Read: Esther 1-10 (note especially Esther 2)

Now Esther was admired by all who saw her. When Esther was taken to King Ahasuerus in his royal palace in the tenth month, which is the month of Tebeth, in the seventh year of his reign, the king loved Esther more than all the other women; of all the virgins she won his favor and devotion, so that he set the royal crown on her head and made her queen instead of Vashti (Esther 2:15c-17, NRSV).

I celebrated my 35^th birthday the other day. It was no big deal—just a few close friends in my private rooms at the palace. Well, they’re not completely private. Nothing ever is for a queen. But they’re the best I can do under the circumstances.

You’d be surprised at how circumscribed my life is as queen. For instance, the only men I could invite to the party were eunuchs. Fortunately, the palace eunuchs ARE some of my closest friends, so I don’t much mind that particular restriction.

Toward the end of the party, I found myself sitting out on the balcony enjoying a nightcap with Hegai. He and I go way back. In fact, he’s been watching out for me since my first days at the palace. Anyway, we were sitting out there enjoying the moonlight when Hegai looked me straight in the eye and asked, “So, do you have any regrets?”

Without a moment’s hesitation I said, “Just that I didn’t hide in the pantry of Cousin Mordecai’s house the day of the king’s dragnet.”

Even in the moonlight I could see his eyes sparkle. He raised his glass and said, “I can’t say as I blame you, my dear. But in light of everything, aren’t you at least a little glad that things turned out the way they did?”

What a question. Am I glad I didn’t get to marry the nice Jewish boy I had my eye on? Am I glad I was taken from my home and forced into marriage with a heathen king? And not just any heathen king, but Ahasuerus—who is not by any stretch of the imagination the brightest light in the harbor?

No. In a word, I am not glad about any of those things. I said as much and set down my goblet so abruptly that some of the wine sloshed out.

But you can’t pull anything over on Hegai. After this many years in charge of the king’s harem, he knows when a woman has more to say. So, he just sat there in silence and waited me out.

“Ok, fine!” I admitted at last. “I don’t regret the way God used me to save my people from Haman’s genocidal plot.”

“Well, there you go,” he replied gently. “I hope you’ll remember that on the bad days. And I hope the good days outnumber the bad ones in all the years ahead. Happy birthday, dear Esther!” With that, he knocked back the last of the wine in his goblet, bowed deeply, and backed out the door.

It may surprise you that he was so formal in his exit. But that’s the thing. Nobody touches the queen except her closest female attendants. Not even one of her oldest friends.

I sat for a long time in the moonlight after he left. To be honest, I try to avoid moments like these; there’s too much room for self-reflection. And self-reflection can slip into self-pity in an awful hurry.

Not that I’m asking for your pity. I’m a queen, after all. I never go hungry, and I’m surrounded by unimaginable luxury. But designer dresses and sumptuous banquets don’t make me any less lonely.

So, I fill my days doing as much as I can for other people. For instance, I’ve started a school for the king’s concubines. They lead a boring life, after all, and I think women’s intelligence is hugely underrated. It makes me furious when I think of all that untapped potential!

I’m also thinking about opening a counseling center for them. I’d have to do it on the quiet, of course, since Ahasuerus and his ego probably wouldn’t approve. But I’m certain Hegai would support me on it.

Why all the concern for the concubines, you ask? Well, I’ve walked a mile in their sandals, you might say. And, at the risk of “too much information,” I’m also grateful for every time they keep King Ahasuerus away from me.

Ponder: Novelist Susan Dworkin has written a contemporary re-telling of Esther’s story called The Book of Candy (Four Walls Eight Windows, 1996). At the end of the book, the protagonist imagines “poor Esther—doing life for her people.” Have you ever thought about what Esther’s life might have been like after the official end of her story in the Bible? Do you think she lived happily ever after? Why or why not?

Pray: Teach us to be faithful to you even when life doesn’t turn out the way we’d hoped.

Read: Luke 10:38-42 (See also John 11:1-45 and 12:1-7)

Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, “Lord, do you not care than my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.” But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” (Luke 10:38-42, NRSV)

Martha wiped the wooden bowl and set it on the shelf with a sigh. It was a sigh of satisfaction—one she often released at the end of the day when her kitchen was set to rights.

Of course, she hadn’t always felt so at ease about her role as “chief cook and bottle washer.” But that was water under the bridge. She’d moved on now. These days she was more at ease with who she was, and the memory of that episode brought no lingering sense of chagrin. On the contrary, she loved to linger over the way Jesus had said her name. “Martha, Martha…” He’d said it twice—and gently, as if it meant a lot to him. Even in the moment, she’d understood it less as a reprimand than as an invitation.

After hanging up her apron, she poured two small cups of wine and carried them outside. Mary looked up from the bench in their courtyard and smiled. This evening ritual was something they both looked forward to. Sometimes they used the time to talk about the past—mining their memories for undiscovered treasures. Other times—like tonight—they were content to sit silently in each other’s company, listening to the hush that fell like a benediction on the day.

Martha smiled and glanced fondly at her sister. Mary had taken longer to get past Jesus’ words than Martha had. For weeks after what they’d come to call “the incident,” Mary had made an absolute pest of herself, constantly inserting herself into every household chore. Honestly, she was harder to shake than a bur. One day, after an awkward tug of war over a dishtowel, Martha had finally lost her patience. “Stop overcompensating!” she’d yelled. It was cathartic, in a way. And in the end, they’d worked out a kind of detente. Mary would offer to help, and when that help was welcome, Martha would accept it. When it wasn’t she’d say so, and Mary would go away with equally good grace. Simple as that. Done and dusted.

