Miriam (8 page)

I seek you with all my heart;

do not let me stray from your commands.

—
P
SALM 119:10

A
s the last shades of pink faded to gray in the western sky, Miriam said good-bye to the women of Judah who had delivered strips of linen for bandages. The linen keeper, Gedor, had heard about Ednah's crass rebuff of Taliah and wanted to make amends to Israel's prophetess. As a result, his donations of medical supplies during the past month had nearly doubled. Miriam wished Gedor's gifts had been motivated by his deep concern for his brother Putiel's daughter, but she knew he cared only about maintaining the favor of El Shaddai and His prophetess.

She examined the tight rolls of linen, the jars of honey lining the shelf, and various herbs stacked in baskets to the ceiling. However, even a hypocrite's gifts were welcome.

She set aside the basket just as Taliah emerged from the back room. Her injuries from the beating had healed completely, and she barely limped from the broken leg. The girl had remained in the long house of her own accord. She'd spent most days captivating Abba and Ima with stories of faraway lands and foreign cultures—things Miriam would never have guessed might interest her parents—and Miriam spent most evenings sharing stories about Moses's childhood and his early days on the Avaris estate. As the memories poured out, one thought rang in her mind constantly.
Will my brother really come home?

“Did Eleazar bring tonight's rations yet?” Taliah poured dirtied water into their gray-water jug for disposal. “I've finished Amram's and Jochebed's baths, and they're ready to eat. I also have a question for him.”

Taliah and Eleazar had barely spoken since the attack. Whether it was the awkwardness of what
almost
happened or Miriam's push for their marriage, they'd become adept at avoiding each other. “What kind of question? Is it something I could help with?”

Taliah hesitated, offering that impish grin Miriam had come to love. “I want to know if it's safe for me to leave the long house now. No slave master has asked about me since the attack. Surely, I can go to the river for water and begin to move about the village freely now.”

Miriam reached for a small, crusty barley loaf and four cups. She tried to keep her voice light. “Where's the first place you'll go when you leave the long house?”

“I'd like to visit some of the peasants' homes and ask if I might teach their children in the evenings.”

Again Miriam waited before responding, not wanting to discourage or seem overly protective. “I could go with you, maybe introduce you to some of our neighbors.”

“I need to do some things by myself, Miriam. If I'm going to be a woman on my own, I need to begin building a life.”

A woman on her own?
Miriam tried not to panic. Why was she in such a hurry to leave? “It's late, and Eleazar hasn't arrived with our meal. Let's share yesterday's barley bread with Abba and Ima.” She placed the bread and four cups of the golden-hued beer on a tray, refusing to argue about something that would hopefully never happen. How could Taliah think any woman could live alone in Goshen? “Maybe Abba and Ima will have some ideas on which households you might visit to find students.”

They exchanged a genial nod and headed toward the adjoining chamber where Abba and Ima lay facing each other, chatting quietly. “And what are you two conspiring about?” Miriam loved watching Ima's cheeks pink like a maiden when they were caught in these tender moments.

Abba doggedly pushed himself to a sitting position and lifted both hands in victory. Miriam applauded. “Look at you, showing off!”

Ima tried too but couldn't quite push herself up, so both Taliah and Abba helped her.

“Taliah has been working with us to make our arms stronger.” Abba beamed as if he'd just built the palace single-handedly.

Miriam winked at the girl whose bright and bubbly countenance had breathed new life into her parents.
Shaddai, she is so capable yet so foolish. If she is to teach village children, please give her realistic expectations about where she'll live and the need for others to help her.

As had become the custom, silence answered her prayer, and Miriam fought back tears. She busied herself by unwrapping the bread and breaking it into four pieces, the largest ones, of course, for Abba and Ima.

She offered Abba the first piece, but he held her hand instead of taking the bread, forcing her to look up. “Something's troubling you, my girl. What is it?”

“I'm so happy you're gaining strength. Let's focus on that.” With all her will, she forced her lips into a smile.

Awkwardness blared in the silence, and Taliah rose to her feet. “I'll go in the other room and grind some turmeric root. Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“You don't need to leave, dear. I'm fine, really.” She looked around their small circle. “I'm simply concerned about Aaron and Hoshea.” It was true, though not the whole truth. “Eleazar said merchants make the journey to Midian in three weeks. It's been seven. They should have been home by now.”

