A Lineage of Grace (5 page)

If the gods of Canaan were so powerful, why hadn’t they been able to save or protect the people of Sodom and Gomorrah? Surely a dozen gods were more powerful than one—if they were true gods.

They were nothing but carved stone, chipped wood, and clay molded by human hands!

Perhaps there was no true god.

Her heart rebelled at this thought as well. The world around her—the heavens, the earth, the winds, and the rain—said there was something. Perhaps the God of Judah was that
something
. A shield against enemies. A shelter in a storm. Nay, a fortress . . . oh, how she longed to know. Yet she dared not ask.

What right had she to bother Judah with questions, especially when so many other things plagued him?

Someday, perhaps, she would have the time and the opportunity to ask.

In the meantime, she would wait and hope to see some sign of what Judah believed and how he worshiped.

* * *

Judah and Er returned five days later. Tamar heard them arguing long before they entered the house. So did Bathshua, for she sighed heavily. “Go and milk one of the goats, Tamar, and tell your nurse to make some bread. Perhaps if the men eat, they will be in better humor.”

By the time Tamar returned with a jug of fresh goat’s milk, Judah was reclining against some cushions. His eyes were closed, but Tamar knew he wasn’t asleep. His face was tense, and Bathshua was sitting close by, glaring at him. She’d probably been vexing him again, and he was doing his best to shut her out.

“Five days, Judah.
Five days.
Did you have to stay that long?”

“You could have come with me.”

“And done what? Listen to your brothers’ wives? What have I in common with them? And your mother doesn’t like me!” She whined and complained like a selfish child.

Tamar offered Er milk. “Wine,” he said with a jerk of his chin, clearly in a surly mood. “I want wine!”

“I’ll have milk,” Judah said, his eyes opening enough to look at her.

Bathshua’s head came up. “Here! Give me that. I’ll serve my husband while you see to my son.” When she had the jug, she sloshed some milk into a cup, thrust it at Judah, and then set the jug within his reach so that he could serve himself next time.

Bathshua was still badgering Judah when Tamar returned with wine for Er.

“What good does it do you to see your father, Judah? Has anything changed? You’re always miserable when you come home from his tent. Let Jacob grieve over his second wife and son. Forget about him. Every time you go back to see him, you come home and make my life miserable!”

“I will not forsake my father,” Judah said, his jaw clenched.

“Why not? He’s forsaken you. A pity the old man doesn’t die and spare us all. . . .”

“Enough!”
Judah roared. Tamar saw that it was not anger but pain that made him cry out. Grimacing, he raked his hands back through his hair. “Just once, Bathshua, hold your tongue!” He raised his head and glared at her. “Even better, leave me alone!”

“How can you speak to me so cruelly?” She wept angrily. “I’m the mother of your sons.
Three
sons!”

“Three worthless sons.” Judah’s eyes narrowed coldly on Er.

Tamar’s stomach dropped as she waited for him to say something that would rouse Er’s temper. Her husband would control his temper as long as he was in his father’s presence, but later she would be the recipient of his frustration. Bathshua kept on until Tamar wanted to scream at her to stop, to leave, to have some particle of common sense. Thankfully, Bathshua stormed out of the room, leaving silence behind her.

Tamar was left alone to serve both men. The tension in the room made her nerves tingle. She replenished Er’s cup of wine. He emptied the cup and held it out for more. She glanced at Judah before refilling it. Er looked up at her with a scowl, then at his father. “Onan and Shelah can see to the flocks for the next few days. I’m going to see my friends.”

Judah raised his head slowly and looked at his son. “Will you?” His voice was soft, his eyes hard.

Er shifted. He looked into his cup and then drained it. “With your permission, of course.”

Judah gazed at Tamar and then looked away. “Go ahead. But stay out of trouble this time.”

A muscle jerked in Er’s cheek. “I never start trouble.”

“Of course not,” Judah said drolly.

Er stood and approached Tamar. She drew back instinctively, but he caught hold of her arm and pulled her close. “I’ll miss you, my sweet.” His expression mocked his words, and his fingers bit into her flesh. He let go of her and pinched her cheek. “Don’t pine. I won’t be gone long!”

Judah sighed with relief when his son was gone. He scarcely noticed Tamar’s presence. Leaning forward, he held his head as though it ached.

