Hebron no longer belongs to Judah. Joshua and the others gave it to the Levites as a city of refuge. The Kohathite clan can take care of themselves.”

“Naked we come into this world, Mesha. Naked we go out of it.” Caleb had been surprised when Joshua named Hebron as a city of refuge, but Joshua had done only what the Lord had told him to. Caleb had known then that he could think upon it in either of two ways: resentment, allowing bitterness and envy to grow and spread their killing vines . . . or gratitude. He chose to be thankful that God had wanted Hebron, Caleb’s city, to be counted as a city of refuge.

Unfortunately, not all his sons had been able to accept the loss, or been completely content living in the surrounding villages.

“Hebron was never ours, my sons. God gave it to us, and we have given it back to Him.”

“It was to be your inheritance forever, Father.”

“Some of our men died in taking that city from the Anakites. It was
our
blood that was shed for that city.”

“The Lord was with us.”

They all talked at once.

Mesha spoke for all. “We will rest for a while, and if they attempt to come up into the hill country, then we will fight again.”

Wine flowed freely, made from grapes that came from vines they did not plant, vines the Lord had given them.

Shobab sighed. “I’ve yet to plow a field.”

Fields the Lord had given them.

“Or plant crops,” Mareshah agreed.

Caleb thought of the grain that had been harvested the first years they had come into the Promised Land. The Lord had brought them in when there was a bounty of food, theirs for the taking.

“Will you know how to plant crops?” one joked.

“I can learn.”

Would they ever learn what was important?

“I have work to do on my house.”

What about the work God had given them to do?

“It’s time for my son Hebron to take a wife.”

“I have a daughter he can marry.”

The men, young and old, laughed and talked on around Caleb. He rose, knowing they would take little notice of him now. They were too busy making plans for themselves. He went outside and raised his head.

Oh, God, forgive them. They know not what they do
.

Caleb hobbled toward a flat stone near an ancient olive tree where he often sat overlooking the orchard and vineyard. “Come, my sons. Come. We must make plans to secure the hill country. We cannot stop the advance.”

“We can’t now, Father.” They raised their hoes in a gesture of solidarity. “We have work to do.”

Caleb’s mouth tightened. He and his sons had driven out the three Anakites—Sheshai, Ahiman, and Talmai—from Hebron, but when they advanced upon Kiriath-sepher, Caleb had been too weary to go with them and they had left the work undone. Thus, the Canaanites had trickled back in like a leak in a roof. His sons, complacent, had forgotten the warnings of the Lord.

He heard his sons’ grumbling.
Doesn’t he ever get tired of fighting? War, war. We’ve had enough of war. It’s time to enjoy the land we’ve taken. We will hold what we have.

Oh, they knew what he was going to say. Hadn’t they heard everything a hundred times before? They wanted to plow and plant seed, to enjoy the land they had taken. So what if a few Canaanites came back.
Peace, we want peace!
But they would have none. God had warned them. They just wouldn’t listen.

Leaning on his walking stick, Caleb felt defeated. The spirit within him still rose to the challenge, but his body had given out. And there was no one to rally these sons of his, no one to lead them. Ever since they had reconquered Hebron, only to find it given to the Levites as a city of refuge, they had ceased listening to him.

Mesha’s resentment grew with each year he tilled the soil. Caleb grew weary of hearing the same complaints over and over again. “We fought for five years to settle the tribes. And then, our turn came and we had to take the land by ourselves! And then what happens? The biggest and best city we have is handed over to the Levites and we get the surrounding villages!”

Patiently, Caleb would explain again. “Hebron is the best of what we have. And the Lord gave it to us. Is it not right that we give God the best? Do you think we could have taken Hebron by ourselves? God gave it to us. He is the rightful owner! You cannot offer a village as a city of refuge.”

Still their whining continued. “A village would have sufficed!”

“We pay in blood and the Levites reap the benefits!”

What was wrong with these sons of his? Had they set their hearts against the Lord their God? Had they forgotten already the commandments by which they were to live?

Ultimately, they gave up Hebron, then concentrated on claiming the surrounding villages and pasturelands. They drove the Canaanites out, killing every one of them that did not flee the hill country. No more was said about Hebron, but Caleb saw how they looked toward it. Their resentment spread like mildew, seeping into the cracks and walls of the houses in which they now lived, houses they had not built, but God had given them. It seemed against their very nature to be grateful for the gifts God had given them.