Some years later, Lazarus had died—again. With an unsettling sense of déjà vu, they’d returned from the tomb to find the house overflowing with mourners. Some of them—in Martha’s estimation—were there more out of curiosity than grief. It was as if they wanted to be there just in case Lazarus might show up and shout, “Surprise!”

Mary had been a wreck. Grief was one thing; morbid curiosity was quite another. Rushing back to the kitchen—ostensibly to fetch another platter of stuffed grape leaves—Mary had hidden her face in her hands and tried to stifle a sob.

Martha had taken one look at Mary and handed her the dishtowel. “Stay right where you are,” she’d ordered and marched back into their over-crowded living room.

Conversation—and speculation—had stopped abruptly at Martha’s appearance. “Friends, neighbors, and guests,” she’d said to the sea of upturned faces. “My sister and I can’t thank you enough for your expressions of comfort at this difficult time. Those of you who actually knew our brother Lazarus…” She paused to glance meaningfully around the room, and some of the guests had the grace to look sheepish. “Those of you who knew Lazarus can testify to the fact that he passed his last days in peace. He knew he was close to death—who would know better, after all! But he faced the prospect with hope, knowing that our risen Lord would be there to greet him.”

At that, a murmur had rippled through the crowd. Martha waited until it had died down. Then she’d said, “I will miss our brother, of course. But I am as convinced as he was that one day Jesus will stand outside my tomb. ‘Martha, Martha,’ he’ll say. ‘Come forth!’”

A hush had fallen over the room like a benediction.

Martha had turned on her heel and gone back to the kitchen.

Ponder: What parts of this imagined continuation of Martha’s story seem most convincing to you? Why or why not?

Pray: May we live long enough to learn the lessons you’ve tried to teach us.

Read: Jonah 1-4

When God saw that [the people of Nineveh] did, how they turned from their evil ways, God changed his mind about the calamity that he had said he would bring upon them; and he did not do it. But this was very displeasing to Jonah, and he became angry. He prayed to the LORD and said, “O LORD! Is not this what I said while I was still in my own country? That is why I fled to Tarshish at the beginning; for I knew that you are a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, and ready to relent from punishing. And now, O LORD, please take my life from me, for it is better for me to die than to live” (Jonah 3:10-4:3, NRSV).

I can’t believe I actually said that to God. Seriously! Everyone everywhere celebrates the fact that God is gracious and merciful. Only I had the temerity to complain about it!

Oy. It’s so embarrassing. I can’t believe God didn’t turn me into a cinder for saying it. But God is slow to anger, and so I’m still alive to tell you about what has happened since the official end of my story.

In short, I finally got the point. What point? you ask. The one about grace. The one that God had tried repeatedly to teach me. First, there was the fish. Now, I’ll be the first to admit that being swallowed by a huge fish did not feel like grace at the time. But it saved me from a watery grave, and once I scraped off the fish vomit, I could see it for the reprieve that it was.

Then God gave me a second chance to do what God had ordered me to do in the first place: preach to the people of Nineveh. This time I did as I was told, but I’ll be the first to admit I did it with “ill grace.” Never was there a shorter sermon preached with less enthusiasm. “Forty days more and Nineveh shall be overthrown!” I hurled it at them like a piece of dried dung.

To my surprise, they repented all over the place. Shoot, even the cattle sported sackcloth and cried “mightily to God.” God was impressed, and—true to form—forgave them!

This was not at all what I’d signed on for. I hated those Ninevites. My people had a history with Ninevites. So, to say that I was angry wouldn’t begin to cover it. I wasn’t angry; I was incandescent. So, I pitched a fit and begged God to kill me.

Fortunately, God ignored that request and gave me something I didn’t ask for: grace. You’d have thought I’d have been more receptive to that message after the fish affair, but what can I say. I’m a slow learner. In fact, it took yet another object lesson to finally get the lesson of grace to sink in. I guess you could say the “worm” was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Sorry if I’m mixing my metaphors, there, but hey. It’s hard to put into words.

So, what happened next? Well, it was touch and go for a few days. I hung around outside the city of Nineveh weighing my options. But finally, I knew what I had to do.

These days I’ve set up shop smack in the middle of the city of Nineveh. I run a discount fish market. The smell reminds me of God’s grace. I don’t preach much anymore, but I do love to chat with my customers about how God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, and ready to relent from punishing. I should know, after all!

Ponder: What does it say about us when we’d rather die than to see our enemies find forgiveness? What are some of the things that make forgiveness complicated for you?

Pray: Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.

Introducing a New Series: “Now What?”

Have you ever wondered what might happen next to some of your favorite biblical characters? For instance, what happens to Esther after she saves her people? Does she really live happily ever after with King Ahasuerus?

Or what about Jonah? Does he ever really understand what God has been trying to teach him about grace? If so, what decisions might he make about what to do with the rest of his life?

In this series, we’ll be following up on some of my favorite biblical characters and asking, “Now what?” Of course, such wonderings lead us beyond traditional interpretation and into the imaginative territory of midrash. But I think it might be fun—and I think it might make us look at our own lives and ask the same question.

Enjoy!

Carol M. Bechtel