To the Mishkan

Elkanah’s home was bustling. Travel bags stood ready at the doorway. Chana and Penina, Elkanah’s second wife, were making the final arrangements before the family would journey to the Mishkan in Shiloh. With Penina’s ten children, the oldest only eight years old, setting out on a trip was no small matter.

Four times a year — during the Shalosh Regalim, and once more before Rosh Hashanah — Elkanah and his family would go up to the Mishkan in Shiloh to offer korbanos and bow before Hashem. Precisely on the day the world is judged, the day it’s determined who will die and who will be born, he’d gather his family, his siblings, and all his relatives who lived nearby to go up to the Mishkan and daven on behalf of his wife Chana.

True, Penina’s ten children brought him much joy, but he remained faithful to the promise he’d made to Chana — that he’d never forget her longing for children, never stop davening for her until she cradled a child of her own.

The route Elkanah took to Shilo was different from most people’s — while they sought the quickest, most direct route to their destination, Elkanah would deliberately take a tortuous route, traveling from city to city, setting down his large entourage and their belongings in the town square and then knocking on doors to encourage people to join them in their pilgrimage to the Mishkan.

Elkanah’s dedication to be oleh l’regel and the inspiring example he set paved the way for his son who would one day lead the Jewish people.

Chana’s Pain

“He’s back from the Mishkan!” Penina exclaimed, pointing toward Elkanah. “He’s given korbanos, and now he’ll give out the meat from the Shelamim,” she added, beginning to set the table.

Chana helped her silently, painfully aware of the familiar ritual that repeated itself every time they went to Shilo. Elkanah would come back from the Mishkan, joyful, pleased that he’d davened and brought korbanos. In an effort to make Chana happy, he’d save the best portion of the Shelamim especially for her, as if to say, without words, “I remember the kindness of your youth.”

And she’d silently answer, “My beloved… catch for us the little foxes that ruin the vineyards.”

Elkanah thought the despair in her eyes was solely because of her childlessness. He couldn’t imagine what a nisayon she’d invited into her home, how much she suffered from the sting of Penina’s tongue. Would she tell him that just that very morning, Penina had stepped out of her tent, carrying her infant, her little children trailing behind her, looked at Chana with a smile both tired and smug, and asked, “Have you managed to wash the children’s clothes from the dust of the road yet?”

And when she saw Chana flinch, Penina continued, “Did you remember to buy a robe for our little boy?” The words pierced Chana’s heart, but that didn’t stop Penina from asking, “And what will you be making the children for supper?”

Even during the meal, when Elkanah would choose to sit next to Chana, Penina would beam and keep reminding him, “You didn’t give meat to our firstborn son, and please help our second son, and what about our third son? Look at our fourth — how beautifully he eats! And the fifth is really growing. And don’t forget to choose a tender portion for the sixth and seventh, and do you remember our eighth? And if you can, please help with the little ones….”

Chana’s heart bled.

Drowning in bitterness, she burst into loud tears, pushed away her plate, and fled from the table, unable to eat, unable to speak, with no one to comfort her.

Elkanah watched Chana walk away from the table, weeping, and his heart ached. He rose from his place and went to her, hoping to calm and comfort her. “Why do you cry, and why do you not eat, and why is your heart so sad? Am I not better to you than ten sons?” he asked her.

But Chana, stung by the humiliation she’d endured, heard only despair in his words.

“Have you come to comfort me? Have you accepted the fact that I’m childless, and will remain childless, and all that is left for you to do is to console me?” she asked bitterly.

“Heaven forbid,” Elkanah replied. “I only wanted to remind you that our Imahos were barren and they didn’t sit idly by and bemoan their fate. See my devotion to you, which is greater than my love for Penina’s sons,” he tried to explain, but Chana refused to listen.

“You promised me a decade ago that you wouldn’t forget me, that I wouldn’t walk alone through this bitter trial. And now, look… you come to comfort me? Here’s what I feared. I’m dead!” she said, her words conveying the terror that filled her heart.

Chana walked farther from Elkanah, weeping in sorrow. “I have no one left. It’s just me against the void. Me against the decree. Me and the nothingness, the helplessness, the shame,” she sobbed.

She looked back. She saw the children playing and dancing, saw their mother, Penina, watching them with a satisfied gaze. The pain she felt was deeper than words, more complex than could be understood…. She closed her eyes, as if to shut out the suffocating reality of her life with the mere flutter of an eyelid. She closed her eyes to the world who were busy raising the next generation, leaving her far behind, and said, “Master of the Universe, of all the hosts You created in Your world, is it so hard for You to give me one son?”

A short question.

Piercing.

Probing.

It demanded redress, threatening to shake the world, a world run by the Will of its Creator.

