By Way of the Wilderness by Gilbert Morris Page B

I’ve sent for Marneen. She’s good with broken bones.”
    Aaron shook his head in disgust. “Some man’s going to kill him for sure if he doesn’t keep his hands off of other men’s women.”
    â€œHe doesn’t mean any harm.”
    Aaron turned to Miriam and studied her. The two had always been very close. “I’m worried about you, sister. You should never have taken on raising Bezalel. He’s been too much for you.”
    â€œIt was something I wanted to do for my friends. I couldn’t let their son be homeless.”
    â€œI know. You’re always taking in strays, but Bezalel hasn’t worked out.”
    â€œHe’ll be all right.”
    Aaron came closer and looked down at her. “You look tired. You do too much.”
    â€œI’m all right,” she said. “Come. Have a drink of water. It’s cool from the well.”
    The two sat down and spoke for a time about the work there was to do. Finally Aaron drained the cup and got up. He stopped before he left and turned and asked, “Do you ever think of Moses?”
    â€œEvery day of my life.”
    â€œWe’ll never see him again. You should forget him.”
    Miriam shook her head and looked directly into Aaron’s eyes. “God saved him from death for a purpose. If Mother and I had not put him in that basket, he would have been dead.” She reached up and put her hand on Aaron’s chest. “He’ll come back one day, brother, and then we’ll see the Redemption!”
    Aaron stared at his sister, then reached down, patted her shoulder awkwardly, and left the hut. Miriam walked back to where Bezalel lay sleeping. She began praying for the young man, who was the only son she would ever have. He was of the tribe of Judah. She was of the tribe of Levi. But he was her son in everything but blood. She leaned over, put her hand on his dark, curly hair, and prayed, “O Almighty God, put your hand on my son, heal and protect him.”
    Bezalel’s twisted, swollen features twitched slightly, and he muttered a few words but did not awaken. Miriam knelt down beside him and took his hand in hers. She kissed it and held it against her cheek. “Please do something, Lord. Take care of my son,” she whispered softly to the God she had never seen.

Chapter 9
    A sharp pain struck Bezalel in the side, bringing him out of a fitful sleep. He gave an involuntary grunt and put his arms around his middle as if to protect himself. Opening his eyes, he saw that the dawn had just begun to break, sending gray streaks of light in through the small window to his right. Cautiously he took a deep breath but found that this was more painful than he had anticipated.
    â€œHe must have broken some of my ribs.” He whispered the words and tried to sit up, but he could not stand the pain this caused. He lay back on his bed, a thin pad on the dirt floor of the tiny hut he shared with Miriam. From the outside came the sounds of the camp beginning to stir—chickens clucking, dogs barking, cattle lowing, and muted voices babbling as the Hebrews awoke and began their busy lives.
    Realizing there was nothing to get up for anyway, Bezalel lay on his back and bitterly reviewed the circumstances that had earned him a beating. “I should have known better than to fool with that woman. Everyone told me so, but I was too stubborn to listen.”
    It was a rare admission of guilt and one that he would never have made publicly. Young Bezalel was a proud young man and with some reason. His grandfather was Hur, the leader of the tribe of Judah for many years. This gave Bezalel some honor among his tribesman, despite the fact that his father, Uri, had been a rather worthless individual. He had been handsome, to be sure, but not a father to be proud of. Bezalel had received his good looks from his father: a wealth of curly black hair, lustrous, dark eyes, widely spaced and well shaped, with