The Prophetess - Deborah's Story Read online

  © 2016 by Jill Eileen Smith

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-0165-9

  Scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved. ESV Text Edition: 2007

  This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency, Wendy Lawton, Central Valley Office, P.O. Box 1227, Hilmar, CA 95324, [email protected]

  “At last, the mystical figure of Deborah comes to life! With obvious research and attention to detail, Jill Eileen Smith gives vivid voice to the women at the center of Israel’s victory over Canaan. A tale of strength and faith that bears relevance even today. Not to be missed!”

  —Tosca Lee, author of The Legend of Sheba and multiple New York Times bestsellers

  Praise for The Crimson Cord

  “Rahab’s story is one of the most moving redemption accounts in Scripture. The Crimson Cord perfectly captures all the drama of the original, fleshing out the characters with care and thought, and following the biblical account every step of the way. Jill’s thorough research and love for God’s Word are both evident, and her storytelling skills kept me reading late into the night. A beautiful tale, beautifully told!”

  —Liz Curtis Higgs, New York Times bestselling author of Mine Is the Night

  “The themes of this book—grace, faith, redemption, and healing—are interwoven with an exciting, suspenseful story . . . [Smith] has made Rahab’s dramatic tale newly affecting and vivid.”

  —Booklist

  “Impeccable research and vivid prose from Smith bring the ancient city of Jericho to life. The author’s reinterpretation of a classic Old Testament story rings with authenticity. Christian fiction devotees who relished Tosca Lee’s The Legend of Sheba, Tessa Afshar’s In the Field of Grace, or Angela Hunt’s Esther: Royal Beauty will enjoy this pleasurable read.”

  —Library Journal

  To Randy,

  Who inspires every hero in every story.

  Who instills hope in me with every book I don’t think I can write.

  Who sees God’s purpose and good in every challenge.

  And who bakes our Christmas cookies every year.

  Thank you.

  I love you!

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Endorsements

  Dedication

  Part 1

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  Part 2

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  Epilogue

  Note to the Reader

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Jill Eileen Smith

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  When new gods were chosen, then war was in the gates.

  Deborah, poet, prophetess, and judge in Israel

  And the people of Israel again did what was evil in the sight of the LORD after Ehud died. And the LORD sold them into the hand of Jabin king of Canaan, who reigned in Hazor. The commander of his army was Sisera, who lived in Harosheth-hagoyim. Then the people of Israel cried out to the LORD for help, for he had 900 chariots of iron and he oppressed the people of Israel cruelly for twenty years.

  Now Deborah, a prophetess, the wife of Lappidoth, was judging Israel at that time. She used to sit under the palm of Deborah between Ramah and Bethel in the hill country of Ephraim, and the people of Israel came up to her for judgment.

  Judges 4:1–5

  Prologue

  1126 BC

  Early morning dew tickled Deborah’s sandaled feet on the path to the village well, and palm trees waved their stout leaves as if in greeting. She tugged the donkey’s reins closer to the well’s open mouth and smiled into the dawn’s pink rays.

  Today would be a good day.

  She patted the donkey’s neck, then undid the ropes holding several goatskins. “You wait right here for me now.” The donkey lifted its head, and she scratched its ears, laughing. “I won’t be long.”

  She hummed a soft tune and glanced back at the beast once she reached the well. First she would fill the trough to give it drink, then fill the goatskins for her father’s journey to Shiloh the next morning.

  “Oh, Adonai, I wish I could go with him.” The prayer came from a place deep within her, one of longing to see the tabernacle of the Lord again, to worship Him there. But she could not go, a virgin alone with just men, even if they were her family—not without her mother’s agreement. “Why does she not see the beauty of Your holiness in that place, Adonai?”

  The breeze kissed her face as if in answer, and Deborah closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the water filling the skin, while her mind sifted through memories of her past visits to that place where God had put His name. If only she had been born into a family of scribes who copied the pages of the law, or stood near enough to smell the incense and see the golden lampstand glowing through the curtained veil.

  She released her longing in a heavy sigh. Perhaps next year she would be wed and could accompany her husband on the yearly journey. Please, Adonai, let it be. The face of her cousin Amichai flashed in her mind, accompanied by a quick flush to her cheeks. Surely he would speak to her father soon. At fifteen, Deborah should already have the promise of betrothal in hand, but still she waited. Why? Had not Amichai indicated he would call, that he wanted her to be his?

  Deborah heaved the last of the water skins up the side of the well, the heaviness of change filling her heart. Perhaps she had misread his comments or had not listened with a discerning ear. But . . . was that possible? Surely his promise of “I am coming soon” meant exactly what his light kiss to her cheek indicated. She had not misread the ardent look in his eyes.

  Then why? The fault could only lay with her, as her mother repeatedly said. “Save your opinions for after you are wed. Why do you argue with the young men who would speak with you? You tell them what to do! Ach! Is it any wonder they are not standing in line to speak to your father?”

  Deborah’s cheeks heated and her eyes stung with the memory. Her mother’s sharp words were a slap to her face, and Deborah had tried to heed the rebuke. Truly she had. But advice just slipped past her ton
gue, and sometimes even her father had come to seek it when her mother was not within earshot. Did that not mean that her words held worth?

  The breeze tugged her headscarf, and she yanked hard as the skin reached the well’s lip. She quickly tied its leather strings, carried the heavy sacks to the donkey, and draped them over the sides. She glanced heavenward, fearful that her thoughts had taken more time than she had been given. But the pinks of dawn still shivered on the edges of the horizon, just now fading to the sun’s yellow glow.