Chana opened her eyes and looked at the mountainous landscape spread before her. In her mind’s eye she saw tables laden with delicacies, and a King seated at the head, conducting His feast in royal splendor. She stood before Him like a pauper at the door — afraid to enter, hesitant to voice her question, her request. All the invited guests were eating and satisfied, while she stood, mortified, in a corner, hoping someone would notice her.

She stretched out her hand. An empty hand. A hand yearning for the smile of a child. A hand begging silently, “Give me just one piece of food. Give me a little to satisfy my desire.”

But no one noticed her loneliness.

Part of her wished to vanish into an abyss from which there is no return, but her desperate need for a child of her own overpowered everything. She pushed forward, making her way to the King’s throne, and there, before the great King, her plea burst out on its own. “My Master, my King, from all this feast You have prepared, is it so hard to give me just one piece of food?”

The question hung in the air, shaking the universe, climbing upward to plead before the King on High.

The Prayer and the Vow

Chana kept weeping, and her steps carried her toward the Mishkan. There she saw Eli the Kohein, who’d been appointed that very day as judge over Israel and Kohein Gadol, sitting at the entrance, beside the doorpost of the Sanctuary.

Chana looked around and noticed there was a rare moment of quiet. The Mishkan was relatively empty. The Kohanim had finished offering the morning korbanos, and the Tamid of the afternoon had not yet begun.

Hesitantly, she stepped forward, her face turned toward the Kodesh Hakodoshim where the Aron Habris stood.

I have no offering to bring as a korban, she thought, but it is known that tefillah is greater than korbanos.

Standing before the holy site of the Mishkan, she felt her brokenness even more, the raging of her soul, threatening to drown her in grief.

With empty hands but a heart ready to burst, Chana began a prayer the likes of which had never been heard within the Mishkan’s walls, a prayer carved out of the depths of pain. It was composed of four walls: a broken heart, emunah temimah, tears, and a vow. Each supported the other, holding the structure in place until Chana would merit to have a child.

“Hashem Tzevakos, if You will indeed see the affliction of Your maidservant…” Chana began. The heavens trembled, the malachim quaked, the earth shook.

Nobody had ever called Hashem by this name until now. “Who is this,” the malachim wondered, “who has revealed this Name, Hashem Tzevakos, to the world?”

Chana lifted her eyes toward the heavens and continued, “The creations of Heaven are Yours, the creations of earth are Yours. Can You not give me just one child? Just one, from among the myriads of creatures You have made? Is it too hard for the Master of the world, Creator of all, to grant me one child out of the millions of beings You have brought into existence?”

Tears streamed down her face as she whispered, “Master of the Universe, there are creatures Above and creatures Below. The creatures Above neither eat nor drink nor reproduce nor die, but live forever in the World to Come. The creatures below eat and drink, reproduce and die, and don’t live forever. I don’t know to which I belong. If I’m a creature from Above, then I need not eat or drink, nor give birth, nor die, but will live forever. But if I’m a creature of Below, then I must give birth and eat and drink, as all earthly creatures are made. For it can’t be that I’m worth less than a creeping creature that moves upon the earth!

“And besides, Creator of the world, Whose glory fills the earth, have You not commanded a woman in three mitzvos: challah, taharah, and lighting the Shabbos candles? I’m Your faithful maidservant. I’ve fulfilled all these with the utmost care. By the merit of these mitzvos, I deserve to have a child!

“I know that it’s written in Your Torah that if a woman strays in her marriage, she is brought before the Kohein Gadol, who puts the Sacred Name into the bitter waters. If she’s innocent, she’ll be blessed with children. Am I to arouse my husband’s suspicion so that I may merit children? Am I to scheme in order to receive my heart’s desire?

“Here I stand before You, my Master, and my request is this: Give me a child who is righteous, wise, and understanding, who will illuminate the world with Torah and maasim tovim. I ask that he have all the virtues that a person can possess, that he be the crown of creation, the pinnacle of perfection, a child equal to Moshe and Aharon, who will merit to anoint kings, and of whom it will be said, ‘For the crown of the anointing oil of his G-d is upon him.’

“This request, Master of the Universe, doesn’t come from a mother’s wish for her son to be perfect, but solely because of the vow I now make: This child You give me will be wholly Yours, set aside for Your service, dedicated to service in holiness all his life. And it’s not fitting to bring before You a servant with any blemish.”

It was the first time anyone had ever combined a vow with a prayer. Until then, we find Yaakov’s vow, Bnei Yisrael’s vow in battle with the Canaanites, and Yiftach’s vow all standing alone, unaccompanied by prayer.

