Praise for Slender Reeds: Jochebed’s Hope
“Some Bible stories become so familiar that I often forget they involved real men and women, real families, real moms like me. Slender Reeds drew me into the heartbreaking lives of women who struggled to hold onto God’s promises while under the oppression of Egyptian slavery and the desperate mother who would place her infant in a basket not knowing if it would be a cradle or a coffin. After reading Texie Susan Gregory’s beautiful debut novel, I will never read the story of Moses in the same way again.”
—Jeanette Hanscome, author of Suddenly Single Mom: 52 Messages of Hope, Grace, and Promise
“You will never look at the life of Moses in the same way after meeting his mother and grandmother in this masterful debut novel, Slender Reeds. The weaving together of the complex characters, rich setting, and intriguing plot will carry you to an unfamiliar time and place where this unforgettable story unfolds. You will catch glimpses of yourself and those you love in these timeless characters, and you will benefit from the memorable journey you take with them. Most important, you will be inspired to trust God for yourself and for your family like never before.”
—Judy Gordon Morrow, author of The Listening Heart: Hearing God in Prayer
“[Texie] Susan Gregory is a dedicated writer and researcher you can trust.”
—Gayle Roper, award-winning author
“Texie Susan Gregory will capture your heart with her magnificent ability to tell a compelling story and bring biblical characters to life in this fascinating saga.”
—Jane Carter Handly, consultant, professional speaker, and author of Getting Unstuck and Why Women Worry and How to Stop
© 2016 by Texie Susan Gregory
Print ISBN 978-1-63409-960-8
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63409-962-2
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63409-961-5
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Deisgn
Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P. O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Discussion Questions
Dedication
For Mother
Texie Sowers Shelton
1917–2004
Mother dear,
Although you now dwell in our Lord’s presence, I believe you are aware of this book.
See yourself in Elisheba. Know you are missed every day, appreciated more with each passing year and that your words and wisdom continue to ripple through the generations.
Blessed by His thumbprint on your life,
Susan
Acknowledgments
This book began in a skating rink when my daughter released my fingers and skated forward. Alone. My hand was suddenly cold and empty. Was this how Hannah felt when Samuel walked away? How could Jochebed unclasp her infant’s fingers? Where did mothers of the Bible find faith to release their children into God’s care? So began the dream of this story.
In recognition of those who helped me realize this dream:
My beloved Tim, without your patience and support this would not have happened. You are a godly man and a servant leader in all you do.
Tyler, thank you for always believing in me.
Elizabeth, your encouragement kept me going.
Joy Shelton, your insight was exceptional and invaluable. Karen Ball, I appreciate your affirmation and confidence. Judy Morrow and Gayle Roper, you were the first professional writers to believe in me. Debbie Thomas and Jan Coleman thank you for answering endless questions. Thank you to early readers: Libby Gregory, Kay White, Beverly Hartz, Victoria Warren, Phyllis Lawson, Kate Pieper. Barbour Publishing, it is a privilege to work with your team.
Prologue
Outside, the hot urgency of survival pulsed. But in the thatched hut, where only a stray sunbeam found entrance, all was quiet. The child slept, his stomach rising and falling with each breath, his chin promising dimples, his lips puckering gently.
Her son.
Son. A word once bursting with joy and celebration now conjured specters of cold-eyed crocodiles and stone-faced guards—both demanding the destruction of her baby. This son was a birth she would not celebrate, a child she should not have, a secret she could not keep.
Pharaoh’s edict to his people—kill every male Hebrew infant—festered, choking the air like day-old fish until even her skin absorbed the putrid stench of fear. Each breath a reminder, each death another link in the chain: women large with child, heavy with fear; men lacerated with scorn, scarred with despair.
Mercy, Lord, mercy.
The puckered scabs from her last beating tore, a reminder that the child’s only hope for life depended on her skill and survival. Biting her lip to avoid crying out and disturbing the boy’s sleep, Jochebed pushed herself to continue work, to search for three strands of similar thickness and cut the tips to begin the next row of plaiting. If she failed to fill the quota again and was beaten to death, her child would die, too.
The basket formed slowly, for each time the child fussed, Jochebed left her work to quiet him. With every unexpected sound she faltered…
Would he awaken and his cries summon death?
Nearby shouts—Egyptian voices—sent fear to her fingers, making them stiff, awkward. Jochebed covered her mouth and gagged, remembering yesterday’s violence.
Twin boys slung into the river…
A newborn slashed from his mother as she gave birth….
The hoarse screaming of the widow whose only son was ripped from her breast and murdered, the stain of his blood a memorial on the floor of their home.
Was this the day death raised its scaly head and dragged her infant to a muddy grave? Was this the morning an Egyptian would recall her swollen belly and question her about a birth? Was this the moment soldiers would crash through the door to seize her son?
How much longer could she evade discovery and hide this little innocent before time bled away, before there were no more chan
ces? Surviving this relentless suspense ground her feelings into dust as she trampled a maze of what-if.
Her son’s whimper exploded into Jochebed’s thoughts. Dropping the basket, she darted across the room in two steps. He must not fret, must not alert the world to his presence. Anything could betray them—a cry, a careless word, a vengeful neighbor.
Thankfully, as he settled in to nurse, he quieted. If only her fears would do the same! Jochebed bit down on her knuckles until she tasted blood. Her head throbbed with unleashed screams as she fought surrendering to the horror, the terror of her choices. If only she could turn to Mama and look in those eyes of deep wisdom, but there was no one she could trust. No one to help her. No one else would risk death for this small, sweet child.
Groping through her thoughts, she searched for an answer. There must be a way to save her little boy. Something, like a stubborn fly, circled Jochebed’s mind … but try as she might, it could be neither caught nor dismissed.
Chapter 1
Eight years earlier
A single drop of water trembled on the cup’s jagged edge before slipping over the brink and splashing onto the dirt floor. Jochebed watched the droplet gather itself into a bead before surrendering, absorbed into the dust, irrevocably changed.
Like her.
Yesterday she had been counted a child. Today defined her as a woman. Yesterday life was predictable. Today was veiled in mystery. Yesterday she understood. Today she did not fathom.
She had known it would happen, the change branding her as a woman and forever locking away her childhood. But on seeing the trace of red, all she had been taught about her future disappeared in a flash of panic.
“Betrothed? Me? Do I know him, Mama?”
“Amram. He is your father’s kinsman.”
Jochebed leaned against the wall. Oh, to push herself back into yesterday. As her legs turned to water, she slid to the floor and pulled both knobby knees against the tender swells of her breasts. Wrapped in the comforting circle of her arms, the dull ache in her belly eased and the room slowed its spinning.
“But I don’t know him.”
“His name is Amram, Amram ben Kohath. He is of the tribe of Levi, like us. Remember when we talked of this before, that someone would be chosen for you?”
“But I don’t know him.”
“I do, Jochebed.”
“But I don’t.” Jochebed reached for another handful of coriander seeds to ease the cramps clenching her belly. “Is he old? Is he ugly? Does he waddle like Old Sarah?”
“He is older than you, but our kinsmen Gershon and Merari have proposed you two will marry.” Elisheba’s forehead knotted. “I know this is hard, but he is a good man and”—her voice wavered—“your father would be pleased.”
At that, Jochebed knew surrender was inevitable, and her shoulders drooped. Everything hinged on what her vaguely remembered papa might have thought in spite of what he had done to their family.
“How old is older? Does he even know who I am? Did he choose me?”
Elisheba picked up her weaving.
“Mama?”
“Your uncles Gershon and Merari chose you, Jochebed, and Amram agreed.”
“Who did he choose? Pretty little Lili?”
Elisheba averted her eyes.
Jochebed crouched in the warm shadows of the house. The heat baked into its mud walls soaked into her lower back while she waited for Mama to return from the elders’ meeting. Mama had gone to proclaim her daughter was a woman and marriageable. Jochebed cringed. Did the entire village need to know her most private misery?
If these wrenching spasms were going to come every month for the rest of her life, she’d drown herself in the Nile. She wanted no part of being a woman. She wanted no part of a marriage either.
Mama insisted the kinsmen had honored her with a husband like Amram. What an honor, chaining her to an old man! Why couldn’t they have honored Lili? That would make everyone happy.
A heavy lump swelled from her throat, threatening to spill out tears, but Jochebed pressed both hands against her eyelids, refusing to let them fall. Angry at her helplessness, she swallowed and swallowed until dry pain was all that remained.
A soft footstep warned her that Mama was home and had seen her hiding in the darkness.
Kneeling beside her, Mama brushed aside the dark curtain of hair hiding Jochebed’s face.
“We will rub thyme oil on your belly to ease the pain. The first two days are often the worst, dear one.”
Jochebed whimpered. Another whole day of pain?
“Bedde, since your father is dead and I refused to remarry, you knew our kinsmen would choose your husband. I understand this marriage troubles you deeply. Is it about him wanting Lili or that you don’t know Amram?”