Abba stared into Miriam's eyes, penetrating the surface, digging deeply into her soul. “Perhaps the greater concern is that El Shaddai hasn't told you when they would return. Or maybe you're upset that no one has come to you for dream interpretations since Aaron left?” The small room fell silent, and Miriam had no glib reply.

How could she explain her abject emptiness when no one else had experienced her absolute fullness? Shaddai had been everything to her—Husband, Friend, Teacher, Guide, and Master.

“I feel as if I'm withering from the inside out,” she said finally. “I don't feel hunger or thirst or a yearning to sleep. I feel only a yawning void that was once Miriam but now is an empty shell…because Shaddai has abandoned me.” The last words came out on a sob as she buried her face in her hands.

Consoling hands patted her back. Kind but useless. The only thing that could bring comfort was the return of Shaddai's warm breath on her spirit.

“Miriam, look at me.” Abba's voice was gentle but firm when he reached for her. “Look at me.”

Wiping her tears, Miriam felt like a little girl, obeying her abba's command. “El Shaddai has not abandoned you any more than He's abandoned Israel. For reasons that only He knows, He has chosen to become silent, and you must trust His silence—as Israel has trusted His silence all these years. Your ima and I have never experienced Him the way you have, but we know Him and love Him.” He lowered his chin, giving her a stern look from beneath wiry gray brows. “You can learn to know Him anew, but you must trust Him in the silence, daughter.”

Learn to know Him anew.
Miriam had never imagined that she could know Him any way other than the way she'd always known Him. “Can you teach me, Abba?”

Ima leaned forward and laid her hand across theirs. “We can tell you how El Shaddai makes Himself known to us, but only He can teach you—as you trust Him. It's like your garden, Miriam. We can plant the seeds, but only God can make them grow.”

Taliah fidgeted behind them, and when Miriam turned, the girl halted a few steps from the doorway. “I'll leave you alone to talk about your God.”

Miriam felt the crushing weight of guilt again. Had she pushed Taliah further from El Shaddai by revealing her doubts?

“Come and sit with us, child.” Ima Jochebed patted the packed dirt beside her. “Surely, a bright mind like yours would be interested to know how our God distinguishes Himself from the gods of Egypt.”

Taliah's sagging shoulders lifted. “I have been puzzled by a few of your claims about El Shaddai, but I've been hesitant to ask, afraid I might offend.”

“Nonsense.” Abba waved her over. “Ask your questions.”

Miriam wondered at first if they'd forgotten her, but Abba's furtive wink assured her he hadn't.

Taliah sat down beside her and scooted close. “It's more than a little reassuring to know that even a prophetess has questions.”

Warmth flooded Miriam's cheeks, not with shame or embarrassment, but with a deep sense of awe. Perhaps Shaddai's silence was nurturing seeds beyond Miriam's garden.

Taliah addressed Abba Amram first. “Why don't gods speak to everyone? The Egyptian gods only speak with the priests or through Pharaoh himself, who claims to be divine, and El Shaddai speaks only through Miriam. Why is that?”

“That's a very good question.” Abba Amram combed his fingers through his long, white beard as he pondered. “I can't speak about the Egyptian gods because I believe they are false, merely frightening bedtime stories to make naughty children behave. However—”

“Isn't that why all the stories of gods were created by men,” Taliah interjected, “to control the ignorant masses?”

Miriam felt her defenses rise, but she remained silent, deferring to her abba's calm and thoughtful reply. “Many gods have been created by men, but only one God created all men. It is that one God that Israel serves—El Shaddai, the Almighty—who chose to make a covenant with Abraham and to bless all nations through his descendants.”

“But why Abraham?” Taliah said. “And why speak to only one man?”

Abba shrugged, maintaining his kind candor. “I don't know why He chose Abraham, but I'm grateful El Shaddai spoke to more than one man. He spoke to Melchizedek, Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph. He made His will clear to Abraham's servant, who went to find a wife for Isaac, and Shaddai spoke to women too. Sarah, Hagar, and Rebekah all heard from God.”

Taliah mulled the information, giving Miriam a chance to reflect on the stories she'd known since she was a child. El Shaddai spoke in many ways to many people. Could she learn to hear Him differently? To experience His presence again but through new expressions?

