Chapter Four: Return to a Land Changed
When we finally crossed the border of Israel, something inside me tightened like a drawn bowstring. The air smelled different—drier, thinner, carrying memories like dust. Ammiel walked ahead a few steps, eager, scanning every hill, every tree, as though each might reveal a piece of the life he barely remembered. I, however, could not walk so lightly. The land held too much of me—parts I had tried to forget, and parts I feared would bury me again.
The closer we came to Shunem, the more the landscape betrayed the famine's scars. Stunted trees. Cracked earth. Abandoned stone walls. Fields that once carried proud stalks of wheat now lay bare and wounded. I felt my ribs tighten beneath my cloak. Seven years is long enough for a land to forget its people. By midday, our old village appeared on the horizon—smaller than I remembered, quieter, as though the famine had bruised even its voice. The houses were fewer; some stood roofless, surrendered to wind and time. Ammiel's pace slowed as uncertainty caught up to him.
"Mother…" he whispered, "are you sure this is home?"
I took his hand gently.
"It is where our story began. And where it must continue."
But inside, I asked myself the same question he had asked. When we entered Shunem proper, heads turned. Strangers paused in their walking; a few older women squinted, their brows furrowing as if recognizing a shadow of a memory.
"Yael?" one finally whispered, covering her mouth. "Is it truly you?"
I nodded, offering a weary smile. The woman stepped forward and pulled me into a tight embrace. Tamar—my neighbor from years past. Her hair was thinner now, her back bent.
"We thought you lost," she murmured. "Some said you died in the famine. Some said you went to dwell with kin."
"I went where the Lord sent me," I answered softly.
Her gaze drifted to Ammiel behind me, taller than she remembered, more a man than a child. She crossed herself in shock.
"And he…? Blessed be God, he lives."
"Yes," I whispered, voice thick. "He lives."
But she was not the only one watching. Several villagers stood at a distance, murmuring. Some recognized me. Some did not. Some looked at Ammiel with curiosity—perhaps remembering the rumors that had once swirled around our house, the quiet suspicion that had followed his birth. And then Tamar said the words I had dreaded:
"Your house… Yael… it is no longer yours."
I felt the ground shift beneath me.
"What do you mean?"
"After the famine struck, after Eliab died… the king's stewards seized many empty properties. Yours was among them. It belongs to the crown now."
I closed my eyes briefly. The room where my child had been resurrected. The courtyard where Eliab had paced in conflict. The storeroom where I had prayed for years. All of it—taken. Not stolen but claimed by law.
Ammiel looked between us, confusion tightening his brow.
"Mother… what does that mean for us?"
"It means," Tamar said gently, "that only the king may restore what was taken."
The king. The thought was both terrifying and humiliating. I, a woman with no husband, no protector, would need to stand before the throne. I felt the past rise like a tide—every moment of fear, every injustice, every humiliation endured in silence. And yet, a quiet resolve formed inside me. I had faced death. I had faced exile. I had buried my son, and I had carried him alive again from the prophet's chamber. I would face the king.
"Elisha is in Samaria," Tamar added softly. "I heard he has been there regularly. Perhaps… perhaps his presence will help you."
At his name, my breath steadied. The man whose prophecy had shaped my destiny. The man who had seen my soul more clearly than my husband ever had.
"Yes," I murmured. "I will go to Samaria."
The journey to the capital took two days. Ammiel walked silently, sensing the weight of our purpose. He had entered the age where boys begin to understand the world's harshness. And yet, his presence steadied me. His resilience reminded me that God had not forgotten us—not when he lay lifeless upon a prophet's bed, not in the land of the Philistines, and not now. Samaria loomed ahead bustling, guarded, imposing. I held Ammiel's hand as we passed the gates. The guards questioned us, scrutinizing our worn garments, our travel bags, and the dust on our feet. But when I mentioned I sought an audience regarding land seized during the famine, they eventually relented.
"Report to the royal hall at dawn," one guard instructed. "The king will hear petitions then." We found a small inn for the night—crowded, noisy, smelling of sweat and roasting meat. Ammiel curled beside me, exhausted. I lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the sounds of strangers' conversations drifting through the thin walls.
What if the king refused me?
What if he dismissed me as a foreigner, one returning only to reclaim what she had abandoned?
What if he questioned Ammiel's lineage?
What if—
"Mother?" Ammiel whispered in the darkness. "Are you afraid?"
I hesitated. "A little."
"Are we alone here?"
His question pierced deeper than he knew.
For seven years I had carried the heavy truth that his father had not fully accepted him, that suspicion had shaped his early years. But the boy beside me—the boy who had once been a lifeless weight in my arms—was now old enough to sense such things. I took his hand.
"No," I murmured. "We are not alone. And we never have been."
He nodded, trusting me utterly. And that trust strengthened my courage.
Morning came. Harsh, bright, unyielding. The royal hall was already crowded when we arrived—widows, farmers, soldiers with petitions, merchants with grievances. But at the far end of the hall, beside the king's seat, stood a familiar figure. Gehazi. Older now. Thinner. But unmistakably him.
A shock of recognition stabbed me. Memories flooded back—the staff he had carried to my lifeless child, the urgency in his movements, the disappointment when the miracle did not come through him. I felt Ammiel stiffen beside me. He remembered too. The king spoke with Gehazi in a low voice. Then—unexpectedly, impossibly—Gehazi's eyes lifted and found mine. His expression changed, a mixture of surprise and something like reverence. He nudged the king gently and whispered. The king looked toward us, his eyebrows rising in interest.
"Bring them forward," he commanded.
My breath hitched. Ammiel squeezed my hand. We stepped into the open space before the throne. My knees trembled, but I stood tall. Gehazi gestured toward us with animated urgency.
"My lord the king," he said, "this is the woman—Yael of Shunem—whose son the prophet Elisha restored to life."
A murmur rippled through the hall. Ammiel's eyes widened, startled. The king leaned forward, studying me with fascination.
"Is this true?" he asked.
I knelt, lowering my head. "Yes, my lord. The Lord gave my son breath again through your prophet."
"And this"—his gaze turned to Ammiel— "is the child who died and lived?"
Ammiel swallowed hard, then nodded respectfully. I could feel the weight of every eye on us. The king leaned back, astonished.
"For seven years Gehazi has spoken of your miracle, and now God Himself has brought you here."
He turned to a scribe.
"Record this: restore to her all that was hers. Her house, her land, every harvest taken during her absence. Let none oppose her claim."
My breath shattered into relief. Tears pricked my eyes.
"And see," the king added, "that she and her son are escorted safely to Shunem. Their return is a testimony."
Ammiel exhaled—a sound of disbelief, joy, release. I bowed deeply.
"May God bless your justice, my lord," I whispered.
When we stepped away from the throne, Gehazi approached me quietly.
"Elisha spoke truth over you," he said softly. "And now the truth has spoken for you." I opened my mouth to reply, but emotion stole my voice. I simply bowed my head.
Ammiel looked between us, eyes shining.
"Mother… we're going home."
Not as exiles. Not as beggars. But as ones whom God remembered. Yes. We were going home.