As the months and years wore on, Caleb’s sons turned their strength and thoughts to the orchards and vineyards, flocks and herds. They prospered, but were not content. They didn’t listen to their father as they had when they were boys. They no longer hung upon his every word, nor followed his instructions, nor strove to please him and, in doing so, please God.

Often, Caleb thought back with strange longing to those hard years of wandering in the desert. The people had learned to rely upon the Lord for everything—for food, for water, for shelter, and for protection from enemies who watched and waited. Now that they had conquered the Promised Land and settled in it, life had become easier. The Israelites had relaxed their vigil, dozed in the sunshine, forgotten that faith was more work than tilling the ground.

Like so many others in Israel, his sons were doing whatever was right in their own eyes. And Caleb grieved over it, trying each day to draw them back to what they had been when times were harder. But they did not want to come or listen. Not anymore. It was by God’s grace that they continued to prosper, but they had been warned when the blessings of steadfast faith and cursings of rebellion had been read to them from Mount Gerizim and Mount Ebal. Oh, they kept the Sabbaths, but without joy. What God had given them now ruled their days and nights.

When Caleb prayed with them, he felt their impatience.
Get it done and said, Father, and let us be about our work!
He could almost hear their thoughts.
Must we listen to another rambling prayer of praise from this old man?

Oh, they loved him. He had no doubt of that. They saw to his every need and made sure he was pampered and petted. But they thought his time was over and theirs had begun. They thought he couldn’t teach them anything they didn’t already know. They thought times were different now.

All true, but some things must stay the same. And it was this he tried to tell them. And it was this they refused to hear.

The slippage had already begun, like a few pebbles trickling down a hillside with a boulder now and then. The people neglected the things the Lord had told them to do. The Canaanites had not been driven from every valley in the region. A few had returned, tentative at first, with words of peace and offerings of friendship. The men of Israel were too busy enjoying the milk and honey of the land God had given them to see the danger in allowing God’s enemies to return and settle in small encampments. The Canaanites vowing peace gnawed like termites at the foundations God had laid.

How could his sons have forgotten what happened at Shittim? Men were easily enticed into Baal worship.
A beautiful young woman beckons, and a foolish man follows like a lamb to the slaughter.

God demanded that His people live holy lives and not intermingle with those who had corrupted the land. All his sons could see were the healthy vines, the orchards, the houses, the wells of water. They failed to uproot and destroy every enemy of God, and now Canaanites were springing up here and there, like poisonous weeds, and their evil ways with them.

His sons and the other men of Judah had yet to take Kiriath-sepher. The fortified city was still infested with Canaanite vermin.

Caleb’s twelve sons and their many sons plowed and planted, tended and harvested, believing their efforts made the difference between prosperity and poverty. And each year, they had to work a little harder.

“It is not by your strength and power that you conquered this land, but by the Spirit of the Lord!” Caleb told them.

“Someone has to plow, Father. Someone has to plant the seed.”

“But it is the Lord who waters, my sons. It is the Lord who gives the sunlight and makes things grow.”

“Things grew here long before we came. Canaan was a treasure trove
before
we entered it.”

Caleb felt his skin prickle with alarm. He had heard that some of his sons were going after other gods. Mesha’s words confirmed it. “God made it prosper. He prepared this land for us.”

“So you say.”

They listened less with each passing year. And like this morning, they prayed the same prayers they prayed every day, and then went off to live life on their own terms.

“Good morning, Father.”

Startled from his grim thoughts, he turned. Acsah, his only daughter, the last child of his loins, came to him and slipped her arm into his. She had Maacah’s dark eyes and olive skin and his red hair.
Edom,
some called her when they thought his back was turned and he couldn’t hear. Had her mother sent her to tend him?

“Do you think I need help to the rock?”

“You have that look again.”

Annoyed, he shook off her support and made his way toward his destination. Every joint in his body ached. His legs felt like tree trunks sending roots into the ground. Stooped, he gritted his teeth against the grinding pain and jabbed his walking stick into the ground. One deliberate step at a time.

Acsah strolled at a leisurely pace beside him, her hands clasped behind her back. He glowered at her. “Don’t hover like a mother hen!”

“You’re in a fine mood this morning.”

Because he had fixed his gaze upon her, he stumbled. He caught himself, but not before he had seen her quick movement. His heart thundered in fury. “What would you do? Throw yourself on the ground to cushion my fall?”

“Should I stand by and watch my father dive headfirst into the ground?”

“You have work to do. Go do it.”

