Please

Please, please, please.

Tirzah buried her face in her hands, the word pounding through her head with every beat of her heart.

Please, Lord, please. Don’t let her die. Please, don’t let her die.

“Ima?” A little hand tugged at her skirt. “Ima, I’m hungry.”

Another hollow cough sounded from the bedroom. Tirzah swallowed hard and wiped at her eyes. Chuza’s round face stared up at her inquisitively, one hand still latched on her skirt, the other clutching a trailing piece of net.

Abigail burst into the house, grabbing at her little brother’s arm. “Chuza! I told you not to bother Ima. She’s helping Savta. You need to stay outside.”

Chuza stuck his lower lip out in a pout. “But I’m hungry!”

“You can wait,” Abigail chided, pulling him toward the door.

Tirzah bent and pressed a kiss to the little boy’s head. “I’ll bring you a snack,” she whispered, “but stay outside, thelazo. Your grandma needs rest.”

Abigail nudged her brother outside but paused in the doorway. Her big dark eyes grew especially large and serious. “Is Savta doing badly again?”

Tirzah nodded, sudden tears prickling the corners of her eyes. But she blinked them back. Her daughter did not need to see her cry.

Forcing a smile, she added, “Keep praying, Abigail. Adonai will hear.”

“I will.” Abigail gave her one more serious glance, then disappeared outside.

Left alone, Tirzah dropped her head into her hands once more.

Adonai will hear.

Would He, though?

Would the God of all Creation hear her pleas? She was nothing to Him. Just a woman of Capernaum, wife of a humble fisherman, mother of three young children. She had nothing that would call His attention or earn His favor.

She was quiet and simple Tirzah, as normal as normal could be.

The sound of coughing once more echoed from the upstairs bedroom. Hot tears seeped out from under her closed lids, wetting her palms.

Please, Lord… Hear me. Don’t let her die, please.

Shouts rang from outside. “Abba! Abba!”

Tirzah straightened with a jerk. Hananiah must have found Simon. Thank God. She needed her husband.

Before she was halfway to the door, though, Simon swept in. Two strong arms pulled her close, and his calloused, work-worn hand cradled her head. Tirzah leaned into him without a word, moisture stinging her eyelids.

Simon’s beard brushed her head cloth as he whispered, “Is she alright?”

Tirzah shook her head. “I’ve done all I can. She’s getting worse. She doesn’t even recognize me anymore.”

A sigh heaved her husband’s broad shoulders. Bowing his head, he began a whispered prayer, pleading for mercy, healing, and peace for his family.

Tirzah squeezed her eyes tightly shut. A thousand feelings swelled in her chest, but she did not have the strength to put them into words. The only prayer she could pray was the one she had been murmuring for days:

Please, Adonai. Don’t let her die. Help us. Please.

But would the Lord even hear her prayers amid in the sea of requests that bombarded His holy Throne?

Soft footsteps paused in the doorway.

Tirzah lifted her head, scrubbing at her eyes. Chuza had probably come back to inquire after his tardy snack.

But instead of her young son, a Man stood in the doorway. He was small Man. Nothing special. Average height. Average build. Craggy, weatherbeaten face. 

But His eyes.

Tears filled Tirzah’s vision again. Jesus.

Simon shifted around to face his Master, still holding Tirzah close. “It’s her mother, Rabbi. She’s very ill. Been ill for a long time, and now… She’s dying.”

Simon hesitated for a moment, then plowed forward with his usual boldness. “Rabbi, I have seen You do miracles, and I know the Lord is with You. Could You–would You–help us?”

Tirzah couldn’t speak. Emotion’s iron fingers held her voice captive, but her heart raised a desperate prayer to Heaven.

Please, Lord. Please help us.

Jesus’ eyes met hers. A smile filled His face with a glow. “Show Me your mother.”

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Want to read the story in Scripture? Find it in Mark 1:29-31.