B o d i e & B ro c k T h o e n e
and then slept. A trickle of milk escaped my full lips. She wrapped my fingers around her thumb, kissed my forehead, and whispered, “I know who you are. Though your father will name you for a mighty man, a great man, you are my little lamb. You will always be that to me.” My father returned at daybreak. With his hair swept back from his face, he looked like a young man as he stood over Mother and me. “Well?” she asked. “He is to be a servant of the Most High. The Lord has revealed it to me.” She patted the edge of the bed, eagerly inviting my father to sit. “Tell me.” He grabbed a jug of cold milk and took a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he sank down beside her. Father took her hand. “Nehemiah. That is his name. Like the one who rebuilt the walls of Jerusalem. Look at those hands. The hands of a wall builder, don’t you think?” “Nehemiah. Does this mean our son will return to Jerusalem?” my mother ventured. “The Lord has spoken. On behalf of all in my family who remained in exile, our son will return . . . for some mighty purpose, it will be. The Lord has spoken this to me clearly.” “For a mighty purpose. Then I will be content.” : On the eighth day of my life, my father lifted a calloused palm and squinted toward the brightening eastern horizon. The sun had not yet appeared above the peaks of the Bersheesh range, but he studied the fading stars carefully. When he could no 24
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