in her hands.
Business had been brisk, and Tamar was kept very busy while her mother sat and stitched the sun, the moon, and the stars on a red gown she’d made for her daughter in Timnah. Every year Tamar’s sister received a new gown and veil. Zimran grumbled at the cost of the cloth and colored thread but never refused to allow his wife to purchase whatever she needed. Only the best would do for a temple priestess, and her father coveted the favor of the gods, any and all of them. Tamar’s mother spent hours working with her fine threads and tiny beads, trimming the gowns and exquisite veils she made from imported cloth of red and blue. She also made anklets with rows of tiny bells.
Though Tamar wore her mourning garments until they were threadbare, she never asked for more or wished for the finery her sister was given. Tamar was satisfied with her voluminous black tsaiph that covered her from head to foot. The garment didn’t chafe, but the barren wasteland of her life did. Despair wore upon her resolve.
She’d been born for more than this! She’d been brought up and trained to be a wife and mother of a household! Six years had come and gone, and still no summons from Judah!
Tamar rose and haggled with another customer. It was late in the day, and the man wanted quality textiles for bargain prices. She refused his price and sat down. He offered more. They haggled again. Finally, the man purchased the last of the cloth and left. With a sigh, Tamar sat inside the booth with her mother.
“I’m going to need more blue thread. I thought I had enough to finish this sash, but I still need more. Go and buy more for me, but be quick about it.”
Tamar walked past booths displaying baskets of figs and pomegranates, trays of grapes, jars of olive oil and honey, skins of wine, bowls of spices from Eastern caravans. Children played beside mothers hawking merchandise. Tamar saw other widows, all much older than she, sitting content while grown sons or daughters-in-law conducted the business.
Depressed, she purchased the blue thread her mother needed and headed back. She walked down a different aisle of booths displaying wood, clay, and stone teraphim; pottery; baskets; and weaponry. She was restless and dejected, when she noticed two men coming toward her. One looked vaguely familiar. She frowned, wondering if he was a friend of her brothers.
As he came closer, she realized it was Shelah ! Shocked, she stared, for he was a full-grown man boasting a beard and broad shoulders! His companion was a young Canaanite, and both were armed with curved knives. Each had a wineskin draped over his shoulders, and they were both drunk! Shelah swaggered down the narrow lane. He bumped into a man, shoved him aside, and cursed him. Tamar couldn’t seem to move. She stood gawking at them, her heart racing.
“Well, look at her, Shelah.” His friend laughed. “The poor widow can’t take her eyes off of you. Perhaps she wants something from you.”
Shelah brushed her aside with scarcely a look and snarled, “Get out of my way.”
Heat poured into her face, for Judah’s son hadn’t even recognized her! He was just like Er, arrogant and contemptuous. He bumped into a counter, rattling the clay teraphim displayed there. The proprietor made a grab for his merchandise as Shelah and his friend laughed and strolled on.
“Get out of my way. . . .”
Tamar fought against the anger and despair filling her. Judah never meant to keep his promise!
What would become of her when her father died? Would she have to beg crumbs from her brothers’ tables or go out and glean in a stranger’s field? For the rest of her life, she would suffer the shame of abandonment and have to survive on others’ pity. All because Judah had forsaken her. It was not just! Judah had lied. She was left with nothing. No future! No hope!
Tamar returned to her father’s booth and gave the blue thread to her mother. Then she sat in the deepest shadows, her face
Business had been brisk, and Tamar was kept very busy while her mother sat and stitched the sun, the moon, and the stars on a red gown she’d made for her daughter in Timnah. Every year Tamar’s sister received a new gown and veil. Zimran grumbled at the cost of the cloth and colored thread but never refused to allow his wife to purchase whatever she needed. Only the best would do for a temple priestess, and her father coveted the favor of the gods, any and all of them. Tamar’s mother spent hours working with her fine threads and tiny beads, trimming the gowns and exquisite veils she made from imported cloth of red and blue. She also made anklets with rows of tiny bells.
Though Tamar wore her mourning garments until they were threadbare, she never asked for more or wished for the finery her sister was given. Tamar was satisfied with her voluminous black tsaiph that covered her from head to foot. The garment didn’t chafe, but the barren wasteland of her life did. Despair wore upon her resolve.
She’d been born for more than this! She’d been brought up and trained to be a wife and mother of a household! Six years had come and gone, and still no summons from Judah!
Tamar rose and haggled with another customer. It was late in the day, and the man wanted quality textiles for bargain prices. She refused his price and sat down. He offered more. They haggled again. Finally, the man purchased the last of the cloth and left. With a sigh, Tamar sat inside the booth with her mother.
“I’m going to need more blue thread. I thought I had enough to finish this sash, but I still need more. Go and buy more for me, but be quick about it.”
Tamar walked past booths displaying baskets of figs and pomegranates, trays of grapes, jars of olive oil and honey, skins of wine, bowls of spices from Eastern caravans. Children played beside mothers hawking merchandise. Tamar saw other widows, all much older than she, sitting content while grown sons or daughters-in-law conducted the business.
Depressed, she purchased the blue thread her mother needed and headed back. She walked down a different aisle of booths displaying wood, clay, and stone teraphim; pottery; baskets; and weaponry. She was restless and dejected, when she noticed two men coming toward her. One looked vaguely familiar. She frowned, wondering if he was a friend of her brothers.
As he came closer, she realized it was Shelah ! Shocked, she stared, for he was a full-grown man boasting a beard and broad shoulders! His companion was a young Canaanite, and both were armed with curved knives. Each had a wineskin draped over his shoulders, and they were both drunk! Shelah swaggered down the narrow lane. He bumped into a man, shoved him aside, and cursed him. Tamar couldn’t seem to move. She stood gawking at them, her heart racing.
“Well, look at her, Shelah.” His friend laughed. “The poor widow can’t take her eyes off of you. Perhaps she wants something from you.”
Shelah brushed her aside with scarcely a look and snarled, “Get out of my way.”
Heat poured into her face, for Judah’s son hadn’t even recognized her! He was just like Er, arrogant and contemptuous. He bumped into a counter, rattling the clay teraphim displayed there. The proprietor made a grab for his merchandise as Shelah and his friend laughed and strolled on.
“Get out of my way. . . .”
Tamar fought against the anger and despair filling her. Judah never meant to keep his promise!
What would become of her when her father died? Would she have to beg crumbs from her brothers’ tables or go out and glean in a stranger’s field? For the rest of her life, she would suffer the shame of abandonment and have to survive on others’ pity. All because Judah had forsaken her. It was not just! Judah had lied. She was left with nothing. No future! No hope!
Tamar returned to her father’s booth and gave the blue thread to her mother. Then she sat in the deepest shadows, her face
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