She looked away and blinked. “I’ve been to the well.”

Women were always too quick to tears. He didn’t soften. “There are other things to do besides water the sheep and goats.”

Eyes flashing, her chin came up. “Then give
me
the sword and let
me
do it.”

He gave a derisive laugh and hobbled on. Maybe if he ignored her, she would go away. He groaned as he eased himself down on the flat boulder.

Lord, I can’t get my sons to sit for an hour and listen to me, but this girl digs in like a tick
.

Sighing deeply, he hunched in the shade of the ancient olive tree. Acsah sat within the cool circle of shade. He peered at her, still irritated. “It’s time you were married.” She would scurry off at that. She usually kept her distance for a few days when he mentioned her future.

“There’s no one worthy enough to marry me.”

“Oh!” He laughed outright at that. “You don’t think much of yourself, do you? A half-caste Canaanite whelp.”

Her olive skin reddened. She turned her face away.

Caleb clenched his teeth. “It’s time you covered your hair.”

She looked back at him. “It’s time for a lot of things, Father.”

“You’re not a child anymore. You’re—” he frowned—“how old are you?”

She stared at him without answering.

Anger bubbled up inside him. “Don’t think my arm isn’t long enough to deal with you.”

Acsah rose gracefully and sat near enough that he could backhand her. “Anything to make your life easier, Father.”

He raised his hand. She didn’t draw back. He watched the pulse throb in her throat. Anger or fear? What did it matter? Releasing his breath slowly, he lowered his hand. He ignored her. The silence lengthened, but not comfortably. He cleared his throat; the sound came like a low growl. She raised one brow. He closed his eyes. Maybe if he pretended to nap.

“What were you going to say to my brothers?”

His mouth tightened. He opened one eye. “Ask them. They could tell you word for word what I was going to say. The same things I always say; the same things they always ignore.”

“If you were going to tell them about the plagues of Egypt and the wandering in the wilderness, you tell the stories better than they do.”

“They are not stories! I lived through those times.”

“I wish I had.”

He ignored the longing in her voice. “Did your mother tell you to come out and humor me?”

“Do you think I need my mother to command me to sit with you? I love you, Abba!” She looked at him, unblinking, and then bowed her head. “If I heard your stories a thousand times, Father, it would not be enough.”

He said nothing and she looked up. He saw the yearning in her dark eyes, the intensity of her interest. Why was it that this girl, daughter of his concubine, had such a passion for God when his sons had so little? Overcome by despair, he cried out bitterly, “Go away. Leave me alone.” What use was a girl?

She rose slowly and walked away, shoulders slumped.

Caleb regretted his harshness, but did not call her back.

The day wore on, the same as every other. Everyone had things to occupy their time and their minds. Except Caleb. He sat and waited for time to pass, waited for the sun to cross the sky and dip red-gold, orange-purple into the west. Right now, it was overhead and beating down. He wished for a cooler place, but was too weary to get up and make his way back to the house.

Caleb watched Acsah work with the wives of her brothers and half brothers. She did not seem interested in their conversation. They talked around her. They laughed. Some leaned close and whispered, eyes upon her. Caleb tried not to think about it. He tried not to let it bother him that his daughter was treated like an outsider. Even after all these years, he remembered how he had felt.

When he dozed, he dreamed of Egypt. He stood before his father again, arguing. “This is a God of gods, a Lord of lords. Wherever He leads, I will follow.” When he awakened, he felt an ache in his heart so deep he had to breathe around it.

Acsah came with bread and wine. “You haven’t eaten since early this morning.”

“I’m not hungry.”

She left it for him anyway.

After a while, he dipped the bread into the wine. When it was softened, he chewed slowly until it was a sodden mass he could swallow.

Acsah came again, bringing his great-grandchildren with her this time. “Come, come, children. Listen to Abba tell of the plagues of Egypt and the opening of the Red Sea.” She sat them around him and took a place herself on the outer edge of the gathering. Gratified, Caleb spoke of the events that had shaped his faith and molded his life. It was not a quick telling, and one by one, the children rose and went away to play, until only Acsah remained.

He gave a weary sigh. “You’re the only one who cares to listen.”

Her eyes filled. “I wish it were not so.”

His sons were returning from the fields, their hoes across their shoulders, hands draped over them. They looked weary, discontent. He looked at Acsah, still waiting, hope in her eyes. “How is it that you alone hang upon every word about the Lord our God?”

“I don’t know, Father. Where did your faith come from?”