Tamar hunkered down quietly and waited for him to command her to leave. He didn’t. When Acsah came in with bread, Tamar rose and took the small basket from her nurse, nodding for her to take a place on a cushion near the door. Propriety must be maintained.

“Acsah has made bread, my lord.” When he said nothing, Tamar broke the loaf and placed a portion before him. She poured a cup of goat’s milk, took a small bunch of grapes from a platter, and cut into a pomegranate. She broke the fruit open so that the succulent red beads could be easily removed. “Is your father, Jacob, well?”

“As well as can be expected for a man mourning the loss of a favorite son,” Judah said bitterly.

“One of your brothers has died?”

Judah raised his head from his hands and looked at her. “Years ago. Before you were even born.”

“And still he grieves?” she said in wonder.

“He’ll go to his grave grieving for that boy.”

Never had Tamar seen such a look of torment. She pitied Judah and wished she knew some way to draw him from his sorrow. His expression softened slightly. The intensity of his perusal discomforted her, especially when his eyes cooled. “He marked your face!”

She covered her cheek quickly and turned her face away. “It’s nothing.” She never spoke of Er’s abuse to anyone. Even when Acsah asked her questions, she refused to be disloyal to her husband. “Do you also grieve for your brother?”

“I grieve over the way he died.”

Curious at his tone, she glanced at him again. “How did he die?”

Judah’s face hardened. “He was torn apart by an animal. Nothing was found of him but his coat covered with blood.” The words came as though he had said them over and over again and loathed repeating them. When she raised her brow, his expression was one of challenge. “You don’t believe me?”

“Why should I not believe you?” She didn’t want to anger him. “I would like to know more about my family.”

“
Your
family?” His mouth curved ruefully.

Heat filled her cheeks. Did he mean to exclude her too? Anger stirred, along with hurt feelings. It was Judah who had brought her into this household, Judah who had chosen her for his son! Surely he would do right by her. “The family into which you brought me, my lord, a family I want to serve, if only I am allowed.”

“If God is willing . . .” His mouth curved sadly. He took a piece of bread and began to eat.

“Will you tell me nothing?” she said weakly, her courage dwindling.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything. Anything. Especially about your god. Where does he dwell? What is his name? How do you worship him? Is he unseen, as my father claims? How do you know he exists?”

Judah drew back. “I thought you wanted to know about my father and my brothers.”

“I have heard that the god of your father destroyed the cities that were in the salt flat where the marsh now expands.”

“That’s true.” He looked away. “The Angel of the Lord told Abraham He would destroy them unless ten righteous men could be found among those living there. Abraham saw with his own eyes the fire and brimstone that came down from heaven.” Judah looked at her solemnly. “It doesn’t matter if you can’t see or hear Him. He doesn’t live in temples like the gods of your father. He is . . .”

“Is . . . what?”

“Just . . .
is
. Don’t pester me with questions. You’re a Canaanite. Just go and pick an idol from Bathshua’s cabinet and worship it!” His tone was derisive.

Her eyes pricked hot with tears. “You are the head of this household.”

Color surged into Judah’s face and his mouth tightened. Grimacing, he searched her face. He frowned slightly, then spoke softly. “The God of Jacob turns rock into springs of water. Or can crush a man’s life with a thought.” His eyes were bleak.

“Where does he dwell?”

“Anywhere He wants. Everywhere.” Judah shrugged. “I can’t explain what I don’t understand.” He frowned, his gaze distant. “Sometimes I don’t want to know. . . .”

“How did your people come to know of him?”

“He spoke to Abraham, and He has spoken to my father.”

“As you and I are speaking? Why would a god of such power lower himself to speak to a mere man?”

“I don’t know. When Abraham first heard Him, He was . . . a voice. But the Lord comes anytime and in any way He wishes. He spoke to Abraham face-to-face. My father wrestled a blessing from Him. The Angel of the Lord touched my father’s hip and crippled him forever. Sometimes He speaks in . . . dreams.” The last seemed to trouble him deeply.

“Has he ever spoken to you?”

“No, and I hope He never does.”

“Why?”

“I know what He would say.” Judah sighed heavily and leaned back, tossing the bread onto the tray.

“Every god demands a sacrifice. What sacrifice does your god require?”