Chana knew that there is danger in making a vow, for it can seem as though one is bargaining with the Creator. Tefillah is the opposite — not argument or negotiation, but submission and pleading from the one who stretches out his hand before Hashem. Chana had the wisdom to combine the two — in her tefillah she placed herself like a pauper before the great King, and through her vow, she clarified that it wasn’t a transaction, but an offering.

The Blessing

As Chana’s heart reached upward to Heaven and her lips moved in a soft, private plea, Eli the Kohein Gadol watched her in puzzlement. “What is Elkanah’s wife doing?” he wondered, straining to hear her words. “If I can’t hear her voice, she must not be praying to her Creator,” he reasoned, for until that day, prayer was always recited aloud. He continued watching, knowing she was a tzadeikes and a neviah. To his astonishment, she continued her silent murmuring for a long time.

The scene before him was strange indeed. Out of respect for her stature, Eli decided to consult the Urim V’Tumim resting over his heart. In response, the letters shin, chaf, reish, hei (which he read as shikorah, drunk) lit up.

It’s all clear now, thought Eli. Chana is praying in the Mishkan while intoxicated. But that is assur; this is a desecration of Heaven. He waited until she seemed to be finished, and then confronted her, “How long will you remain drunk?!”

Chana froze, hot tears burning her eyes. “No, my master,” she whispered, drained from the pure, intense tefillah she’d just poured out. “You haven’t judged me favorably, and you’ve made a mistake. I’m not drunk. No alcohol has entered my mouth. I’m only a lonely, pained woman, a wife without children, a spouse without purpose.

“I’m not drunk, my master. Quite the opposite. I’m kosher like Sarah, a Jewish woman who has endured hard times, tasting the bitterness of Hashem’s nisayon of childlessness just as our mother Sarah did. Could you even imagine that I would pray before the King of Kings in a state of intoxication? Surely you know that one who prays in such a state is as if he worships idols! No… it wasn’t wine flowing from my lips, but the sorrow caused by Penina’s torment of me and the hardships that surround my days. And if you wonder why I didn’t raise my voice in prayer, it’s because sometimes a person reaches a stage where everything is lost… and their voice is lost, too. What is left is a pure inner plea that had no place in the breath of the mouth. Only the One Who searches kidneys and hearts could hear my bitterness.”

Eli, shaken by her words, sought to appease her. “I wronged you and suspected you falsely. I’m obligated to bless you with the blessing of a Kohein,” he said, and hastened to do so. “May the G-d of Israel grant your request which you have asked of Him. And may He give you a son who will amass great wealth in Torah.”

Chana thanked the Kohein Gadol, asking that he continue to pray for her, and left the Mishkan.

Elkanah was waiting in anguish, expecting his wife to return broken and dejected, but behold, she approached him, her face aglow .“What happened, my wife?” Elkanah asked, almost not recognizing the joy and beauty in her face.

“The Kohein Gadol blessed me,” Chana answered, “and revealed a prophecy to me… a son will be born to us, a son I have already consecrated to be a crown of glory!”

The Salvation

It was 28 Iyar. The cry of a newborn pierced the air, bringing to an end 19 and a half long years of barrenness.

An overjoyed Chana — now 130 years old — gathered the infant into arms that had ached for so long to give love. Little Shmuel was born six months and two days into his mother’s pregnancy, but even so, from the moment he entered the world, it was evident that he was destined for greatness, to illuminate it with Torah and good deeds.

Elkanah wished to go up to the Mishkan in Shiloh to thank Hashem for the kindness He’d done for them. Once again, the house filled with travel gear and the frenzy of preparations for the journey, but this time Elkanah’s lips sang and his heart was light.

“My husband, this time I will not go up with you to the House of Hashem,” Chana told him. “Shmuel was born prematurely, and he’s small and delicate. The journey will not be good for him. In any case, I’m exempt from the mitzvah of aliyah l’regel. Besides, you remember that I vowed to dedicate my child to the service of Hashem the first time I went up to the Mishkan? I can’t possibly leave such a small baby there now. I must raise him and wean him over the next 24 months, until he is strong enough to go and remain forever in the House of Hashem.”

Elkanah agreed with Chana’s reasoning. “Do what is good in your eyes,” he said. “I daven together with you that our son will grow to be the Shmuel that the Heavenly voice announced even before his birth. I daven that this child will truly want to walk in the path you set for him, and that he’ll willingly accept the role you have chosen for him.”

The Offering

Two years passed, and now Chana set out with her family to fulfill her vow. With her she brought the Shelamim offering — and in her hands, she carried the greatest offering of all: Shmuel.

Though only a small child, his mind was sharp. He could already discern between right and wrong, knew many halachos, and understood key principles of Jewish law as his father, Elkanah, had taught him.

The family entered the Mishkan, leading the bull they’d brought for the Shelamim. Eli the Kohein Gadol, seeing them arrive, asked one of the young attendants to summon the Kohanim to slaughter the bull.

Little Shmuel looked around at his family and the others waiting. He was puzzled. “Why aren’t you slaughtering the korban?” he asked innocently.

“We need a Kohein to slaughter the bull.”

“There’s no need to wait,” said Shmuel. “Go ahead and slaughter it now. It’s written that shechitah is valid when performed by non-Kohanim — even by women and slaves — even for the holiest offerings!”

Those present marveled at his confident and correct statement and acted accordingly. Just then, Eli arrived and saw that the bull had already been slaughtered.

“Who allowed you to slaughter the bull without a Kohein?” he demanded.

“A young boy told us we could, so we did,” they answered.

“Bring me that boy immediately!” Eli commanded.

Shmuel was brought before him. “My child, how do you know a non-Kohein is permitted to do shechitah?” Eli asked.

“I know it from the words of the holy Torah,” Shmuel replied.

“But you also know that I have ruled that, despite the Torah allowing it, shechitah should be performed only by a Kohein,” Eli said.

“That isn’t proper,” answered Shmuel without hesitation. “It is written: ‘A mitzvah that comes to your hand, do not delay it.’ Here the service was delayed while waiting for a Kohein, and in that time my father could have brought the korban. No minhag can override a mitzvah.”

“You have spoken well, my child,” Eli acknowledged. Then his expression grew grave. “This child is liable for death!”

Gasps of shock filled the Mishkan.
“Death? For what reason?” cried the Kohanim in alarm.

“For giving a halachic ruling in the presence of his teacher!” Eli explained. “Only moments ago he instructed his family to slaughter the offering, though I had ruled otherwise. He’s a ben maves, deserving of death!”

The hush that followed was heavy with dread. Could such a precious child be sentenced to die?

“He’s but twenty-four months old, still a small child,” one Kohein protested. “He can’t be tried by a beis din. He’s still a minor.”

“That’s true,” said Eli, “but I can decree his death with my words, and when a righteous man decrees, Hashem fulfills it.”

The silence was suffocating. No one dared step forward.

No one but one woman.

Chana.

Only a mother could fight the battle for life. “My master, by your life!” she began, her voice quivering with urgency. “Do you not recognize me? I am Chana, wife of Elkanah. I’m the same woman who stood here three years ago. I’m the one you mistook for a drunkard, and whom you blessed with a child. And now you wish to take his life?”

Eli looked from Chana to the boy. “If so, I will pray again that Hashem bless you with another child,” he said. “I promise that the other child will live long. There is no choice… this child deserves to die.”

“No!” Chana cried in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. “For this child I prayed! Not for another boy, not for any other son — for this very Shmuel who stands before you! I don’t want a son who will be born through your tefillos. I want this son, the one I received through my tefillos, my deeds, my tears, and my vow!

“Do you know his name? I called him Shmuel, ‘for from Hashem I asked him.’ This child isn’t mine; he belongs to Hashem. He gave him to me on loan for twenty-four months, and now I’m returning what I requested, bringing my son back to the House of Hashem. If you take Shmuel’s life, you’re taking from Hashem Himself, and you have no right to do so!”

Eli heard the force of her plea, the fierce truth of a mother, and agreed to forgive.

Fulfilling the Vow

“My master,” Chana said to Eli, “soon I will return home, but my son, Shmuel. I will leave here in Shiloh. Here he can learn Torah from you, and serve in the Mishkan.”

“This is a very young child,” Eli objected. “He needs his mother, and he’s not yet fit to sit and learn Torah or to work in the Mishkan. You surely know, your husband, Elkanah, is from the tribe of Levi, that the Levites begin their holy service from the age of twenty-five until the age of fifty. And this boy is only two years old!”

“No, my master,” Chana replied firmly. “This child is not like other children. He was born through a miracle and through the blessing I received from you in this sacred place. He wasn’t born for an ordinary life, but for a life of holiness! And in any case, I made a vow, and I must fulfill it. ‘My vows to Hashem I will repay.’ And if you argue that I’m his mother and must raise him at home until he matures, then I remind you, Hashem lent me my son Shmuel, and the halachah is that when returning a deposit, the lender can’t refuse to accept it.”

Her words left Eli no choice. He agreed to take Shmuel under his care.

Before she left, Chana made Eli swear that he would protect her son, raise him, and care for all his needs as a compassionate father would.

With those words, Chana placed her most precious treasure in the House of Hashem. From there, she walked away with a full heart, knowing her son would grow to lead Israel with emunah and yiras Shamayim.

And Shmuel, seeing his mother depart, turned toward the Aron Habris, bowed low, and with his pure lips gave thanks for the privilege of sitting in the House of Hashem all the days of his life — to behold the sweetness of Hashem and to visit His Heichal.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 961)