“Ultimately, my dear,” Ima Jochebed chimed in, “it is El Shaddai who must reveal Himself to us. We are but dust and could never climb to the heights of His holiness to reach Him.” She squeezed both Miriam's and Taliah's hands. “But He is near to those who seek Him with their whole hearts. We've seen it proven repeatedly in our lifetime.”

“But how do you know He's near, Ima, if you don't have dreams or visions to interpret?”

Taliah looked at Miriam, seemingly surprised at her question. “That's what I want to know. How can we common people know
any
god exists when we don't feel or see signs of their presence?”

Abba chuckled. “Anyone can develop a
God sense
similar to the way we use other senses to experience things. Though we can't taste, touch, see, hear, or smell our invisible God, He sometimes uses those experiences to communicate His nearness.”

“Like the warm breeze I sometimes felt while inside this long house,” Miriam said, “that proved Shaddai was near.”

Taliah looked at her as if she'd grown a third eyeball. “A breeze inside?”

Ima nodded and added, “I sometimes wake in the middle of the night to the smell of fresh-baked bread. The oven is cold, so I know it's Shaddai providing the most common form of comfort I know.”

“And sometimes it's simply a feeling.” Abba reached for Taliah's hand, patting it gently. “You simply know He is. There's no magic or sign. He just
is.
”

The girl examined his blue-veined hands in silence for several heartbeats. “I've never had such feelings or sensations. I suppose I'm not special enough to be chosen.” Before anyone could comment, she hurried to her feet. “Thank you for answering my questions. No one has ever talked with me about such things.” She bent down to kiss all three before rushing from the room.

Miriam wanted to call her back and give her better answers, but she had none. Instead, she returned her attention to her parents. “Thank you. I'll continue to seek Shaddai—and wait for Him to reveal Himself.” She kissed both of their hands and forced a grin. “But I still wish He'd tell me when Aaron and Hoshea will return.”

Then Moses told Aaron everything the
L
ORD
had sent him to say, and also about all the signs he had commanded him to perform.

—
E
XODUS 4:28

T
he sun had set on another grueling day, and Eleazar ached from head to toe—but perhaps his head ached most. He was tired of worrying about Abba and Hoshea. They'd been gone more than seven weeks, and he'd heard nothing. Tugging at the iron locks on the weapons cabinets, he made sure they were secure—and imagined they were Hoshea's ears. He'd give the boy a piece of his mind when he returned.
If
he returned. But surely, Hoshea would return even if something happened to Abba Aaron on the journey. Eleazar's threat had been bluster, his anger overpowering reason again.

After checking the last weapons cabinet, Eleazar surveyed the military complex. The training arena was empty. All Egyptian soldiers had gone home long ago. Only two young slaves remained to polish their masters' shields—no doubt punishment for substandard performance. Egypt's soldiers demanded perfection from their slaves. Lives in battle often depended on how well a slave had attached a spearhead to the shaft or how precisely the slave fletched the feathers to guide an arrow's flight.

“You there,” Eleazar shouted, startling one of the boys. “Lock the gate as you leave.” Eleazar would, of course, check the gate on his way to Doda's house with rations. These minor duties were Hoshea's responsibilities, but Eleazar would never trust others to do it right.

He looked at the moon high in the sky and realized Doda's household would surely be sleeping by now. Guilt weighted his feet like iron. Halfway back to his barracks, a grave reality struck him for the first time. When would he cease doing Hoshea's responsibilities? To do so would mean admitting his friend wouldn't return. He'd have to concoct a story—a lie—about his death. More deception. If he admitted a subordinate slave's escape, it could mean his own death sentence. Eleazar wiped weary hands down his face. He wasn't ready to face that dilemma.

Eleazar sped his pace to a jog, passing the houses of soldiers and noblemen, where families had laughed and enjoyed their evening meals together. His mind wandered to Saba Amram and Savta Jochebed. He missed spending time with them. When had he last heard one of Saba's stories? Almost three weeks had gone by since he'd given his grandparents more than a kiss on the cheek. Why must Taliah's presence rob him of time with his family? Quickening his pace, he made a decision. This evening, he would ignore the beautiful, quick-witted girl and talk to Saba and Savta the way he used to.

