Chapter Two: A Kingdom Cleansed
When I look back upon those years of Josiah's strength, they shine to me like the noon sun — bright, holy, and brief. The fires that once burned for false gods were extinguished, and the smoke that rose from Jerusalem at last smelled clean again. The temple was no longer a place of dust and cobwebs but of singing. I remember standing upon the terrace of the palace, hearing the Levites chant psalms that had long been forgotten. The sound caught my breath — a city reborn through repentance. Yet even as joy returned to Jerusalem, I sensed the weight upon my son's shoulders. The reforms he led were fierce and relentless; he uprooted idols not only from the city but from every village under his hand. Many grumbled in secret. Men who had grown rich through the worship of Baal whispered curses behind him. Nobles came to me pleading that I soften his zeal.
"Your Majesty," they would say, "the king's fervor divides the people. There must be balance."
I listened, though my eyes often drifted to the temple hill where smoke from the new altars rose like prayers.
"Better a kingdom divided by truth," I answered, "than united in deceit."
Josiah came to me one evening, exhausted yet burning with the same light that seemed to grow brighter with each passing year.
"Mother," he said, "there is still filth hidden in the hills of Ephraim. I have sent men north, but I fear the hearts of the people are not yet turned."
I poured him water and sat by his side. "The hearts of the people will follow the heart of their king. Do not measure their devotion by haste. It is enough that you show them the way."
He smiled faintly, though weariness shadowed his face.
"Sometimes I wonder if I fight an endless war — not against enemies, but against memory itself."
"It is not your war alone," I reminded him. "You fight for the honor of One greater than any throne. And He fights beside you."
I often thought that Josiah's greatest battle was not with men, but with the ghosts of his forefathers — Manasseh and Amon — whose sins had soaked the land like blood into earth. Yet even that stain began to fade under his rule. When he reached the fullness of his youth, I began to think of his future, and the future of Judah through him. A king might rule by righteousness, yet a dynasty endured through children. So, it fell upon me to find him a wife.
It was not an easy task. Many presented noble daughters, women of beauty and lineage, but I sought something rarer — a heart inclined toward the fear of the Lord. For I had learnt from my own life that beauty is fleeting, and rank means little before heaven's gaze. One day, while attending to matters of charity near the southern quarters of the city, I met a young woman named Hamutal. She was the daughter of Jeremiah of Libnah, a priestly family devoted to temple service. She spoke little, yet when she did, her words were clothed in grace. When I asked her what she feared most in life, she answered,
"Only to forget the Lord who gives breath to my lips."
Such an answer stirred me deeply. I returned to the palace certain that God Himself had guided me to her. When Josiah first met her, he was quiet — studying her with that thoughtful gaze he often wore when weighing judgments. Later, he came to me and said,
"Mother, you see clearly even where I do not. She is gentle, but her eyes have the strength of someone who prays more than she speaks."
I smiled. "Then you are evenly matched."
Their marriage was a simple one by royal measure — not a show of jewels and banners, but an offering of gratitude.
That night, as I watched them stand before the altar together, I prayed silently that their union would birth both peace and continuation of righteousness. Months turned into years, and joy entered the palace like spring returning after long winter. I remember the day Jehoahaz was born — my first grandson. His cry pierced the dawn air, sharp and living. I held him in my arms, and for a moment, I thought of Josiah's first cry years ago, when I was younger and trembling with uncertainty.
"May he walk in the ways of his father," I whispered over the infant's brow. "And may he never forget the God who showed mercy to our house."
We celebrated that day not with feasting alone but with prayer. Josiah, still young yet already seasoned by leadership, knelt beside Hamutal and gave thanks publicly at the temple.
All Jerusalem rejoiced, not merely for the birth of a prince, but for the hope of a lineage untainted by idolatry.
In those days, Judah prospered. Grain filled our storehouses; peace reigned at the borders. Prophets who once cried of wrath began to speak of rest. I often thought that perhaps this was the redemption our fathers had long awaited — that the covenant had at last found renewal. Still, a whisper of foreboding sometimes troubled my spirit.
The older I grew, the more I found my dreams speaking to me in riddles. Some were gentle — visions of rivers or stars — but others left me waking in cold sweat, unable to shake the feeling of something dark drawing near. One such night I dreamed of a field drenched in mist. I saw my son riding forth in shining armor, his face lit with determination. But when I called to him, he turned — and I saw an arrow pierce his chest. His body fell, and the earth swallowed him. Blood stained the soil, spreading like ink upon parchment. Then I heard a voice — one I had not heard for years — the voice of Huldah.
"Daughter of grace," it whispered, "the years of mercy are not years without cost."
I awoke in anguish, heart beating like a drum. For days I could not bring myself to speak of it. Yet as time passed, I understood that the dream had not been given for fear, but for warning. I chose to keep it in my heart — praying that what I had seen might be averted by obedience.
The years that followed were filled with both glory and unease. Across the great rivers, empires stirred. Egypt to the south grew bold under Pharaoh Necho, who sought to march north against the rising might of Babylon. Messengers brought word that Egypt desired passage through our lands. When Josiah told me his intent to stand in opposition, my heart froze.
"Son," I said, "you are not called to meddle in every war that passes your door. Let the kings of the nations fight their battles. Judah's place is to serve the Lord in quietness."
He frowned, his jaw set. "Mother, if Necho passes through our soil, he brings with him the curse of all Egypt's gods. Shall I stand idle while our land is defiled?"
I grasped his hands. "You fight for righteousness but listen — not all battles please the Lord. Has He spoken to you on this matter?" His silence was answer enough. I wanted to shake him, to plead as I once did when he was a child reaching too close to fire.
"Josiah," I whispered, "do not forget that zeal without counsel leads to ruin. Pray first — seek the Lord before any march."
He turned away, staring toward the horizon as though he could already see the plains of Megiddo stretching before him. "Mother, my duty is clear. The Lord blessed me with courage — I must use it to defend what is holy." And though I begged, I could not reach him.
In those days, I often went alone to the temple's outer court. I would sit upon the cold stones and breathe the incense-scented air, speaking softly to the Almighty.
"Lord," I prayed, "You who saved me from false gods and turned my son's heart toward You, do not let his zeal destroy him. Spare the life You once blessed me with." No answer came — only the wind sighing through the cedar beams above. Yet even in silence, I trusted. For how could I not? The God who took me from darkness had never once abandoned me. Still, I wished He would let me bargain, just once, as a mother to a friend.