“Obedience.” He waved his hand impatiently. “Don’t ask me any more questions. Give me peace!”

Blushing, she murmured an apology. She was no better than Bathshua, battering him with her needs, her desires. Ashamed, Tamar withdrew. “Do you wish me to ask Bathshua to serve you?”

“I’d rather be stung by a scorpion. I want to be alone.”

Acsah followed her from the room. “What did you say to upset him so?”

“I merely asked a few questions.”

“What sort of questions?”

“Just questions, Acsah. Nothing that need concern you.” Acsah would not comprehend her quest for understanding the God of Judah’s fathers. Acsah worshiped the same gods Bathshua and her sons did, the same gods Tamar’s mother and father and sisters and brothers worshiped. Why was she so different? Why did she hunger and thirst for something more?

“Everything you do concerns me,” Acsah said, clearly annoyed. “I am your nurse, am I not?”

“I don’t need one today.” She couldn’t tell Acsah that she wanted to know about the God of Judah. While everyone around her worshiped idols of stone, wood, or clay, she merely pretended. The gods of her father and mother had mouths but never spoke. They had eyes, but could they see? They had feet but never walked. Could they think or feel or breathe? And she had seen a truth about them: Those who worshiped them became like them, cold and hard. Like Bathshua. Like Er. Like Onan. Someday, Shelah would be the same.

There was nothing cold about Judah. She felt his brokenness. She saw his anguish. Why didn’t the others who were supposed to love him? His wife! His sons! They didn’t seem to care about anyone but themselves.

Judah was a Hebrew and strong; yet Tamar saw he was bitterly unhappy and tormented. He never seemed to have a moment’s peace, even when left alone and in silence. Everything couldn’t be blamed on a selfish, contentious wife and quarrelsome sons. There must be other reasons, deeper and more complex. If Bathshua knew what they were, she never spoke of them to anyone. She didn’t even seem to care what her husband suffered. She merely complained that Judah brooded every time he returned from seeing Jacob.

Tamar frowned, wondering.

Perhaps Judah’s despair had something to do with his father’s grieving.

And the brother who had been lost.

* * *

Judah wished he hadn’t returned to his house so quickly. Far better had he returned to his flocks and seen to the animals Er too often neglected in his absence. His eldest had handed the full responsibility over to Onan after three short days! Er was a fool and useless as a shepherd. He had no love for the sheep that would one day belong to him. The boy stood by while wolves ripped open the belly of a defenseless ewe, then ran the predators off to become one himself. Er took pleasure in delivering the deathblow to a prized ram. Then he roasted and ate the meat!

Sometimes Judah looked at his boys and saw everything he’d worked to build going bad. He saw Simeon and Levi. He saw himself.

And he saw Joseph being led away in the shimmering heat of the desert sun.

Judah had thought he could run away. He thought he could shrug off the responsibility.

Sometimes he’d think back to the early days with Canaanite companions. His Adullamite friend Hirah had had all the answers. “Eat, my brother; drink; enjoy life to the fullest! Where passion burns, blow on the flames.”

And Judah had burned. He’d craved corruption, hoping forgetfulness would come. Drink enough, and the mind clouds. Sleep with brazen temple prostitutes, and your senses melt away your conscience. After giving in to his jealousy and anger against Joseph, why not give in to every other emotion that pulled at him? Why not allow instinct to reign? Why not give lust control? He’d wanted desperately to become hard enough to feel no shame. Maybe then the memory of his young brother would cease to haunt him.

But nothing obliterated or softened the memory. It haunted him still.

Often, when he was out alone, staring up at the heavens, he wondered what had happened to Joseph. Were the boy’s bones bleached alongside the road to Egypt, or had he, by some miracle, survived the journey? If so, was he now a slave toiling under the desert sun, without hope or future?

No matter what Judah did, his life had the stench of ashes. He couldn’t escape the result of his actions. It was too late to find and rescue his brother. Too late to save him from a life worse than death. Too late to undo the sin that poisoned his own life. He’d committed a sin so heinous, so unforgivable, he would go down to Sheol with it blackening his soul. Every time he saw his father, shame filled him. Regret choked him. He couldn’t look into Jacob’s eyes because he saw the unspoken question there:
What really happened in Dothan? What did you and your brothers do to my beloved son? Judah, when will you tell me the truth?