Reaching the palace barracks breathless, he bent over to brace his hands on his knees.
Who am I kidding?
He'd been trying to ignore Taliah since the day he'd broken her leg, but he'd failed miserably. She was more than beautiful. More than intelligent and high-spirited. Something about her drew him. If only Putiel would reply to his message. The courier had delivered the scroll to Prince Kopshef's scribe, yet did not wait for a reply. Three weeks, and no word.

It seemed Eleazar was waiting on everyone in his life, and his patience had run out.

He walked down the long, deserted hallway lit by torches and littered with half-full trays of rations. Most of his men had already eaten their meals and were settled in for the night. Since Hoshea's departure, Eleazar was always the last to his chamber, his food cold and bread stale. As he approached his doorway, the absence of his tray surprised him—no, infuriated him. Had someone stolen his rations? Looking both ways down the hall, he considered scavenging leftovers, but why should he? Pharaoh's military slave commander forage for food? It was an outrage! He grabbed a torch from the wall and charged into his chamber.

He was met by a growling dog and three men devouring his rations—Hoshea, Abba Aaron, and a man who looked vaguely familiar.

Hoshea licked honey from his fingers and smiled. “I brought them back alive, Eleazar.”

The dog bared its teeth and took a step toward Eleazar. “Sattar, leave it!” the stranger commanded. The dog retreated to the man's side, keeping a wary eye on Eleazar.

“This is your dohd Moses,” Abba said awkwardly. “He left Egypt when you were seven.”

Eleazar looked beyond his abba's shoulder to a silver-haired man seated on the floor with his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He wore a lazy grin, and his back rested against the wall as if he hadn't a care in the world.

“I remember only the Egyptian master, Mehy.”

The man offered his bowl of stew to the dog and stood. Eleazar considered making dog stew. That food was for Doda and the others. How could he carelessly feed it to that mangy beast?

Before Eleazar could protest, Moses was standing before him, Eleazar's equal in height and weight. His arms and chest were well muscled though he was nearly as old as Abba Aaron. He'd obviously been a soldier, but what had he done these forty years in Midian to keep him in such fine physical condition?

“I'll never forget the words you spoke the night I escaped Pharaoh Sety's assassins and fled Avaris.” Moses offered his hand in truce to Eleazar, but Eleazar kept his hands at his sides.

“I don't remember,” he lied.

“You said, ‘Pharaoh can't stay mad forever. Come back to us.' ”

Eleazar raised his chin, refusing to be drawn in by the play for emotion. “Touching story, but I was too young to understand your betrayal. Pharaoh Sety had trusted you since childhood. He'd made you vizier of Egypt, yet you never told him you were Hebrew.”

Moses stepped forward, not a handbreadth between them. “And you felt sorry for Pharaoh Sety?”

“I felt sorry for the Hebrews who bore his wrath after you escaped. And I'm angry that we still bear the rage of his son because of your sins.” They stared in silent combat before Eleazar asked the burning question. “Why did you come back?”

Moses's countenance sagged, and he moved away from his nephew. “I didn't want to.”

Eleazar shot a silent question at Hoshea and Abba Aaron, who both avoided his gaze. “Then why…”

“The Hebrew God heard the cries of His people, Eleazar. He will deliver Israel from slavery, and He's chosen me to confront Ramesses.” Moses lifted his chin and locked eyes with Eleazar again. “I didn't want to come back, but I want to see our people free.”

Laughing, Eleazar backed away, looking from one insane man to the other. Surely, Abba and Hoshea didn't believe this Hebrew-turned-Egyptian-turned-Midianite. But no one laughed. “You can't be serious. You'll kill us all with this nonsense!”

“I begged Yahweh to send someone else—”

“Yahweh?” Eleazar said. “Who's Yahweh?”

Abba Aaron approached, as if he could soothe Eleazar's frustration. “Yahweh is the secret name of El Shaddai. He never revealed His name to our forefathers, but on the mountain of God in Sinai, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob appeared to Moses and said Yahweh is the name by which He is to be known to Israel for all generations to come.”

Doda Miriam.
Eleazar wondered what she would think of all this. “Why you? Why didn't the Hebrew God tell Doda Miriam—the prophetess of Israel—these things?”