It was more, so much more than that. Jochebed turned her head away, closing her eyes against the hot shame she dared not voice and the awful loneliness of being different.
Even if Amram was not a stranger, she did not know how to be a wife. Growing up with just Mother, she knew how to be a daughter, even knew how to be a mother, but a wife? She could cook and mend, but what did you do if your husband was sad? Did you pat his back while he cried? Did men cry?
If Papa were alive, she’d know.
She’d know what it was like to look up and see someone standing there, sure and strong, ready to rescue her or smile his approval. She’d know what men laughed about and what they thought was pretty and if they liked to look at the stars and make wishes. She’d know what it felt like to fall asleep on a man’s wide shoulder and be carried home.
But no. All she’d known was being shaken awake to stumble along in the dark with a woman’s thin hand to hold her steady.
It seemed everyone else had a papa or a grandpa or at least an older brother to kill scorpions and chase away house snakes. Other girls had someone to hug them when they were scared.
Other families’ broken tools and doors were soon repaired by their men, but she and Mama propped the door closed at night with a water jar and hoped bats would not swoop down through the holes in the roof.
She’d seen papas pick up their little girls or catch their hands and twirl them around, holding them up high away from the swirling dust of feet. As they grew older, she heard them tell their daughters they were pretty and someone would be a lucky man someday.
What a lovely dream, to have a man think he was lucky to have her. If only.
Too many times Jochebed had shivered in the chill of Different, longing for someone to notice she stood alone, yearning to be in the circle of Same. Becoming an unwanted wife would seal her fate, casting her as a burden—an insignificant, undesirable person.
She had her mother, but what did Mama know about men? Papa had chosen to die instead of stay with them. Maybe Mama did something wrong. Maybe her mama hadn’t tried hard enough to be a good wife—whatever that meant—and if Mama hadn’t been worth staying alive for, then how could she possibly be worthy?
Jochebed knew she wasn’t as good as Mama no matter how hard she worked at being just like her. She opened her eyes and looked down at her hands, surprised they were not bloody from crawling the unscalable wall of Perfect.
How could she tell Mama of Deborah whispering no man would ever willingly choose her because of what Papa did? How could she explain she’d built a safe place inside herself—a deep hole—so no one could see she was scared and sad, so no one would know she was … less.
“Bedde?”
Jochebed shook her head. Anything she said would shame her mother, who already suffered too much. She could not add even a scrap of sadness to Mama’s shadowed eyes. She would bear this alone.
She would be strong like Mama.
Ten days.
She had endured being a woman for ten days. Some of the older women winked at her and congratulated her, but Deborah accused her of trying to gain attention by pretending to hurt. It was a nuisance, she scolded, nothing more.
If there was punishment af
ter life, Jochebed hoped that for all eternity, Deborah would have cramps.
“Jochebed.”
She looked up to see a man holding a large fish wrapped in palm leaves.
“I am Amram ben Kohath, of the tribe of Levi. Like you, I claim Abraham as my…”
His lips continued to move, but she could not hear him over the sudden thudding in her chest and ears. This beautiful man with shoulders as wide as the gates of Pharaoh’s city and not a trace of gray in his hair was Amram? Her Amram?
“… are kinsmen.”
Lowering her eyes, she watched the cloth she had been scrubbing float out of reach. Oh dear. Had she washed her face this morning?
“Jochebed?”
“Yes? Oh, uh, yes, I’m J–Jochebed, daughter of, uh…”
Amram nodded, the sliver of a smile crinkling through the shadows in his eyes. “I know who you are.”
Jochebed blushed. Had she combed her hair today?
“I will come tonight to talk with you and your mother. Would you ask her to prepare this fish for us?”
“Us, yes. I’ll fish ask to talk p–prepare her tonight.” Jochebed turned and started up the path.
“Jochebed.”
“Yes?”
“The fish?”
Stepping closer, Amram offered her the fish, and she caught a whiff of clean sweat. Her hands trembled as she accepted the fish, and his long fingers touched hers. Feathers. His calloused hands felt like feathers. What would it be like to be held by a man—this man?
Jochebed clutched the fish to her chest and spun, stumbling over the basket of dripping cloths. Righting herself, she shook her head. She should not think about his hands and shoulders or wonder how his eyes could be so soft while his arms were chiseled rocks. He would never truly be her Amram. He did not want to hold a thin, serious girl-woman. He desired Lili, her beautiful, bubbly cousin and dearest friend.
Born within moments of each other, she and Lili were more sisters than cousins, their lives woven tightly with the certainty of slavery and the uncertainty of survival. But Lili had a papa and three brothers. She understood men.
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