For This Child I Prayed

Chana, wife of Elkanah of Efrat, stepped out of the doorway of her home, perched on a high ridge on the mountain of Ephraim. A soft breeze danced between her and the ridge opposite her, as though mocking her by saying, “Even we, the hills, are two… and you? You’re alone.”

“I’m not alone!” she flared at the silent ridge. “My husband, Elkanah, awaits me at home,” she told the pastures spread out before her. “My husband, a Levi, is a choshuve man, equal to thirty-one tzaddikim of the generation. He’s one of two hundred prophets who prophesied to the people of Israel but whose prophecy wasn’t recorded for future generations. He carries the burden of the people upon his heart,” she cried silently.

The wind stilled, and Chana sat down in the courtyard of her home — quiet, sad, empty. After some time, she felt someone’s eyes on her. She turned and saw her husband Elkanah standing in the doorway, looking at her sadly. She stared at him with a look that encapsulated the pain of the past decade of childlessness, a look that rent the air with the cry, “Give me children… and if not, it’s as if I’m dead.”

Elkanah approached her, to calm her, to comfort her, to instill hope within her. Chana snapped out of her wallowing and said, “I’m not the first barren woman. Our Imahos came before me, and they paved the way.”