We continue the story of the woman of Judges 19. In the scriptural account, we read that on the morning after the attack, the woman’s husband “opened the doors of the house, and when he went out to go on his way, there was his concubine lying at the door of the house, with her hands on the threshold. ‘Get up,’ he said to her, ‘we are going.’ But there was no answer.”
Friday
“Where am I? Oh, I hurt! I can’t walk—what did they do to me? Am I safe now? . . . Where can I go? The house where he is—the one who gave me over to these men—it’s over there . . . if I can just make it to the door. . . . It’s not all that far—I had no idea we were so close to the house. That means he must have heard what was going on! . . . Just give me the strength to get to the door—I want him to see me. . . . Just a bit farther. . . . Just a few more feet. . . . Let them hear me knocking! . . . my body—how it aches! I’m feeling strange—God, are you here? God, if you can, take care of me! O God . . . ” (From Dorri Sherrill)
She died with her hands on the threshold. This image is the most haunting of all for me. In a strange town, in an unfamiliar place, she goes to the only place she knows, this place of uncertain security. And with her hands on the threshold—of hope, of a touch, perhaps of revenge, perhaps of a final mercy, perhaps of a sister (what did happen to that virgin daughter whom the host offered?)—she dies.
I imagine her with her hands on the threshold, her fingers pointing west. I imagine her with her hands empty, having flung her spirit toward the house of the dying sun, toward the land of no-turning-back, toward the hills of the last light. I imagine her hands splayed in supplication to the guardians of the gates of night, may they draw her safely through. I imagine her pointing the way toward the Great Sea, the Mediterranean; toward salt, toward land’s edge, toward water’s birth, toward moon’s rising, toward the place where they wait for her, toward the home of safe return.
—Jan Richardson
Questions for reflection
To what does this woman point in her own life, and in yours?
From Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson
