A Handful of Flour, and a Little Oil

This story contains mentions or themes of: Grief, death, and, more specifically, a mother's grief pertaining to her child's death.

There was little food in the city.

The drought had taken the plants. Without rain, the brooks had dried up and the rivers had dwindled. Crops died for lack of water. Animals died for lack of food. People died for lack of all.

Frima was fortunate to possess flour and oil. Enough to sustain herself and her son, Refael. She did not know how long that would last. How long until the last particle of flour was gone from her barrel, and the last drop of oil dried from her jar. She did not know how long until it would rain again.

So, she prayed.

Frima was not answered with an end to the drought. She was not answered with a promise of deliverance. She was not answered with a booming voice.

Instead, Frima was answered with a moment of peace. Accompanying this peace was the thought that someone would soon petition for what little she had. That she would be required to sustain them.

So, she gave.

As her food dwindled, Frima gave to anyone who asked of her. She gave bread to the lame who still begged in the now quieter markets. To her neighbors, whose stores were now exhausting themselves. She even fed a raven the crumbs from her own table. When it flew away, it dropped a feather. She kept it in her pocket.

Frima gave until she had nothing left to give. Barely enough for two meals.

She skipped one of those meals, feeding only Refael.

He would not take it at first, “Are you not going to eat?”

She shook her head, “I am not hungry right now.”

He knew that was not true. She could tell that he knew. Still, he ate.

That day, Frima petitioned her neighbors for food. They could not help. She petitioned others, those who had fuller stores, and fuller pockets. They refused, for they did not know her. Those who were willing, and knew her, did not have enough. Those who had enough, did not know her. They were not willing to share all they had with a stranger.

So, Frima petitioned only for Refeal. That he could find a place in someone’s household. That he would be fed. That she could die in clear conscience, knowing that he was alive. Still, she was refused. There was no place for him. There was no food.

Save for a handful of flour, and a little oil.

Enough to make a little bread. It would be her last meal. Refael’s as well. Divided in two. She would give him the bigger piece. Then, they would starve, and they would die. And they would be forgotten.

At least she would not lose Refael, as she had his father. They would go together. She would not lose him.

The next day, Frima went out near the gates of the city. Near the well. A tree had grown there once. Then, it had died there. Sticks were scattered there. She only needed two.

She gathered her sticks.

A man spoke, “Bring me, I pray, a little water, that I may drink.”

He wore clothes that might have been animal skins, with a belt secured around his waist. He looked tired, and dirty. And thirsty. Frima had sympathy on him.

So, she nodded, and went to draw from the well.

As she attached the bucket, he spoke again, “And bring me, I pray, a morsel of bread.”

Frima cast the bucket into the well, “I have no bread, except for a handful of flour and a little oil.”

After she heard a splash, she began to draw it up, “You see, I am only here to gather two sticks, so that I can cook it to share with my son. To eat before we die.”

“Do not worry,” the man responded, “Do as you said, but first, make me a little bread, and then make some for yourself and your son. For the Lord God of Israel promises that your barrel of flour will not be empty and your jar of oil will not run dry until it rains again.”

There was a familiarity. Not in the words themselves, but in the faint feeling which came over Frima for a moment. A sense of peace. A sense of duty.

So, after she drew him water, she went and did as the man had said.

Frima used the last of her flour. And the last of her oil. The man ate.

She did not run out.

She would not starve. Refael would not starve. They had been delivered.

Then, Refael got sick.

He got weaker, in the way she’d known he would when they were to starve. But they had been granted food. Frima held him, in the way she’d though she would when they were to die. But she was not dying. She held him all the tighter.

She would not lose him. She would not lose him. She would not lose him.

And he was lost.

Everything she’d had was lost. A voice in her head told her it was her fault. Another told her it was the man’s. A third voice told her that the fault belonged to both. A forth told her that the fault belonged to nobody. Each voice was her own. She didn’t know which voice to believe, or even if she could believe any of them.

Her tears fell freely.

Frima spoke to the man then, “Is this why you are here? To remind me of my sins and to kill my son?”

The man did not answer her, only said, “Give me your son.”

In the all-too-familiar cloud of grief, there was another familiarity. There was peace, and there was duty.

Frima let the man take Refael. But she didn’t follow him to the loft where he had lived. She couldn’t. Her grief was too heavy. She would not stand.

Then, footsteps.

The man brought Refael back. He handed him to Frima. She took her son in her arms. And he was breathing.

“See, your son is alive.”