At the mention of her name, Moses smiled, the hard lines of his face softening. “I wish He had, son. I'm just a shepherd. I was a soldier before that. I've never been good with words. I stutter. I recounted these weaknesses to Yahweh—as if He didn't know. He became angry, but still wouldn't relent. His solution was that I speak His words to your abba Aaron. Aaron will repeat my words to Pharaoh.”

“Abba Aaron can't appear before Pharaoh,” Eleazar said. “He's a slave, and slaves only appear in Pharaoh's court when they're summoned. Like when Doda interpreted Ramesses's nightmares. If you want to march into Pharaoh's throne hall and get yourself killed,” he said, poking his uncle's chest, “go ahead, but don't drag Abba Aaron with you.” He paused, crossed his arms, and glared at him. “I don't hear you stuttering.”

“I stutter when I'm nervous, and I'm telling you—it's not my choice to appear before Pharaoh.” He moved closer, intense but not unkind. “Surely, as a soldier, you can understand, Eleazar. I'm merely following orders. I must do as Yahweh commands.”

Eleazar was unnerved by his transparency. “I understand that you've returned to Egypt in an attempt to regain power, but this is no longer Avaris. This is Rameses, the capital of Egypt and the trade center of the world. If Ramesses discovers you're here, every Hebrew will bear the consequences of your return.”

“If we disobey Yahweh, we will bear far worse.” Moses held his gaze, unflinching. “Aaron tells me our parents are still living. And Miriam. We were hoping you would take us to them. Aaron said I could stay there.”

Eleazar's ire immediately shifted. “Oh, he did? That sounds like Abba Aaron—offering Doda's hospitality when he has four wage-earning adults in his own household.”

“You know your ima would never allow it, Eleazar.” Abba's brows drew together above his eyes. Pitiful. “She hates dogs, and…”

“It has nothing to do with the dog,” Eleazar said, sneering. “Ima cares only for Nadab and Abihu. I'm surprised she lets you live there, Abba.” An awkward silence filled the room, and Eleazar's eyes fell on the empty tray of rations. He had nothing to offer Doda and the others. The scraps on the trays outside suddenly looked inviting. “No one speaks until we clear the palace gates. Hoshea and I will guard you like two peasants from Goshen going home after a late audience with Pharaoh. As soon as we're off palace grounds, we'll be safe.” All three men nodded. “Since you've eaten the evening meal that should have gone to Doda Miriam and my grandparents, you will pick up food from the trays in the hall, wrap it, and hide it under your robes.”

Moses looked stricken. “Eleazar, I'm sorry. I didn't know—”

Eleazar silenced him with a lifted hand. “You can make up for it by not getting us killed.”

Miriam glanced at the curtained doorway again, and Taliah reached over to still her hands on the pestle. She'd ground the dried henna leaves to dust.

“It's late,” Taliah said. “Even your faithful nephew is sometimes unable to keep his promises.” She released Miriam's hand and returned to spinning her wool. “I'm sure he'll be here in the morning as usual with rations.”

“You know it's not the food I'm worried about.” Miriam rocked to her feet to fetch a jar for the henna powder. “If El Shaddai were still with me, He would have told me Eleazar wasn't coming—and probably why he couldn't be here. Can you imagine losing your ability to see colors or taste the sweetness of honey? That's a shadowy glimpse of the loss I feel at El Shaddai's silence.”

“So everything is about your God abandoning you.” The furrows of her brow grew deeper. “Aren't you just a little concerned about Eleazar?”

Impudent little snip.
Miriam set aside the henna and took several deep breaths before responding. “That's my point. I never needed to worry when I lived in Shaddai's presence. He gave me insights that helped me protect those I love, but now worry has replaced His presence.”

Taliah halted her spindle and whorl, resting it on her lap. “I don't mean to offend you, Miriam, but it seems to me if you believed your God had a good plan—as you told me after my attack—then you wouldn't need to worry.”

A slow grin robbed Miriam's irritation. “You know, it's going to be very difficult to keep living with you if you insist on listening to everything I say.” She chuckled then and began pouring the henna powder into the jar, cautious not to spill any on their small square table.

“Perhaps I won't live with you much longer.”

Miriam's heart nearly stopped, and the last bit of henna missed the jar completely. “What do you mean? Where would you go?”