Sunlight settled over the flowers that rested on the rich mahogany casket. Small knots of people huddled in heaps of somber black and navy as bitter autumn winds snatched at clothes. A tall man, cradling two small infants swathed in blue, approached the coffin slowly. Tears streamed down his dark face as he knelt awkwardly at the gravestone. Even the infants, hardly old enough to leave the hospital, were silent, staring with dark, solemn gazes. "Hey Sea Shell," the man whispered brokenly, "It's Rodric. I brought the boys." He stopped, breaking down silently. "The doctor's released them for today." He paused, trying to find the words to say to a cold and lifeless tombstone that covered his love. "I'm living for them now. Life goes on, huh, Shelly?" Rodric remained kneeling in front of the gravestone, not seeing the inscription Beloved Wife, Cherished Angel but recalling the person the words described so weakly. His mind drifted despairingly to that day, one month ago. *** He gently wiped her brow as another fierce contraction gripped her frail form. "You can do it, honey," he murmured. Any reply she might have had drowned in her weak whimper of pain. After almost 20 hours of hard labor, she could not summon the energy to speak.The midwife gave Shelly a worried glance and muttered softly in her language. As missionaries to the dark, untouched regions of Africa, Rodric and Shelly were sturdy people in their faith but even the great man doubts at time. Rodric anxiously glanced at Shelly's straining face, wondering if he should have let her come when she was pregnant. They had not even told the Mission Board in fear of rejection. The sound of approaching footsteps brought Rodric's eyes off Shelly's wane face. The incomers stalked across the room and stood by Rodric, urging him up. The tribal warriors were here to take him to the hut for expectant fathers, as tradition demanded, or so they said. The midwife knew better. The American missionary would follow custom, as long as his faith would let him. He gave Shelly's hand a brief squeeze as he rose to follow the men. The short journey to the tribal Chieftain's hut pained Rodric as each step tore him from Shelly's side. He stooped to enter the low threshold and stood on the packed earthen floor. Sunlight filtered through the thatched roof of the hut, adding pinpricks of light to the light streaming in the open door. The Chieftain motioned to a grass mat for Rodric to sit on, though he did not take offense when Rodric refused. The Chieftain knew why he was here; even Rodric himself did not really understand. While Rodric waited in that small, dusty hut, his mind raced, following what he imagined to be happening in that small, stuffy birthing hut. Minutes ground slowly into hours as he paced anxiously. With every footfall, he murmured a prayer. Help her. Guide her. To thy glory. After he had waited for what seemed like forever, he cried out in anguished fear for her, falling to his knees, praying fervently, Shelly needs you, Lord. I need her, Lord.Preserve her. After that tortured supplication, he rose again to pray and pace; pace and pray. The soft thud of his shoes over the hard packed earthen floor became a rhythm of fear. A keening wail began in the village where Shelly had become a teacher, surrogate mother, nurse and confidant. The sound brought sweat to Rodric's face as he watched a figure approach. A young girl ran as fast as she could towards the hut, carrying two small, wailing bundles in her arms. Tears carved a ragged path down her face as she let them flow uninhibited. Rodric's eyes met hers, and as he looked into the dark, soulful depths, he saw a truth that tore a jagged hole in his very soul. The keening was rising in pitch outside the hut, as more villagers joined in the death song. "Your wife, she is dead." The girl said in a broken voice. The midwife stepped into the hut after the girl and gently took a small bundle from her. "Your sons need names. What will you name them?" she asked softly, using the gently accented French of the region. Rodric looked at the florid faces of his twin sons and felt the cavern of his spirit shudder. He picked up the Bible that remained in the Chieftain's hut and idly turned the pages as his heart died within him. He looked at His comfort in times of trouble and saw where he had rested. "Benjamin Reuben will be the firstborn and," he paused, remembering the sons of Jacob, "Ben-oni Judah will be his brother." Rodric's strength left him at that moment. He crumpled softly to the floor as the bitter winds of grief and loss blew over his fragile spirit. My life, my love is dead, Lord! his anguished heart cried. How can I go on?A song, sweet and pure, broke through his grief, pouring over him in soft waves. The African midwife cradled Ben-oni Judah as she left the hut to tend to the children and prepare their mother for the funeral pyre. "Because He lives, I can face tomorrow…" Because they live, Lord Rodric thought at that moment and again as he knelt at Shelly's gravestone. He leaned over and placed a soft kiss on the cold, unfeeling marble. Because they live, Lord Rodric prayed silently, turning to gaze softly at the faces, so precious to him, with mingled joy and grief. Because they live, I will go on.
**Author note: Bejamin means "son of the right hand" and Reuben means "Behold a son!". Ben-oni means "child of my sorrow" and Judah means "Praised"
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