to lose her temper. “Did you even consult Nadab and Abihu, or did you make this decision for them—as usual?”
She set aside the basket, eyes blazing. “You have no idea what it takes to raise children, Miriam.”
The words wounded—as intended—but Miriam gritted her teeth to keep silent.
Elisheba tilted her head, assuming an air of instruction. “You see, Miriam, as an ima it’s my responsibility to ensure my sons’ future happiness.”
“You’ve stolen enough of your sons’ future to secure your own happiness, Elisheba.”
Miriam’s words hit her sister-in-law like a slap, bringing Elisheba to her feet. “My sons will never marry a filthy harem concubine.”
“Taliah was not a concubine!” Miriam shouted, turning the heads of others working outside their homes. “Taliah was handmaid to a ten-year-old son of Pharaoh. She was tutored by the finest minds of Egypt to help a prince with his lessons. She is bright and beautiful and far too competent for my oldest nephews.” Miriam turned and left Elisheba to her basket making, noting women’s shielded whispers and stolen glances as she walked away.
Elisheba’s
harrumph
propelled Miriam toward the next village. She’d wasted valuable time on a silly plan that might not have worked anyway. If only she’d felt El Shaddai’s leading. She ached for His presence, His warm breath across her spirit.
El Shaddai, why have You been silent since giving me Pharaoh’s dreams?
Four weeks felt like a lifetime when His presence had been life and breath to her. “Please, El Shaddai, I need to know You’re here,” she whispered to the dust.
Silence answered.
Her feet carried her to the only other people who might help Taliah, but a nagging dread had become reality. The Egyptians weren’t the only ones who’d believed the lie about Taliah. Had all the Hebrew gossips labeled the girl a concubine, or was it just an excuse Elisheba used to keep her precious sons under her thumb? Surely, Taliah’s extended family would either take her in or find a husband for her when Miriam explained the girl’s predicament.
Miriam hurried past more slaves and their task masters, pressed by the sinking sun. She’d barely taken two steps into the next village, when several young women bowed low with respect.
“Welcome, Miriam,” one girl said.
The other kissed her hand. “We are honored by your presence, prophetess.”
Such a fuss. Miriam touched their heads and spoke a short blessing over each one. Most residents in this village followed El Shaddai faithfully and had come to Miriam for dream interpretations or advice from the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. They were descendants of the tribes of Judah, Issachar, and Naphtali—leaders of Israel, servants among the brethren, and preservers of the ancient songs.
Miriam lifted her hand over her brow to shield the sun, peering down the alley between two long houses and inspecting each doorway. Her dearest friends, Mered and Bithiah, had once lived here. Now their legacy filled the long houses to bursting. When Mered had dared hide the pharaoh’s daughter in his home, change her name, and take her as his wife, building a life and family had seemed impossible. Now, as Miriam watched rows of families at work and play, she stood in awe of El Shaddai’s marvelous plans and gained hope for Taliah’s future.
“Miriam, my friend. Welcome!” The greeting came from behind her. She turned to find her old friend, Ednah, pushing herself from a stool outside her curtained doorway. “What brings you to our side of Goshen?”
Miriam fell into the woman’s open arms, years of shared memories stripping away time between their visits. With a little squeeze, Miriam released Mered’s daughter, now a great-grandmother. “You look well. How’s your family?”
Ednah’s once-bright eyes were now hooded with wrinkled lids, but the same genuine care shone through them. “The two oldest boys learned Ephraim’s craft, of course, and
She set aside the basket, eyes blazing. “You have no idea what it takes to raise children, Miriam.”
The words wounded—as intended—but Miriam gritted her teeth to keep silent.
Elisheba tilted her head, assuming an air of instruction. “You see, Miriam, as an ima it’s my responsibility to ensure my sons’ future happiness.”
“You’ve stolen enough of your sons’ future to secure your own happiness, Elisheba.”
Miriam’s words hit her sister-in-law like a slap, bringing Elisheba to her feet. “My sons will never marry a filthy harem concubine.”
“Taliah was not a concubine!” Miriam shouted, turning the heads of others working outside their homes. “Taliah was handmaid to a ten-year-old son of Pharaoh. She was tutored by the finest minds of Egypt to help a prince with his lessons. She is bright and beautiful and far too competent for my oldest nephews.” Miriam turned and left Elisheba to her basket making, noting women’s shielded whispers and stolen glances as she walked away.
Elisheba’s
harrumph
propelled Miriam toward the next village. She’d wasted valuable time on a silly plan that might not have worked anyway. If only she’d felt El Shaddai’s leading. She ached for His presence, His warm breath across her spirit.
El Shaddai, why have You been silent since giving me Pharaoh’s dreams?
Four weeks felt like a lifetime when His presence had been life and breath to her. “Please, El Shaddai, I need to know You’re here,” she whispered to the dust.
Silence answered.
Her feet carried her to the only other people who might help Taliah, but a nagging dread had become reality. The Egyptians weren’t the only ones who’d believed the lie about Taliah. Had all the Hebrew gossips labeled the girl a concubine, or was it just an excuse Elisheba used to keep her precious sons under her thumb? Surely, Taliah’s extended family would either take her in or find a husband for her when Miriam explained the girl’s predicament.
Miriam hurried past more slaves and their task masters, pressed by the sinking sun. She’d barely taken two steps into the next village, when several young women bowed low with respect.
“Welcome, Miriam,” one girl said.
The other kissed her hand. “We are honored by your presence, prophetess.”
Such a fuss. Miriam touched their heads and spoke a short blessing over each one. Most residents in this village followed El Shaddai faithfully and had come to Miriam for dream interpretations or advice from the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. They were descendants of the tribes of Judah, Issachar, and Naphtali—leaders of Israel, servants among the brethren, and preservers of the ancient songs.
Miriam lifted her hand over her brow to shield the sun, peering down the alley between two long houses and inspecting each doorway. Her dearest friends, Mered and Bithiah, had once lived here. Now their legacy filled the long houses to bursting. When Mered had dared hide the pharaoh’s daughter in his home, change her name, and take her as his wife, building a life and family had seemed impossible. Now, as Miriam watched rows of families at work and play, she stood in awe of El Shaddai’s marvelous plans and gained hope for Taliah’s future.
“Miriam, my friend. Welcome!” The greeting came from behind her. She turned to find her old friend, Ednah, pushing herself from a stool outside her curtained doorway. “What brings you to our side of Goshen?”
Miriam fell into the woman’s open arms, years of shared memories stripping away time between their visits. With a little squeeze, Miriam released Mered’s daughter, now a great-grandmother. “You look well. How’s your family?”
Ednah’s once-bright eyes were now hooded with wrinkled lids, but the same genuine care shone through them. “The two oldest boys learned Ephraim’s craft, of course, and
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