He came with the twilight, as the sun sank below the horizon; a ball of orange fire sinking into the Great Sea.  Filaments of cloud glowed scarlet, and the ethereal beauty of the sunset hid the barrenness of the landscape beneath.  His clothes were simple but rough, and a belt encircled his waist.

Standing off to the side of the road, bent over and slowly collecting sticks as I was, I was hoping he wouldn’t see me in the dusk, but he must have, for he called in a croaky voice, “Give me a little water in a cup.  I need a drink.”

Foreign sounding, I thought.  I wondered where he came from.  From the sound of his voice, he had not drunk for some time.  Travelling?  Or running away?

At least we still had some water, so I straightened up and laboriously turned towards the well to get him some, but his voice stopped me: “…and bring me some bread as well?”

His voice reminded me of my husband’s voice in the last few days before he died.  Croaking.  Weakening.  Dying.  So many had died of starvation and wasting disease during this terrible, never-ending drought.  But what could I do to help?  I wasn’t so far off dead myself.

“I have no bread, nor anything baked at all,” I said.  “All I have is a handful of flour and ever so little oil in a jug.  That’s it.”  It was, too.  I had measured the flour that morning, and it didn’t quite fill my hand – even little Yeled might have been able to hold it in his small hand.  As for the oil, no container I have could really gather the few remaining drops out of the jug I store it in.  The only way to use it was to pour it out, with maybe a scraper to help, and that was just what I had planned to do.  “I was just collecting some sticks to light a fire and cook a last meal for myself and my son,” I added. “After that, we die.”  Poor little Yeled.  I hope it will be quick.  It has been months since we last got any flour, and I have been eking it out, giving as much as I can to Yeled, and hardly eating any myself.  It all seems so unfair.  All I want to do is to look after him, but to do so I must eat some of the food he needs, or become too weak to help him.

“Don’t be afraid,” he replied. “Go and do that – but make me some first, then make some for yourself and your son, because this is what Yahweh the God of Israel says: ‘The jar of flour will not run out, and the jug of oil will not be empty before the Lord sends rain on the earth again.’[1] ”

Sometimes when everything is going wrong and there seems no way out of a problem, exhaustion is actually a help.  If I had been well-fed and strong, maybe I would have argued more and told him what I thought of his selfishness – fancy demanding that I feed him first!  I had no way of knowing whether this promise of his was trustworthy or not.  For all I knew, it could have been a heartless ruse to steal the very last of the food from our mouths.  But I was tired.  So tired.  What he offered sounded unbelievable, but the mention of the God of Israel gave me pause.  The God of Israel still has quite a reputation among the nations for some amazing miracles – although most of them were centuries ago.  And anyway, I couldn’t leave a wandering stranger without any food or hospitality.  It wouldn’t be right.

After fetching some water, I went and did what the visitor had said.  A cake of bread for him, and then I went to make some for us.  That was all it took to know that he was telling the truth.  After I had popped his bread in our little clay oven, I peered into the jar – no more flour than there had been, but definitely no less either.  This was amazing enough, but it was looking in the jug that was an overwhelming revelation to me.  There had been so little oil that I needed a scraper to scoop it out, but as I gazed in wonder, it was clear that there was now enough oil in the jug that I would be able to pour it out when cooking our next meal.  Our next meal.  There was a wonderful feel to those words.  No longer was life a foreshortened story in which I was writing the last few words – now there was hope.

Was the man a magician, or was this the work of the God of Israel?  This became the burning question in my mind over the next few months.  Religion had never been important in our house – my husband considered the gods of Sidon, particularly Baal, stupid and cruel.  He was cautious about what he said in public, but when we were alone, his words were cutting.  I remember his words on one particular occasion: “If she is the sort of worshipper Baal wants, then I don’t want Baal as my god.  She lies, she cheats, she steals, and now she murders anyone who stands in her way.”  This outburst was sparked by some news we heard about a massacre of prophets of Yahweh – organised by our own princess Jezebel, who was now King Ahab’s queen in Israel.  I couldn’t disagree.  Jezebel had never been a favourite of mine - more spoiled brat than regal queen, and the way she used to paint her eyes…but don’t get me started.  Jezebel is not a good advertisement for Baal.

But Elijah was a good advertisement for Yahweh.  He kept his promises.  He worked hard around the house.  He cared for me and for my son – a widow and a fatherless child – without ever taking advantage of me or making the situation difficult between us.

Over the time he stayed with us, I learned a lot about the God of Israel, but still I had my doubts.  Elijah was always talking about Yahweh, how powerful he was and how compassionate.  But the drought continued.  For  sure, Elijah had power: we ate the evidence every day!  But it seemed obvious to me that he could not end the drought, or surely he would have done so as he saw how much everybody was suffering.  So was Yahweh really the one who was causing the drought?  It seemed a cruel thing to do, although I could see Elijah’s argument that it was not as cruel as the worship of Baal or Molech which God was trying to stop.  I suppose that it was the worship of other gods that caused widows like me and fatherless children like Yeled to starve to death well before the rich and powerful even began to suffer.  One long drought would be nothing, despite all the suffering it caused, if we could only learn from it and abandon the heartless and selfish habits spawned by the idols we worship.

So my doubts stayed with me, even though I saw the flour replenished every day, and used the miraculous oil in each new morning’s cooking.

It was probably the only way to get through my doubting and teach me to trust God: Yeled died.  In just a few days, he was transformed from a happy, smiling lad to a cold and pallid corpse.  The eyes, which reminded me so much of his gentle father, were lifeless, and my reason for living was gone.  I was completely alone in the world.  I took out my anger and grief on Elijah and his God, complaining that it was God who had killed him because I was a sinner.  In my grief it seemed that God was punishing me for doubting him, and maybe he was – how could I know?  Whether it was punishment or not, I cannot tell, but I do know that it was through my son’s resurrection that I gained complete confidence and certainty in the God of Israel.  Now, I praise Yahweh, the God of Israel and give thanks to him every day for life and food and everything.

You see, when Elijah raised my son, he finally convinced me that it was God who was doing all of the miracles.  His urgent plea to Yahweh that Yeled’s life and breath should return to him was so moving and so persuasive.  It was truly Yahweh who gave me back my little Yeled.  Joyful, laughing Yeled.

And then, one day, Elijah was gone.  He went with the sunrise, early in the morning, as the sun began to stain the clouds with crimson.  His upper room stands empty, but the flour still multiplies, and the oil continues to flow.  No rain has come yet, but the comfort of knowing that food will continue for Yeled and me until the rain does come, that helps me to rest in Yahweh, my God.

[1] 1 Kings 17:13-14