  “We must hurry,” she said, taking the donkey’s reins, knowing the animal cared not a whit what she said to it. But she had chores she must attend to before her father left the next morn, and she dare not delay.

  Still, the longing to linger remained, and the wind picked up, its breeze no longer gentle as it whipped the scarf behind her head, her hair blowing with it. She stilled, gripping the donkey’s reins, fear curling in her middle. One glance about told her she was alone, but even the donkey’s fur bristled and it did not move.

  “Is someone there?” Deborah’s bold call disappeared with the rush of wind. She braced herself in the face of its battering, her heart pounding strangely as she stared into the hills around her. She should run for cover. But her feet would not obey her sluggish thoughts. What was happening to her?

  She placed both hands on her knees and sought to draw breath. Please. Fire heated her middle and she doubled over, sinking to her knees.

  Do not turn to idols or make for yourselves any gods of cast metal: I am the Lord your God.

  She gasped, the voice loud in her ear. But I don’t . . . Her weak words fell away.

  Consecrate yourselves! The command jolted her and she planted her face to the earth, her breath heaving.

  Be holy, for I am the Lord your God. Keep My statutes and do them. I am the Lord who sanctifies you.

  Her whole body trembled as the light of day suddenly blinded her already closed eyes.

  I am the Lord your God. You shall not fear the gods of the Amorites in whose land you dwell.

  Deborah’s breath came in great gasps even after the light faded. She remained prostrate, waiting for more, but the air around her returned to its gentle breath, and her heart slowly found its normal rhythm.

  I am the Lord your God, the voice had said. Had God Himself spoken to her?

  The words were those she recognized from the Law of Moses, but clearly they had not come to her from mere memory.

  What do You want from me, Lord? Even her thoughts carried the remnants of fear as they asked the silent question.

  But she heard no more in response.

  She placed both hands in the dirt and pushed her trembling body from the ground, sweat tracing little beads down her back. She looked up at the waving palm fronds overhead and glanced about the area surrounding the well. Nothing seemed out of place, as though the day were like any other. She drew a breath, then another. But despite the normalcy of her surroundings, the sound of the voice in her ears still resonated.

  The donkey nudged her hand, jolting her, reminding her of all that had yet to be done to prepare for her father’s journey. We will surely be late now. The thought should have troubled her, for she hated to disappoint him when he counted on her for help, but home suddenly seemed like a distant country. And the memory of the words would not leave.

  Lappidoth stretched his long legs from beneath the wooden stool and set his stylus on the table beside a length of parchment. Unable to sleep well, he’d started the tedious work by lamplight. He glanced at the copy of the law spread before him, written in his father’s careful hand. The perfect lettering, an exact duplicate of one written by his grandfather before him, filled his gaze. This was his legacy, his calling as a Levite. A duty to continue the work of a scribe that he had faithfully fulfilled since the day his father first taught him to read and write.

  A familiar ache accompanied the memory, one of longing to again share this trade with the man he had so long admired. If his father and mother had lived, he would not be stuck in this small room on his uncle Yuval’s vast estate. He would reside in the respected residence of his father in Kartah with a wife and sons by now.

  He shook himself, the sudden urge to escape this musty room nearly choking him. He drew a breath, begging release from the pain of loss. If he had been older, stronger, wiser . . . Somehow he should have fought off the Canaanites and protected his family. But the attack on Kartah had reduced the city to smoldering embers.

  Why did You let me live? He had asked the question of the Almighty more times than he could remember, but with every jot and tittle he copied from the law, he was reminded of a purpose. The God who made him was not the enemy. Canaan and their foreign gods and their evil ways—they were the enemy. Someday God would bring justice.

  He swallowed, his throat feeling suddenly drier than the air in the stuffy room. He shoved his body from the chair, snatched the goatskin by the door, and headed to the well. Dawn had crested the horizon now, the time when the women would surround the well in their hurry to get water and head home to start the day’s baking.

  He blinked hard and breathed of the fresh air, realizing he should have tried longer to sleep than to work by lamplight. But if he had, he would have missed the women, and perhaps, if God were favorable to him, he would glimpse the beautiful Deborah there again.

  He walked on, his step lighter at the thought, passing merchant stalls just beginning to open and mud-brick homes aligning the path in this village between Bethel and Ramah in Ephraim. Far from where Kartah once stood in Zebulun. But at least the place had been hidden from enemy forces thus far. His mother and father and sisters would have been safe here.

  Anger, swift and dark, rushed in on him. The memories still clung too often to his thoughts like the sludge of a river to his feet. Seven years was time enough to move on with his life, as his uncle had frequently reminded him. “Take a wife,” he had said at first weekly, now almost daily. “Raise children. Do you want to be alone the rest of your life?”

  Lappidoth had simply shrugged or found some way to put him off. The woman who had captured his imagination was too good for such as he. Beautiful, bold, fiery Deborah could have her pick of men in this town, and surely by now her father had secured her betrothal. Though Lappidoth’s aunt would have spread such gossip to him quickly if his assumptions were true.

  Perhaps spending his life alone was not such a bad prospect. At least then he would not feel the need to fear for his beloved’s safety. He would not be guilty of helplessly watching her pain. He stopped several paces from the well, shoving the relentless thoughts aside. The past was past and there was nothing to be done about it. His uncle was right. He should find some nice woman and settle her in his home—a home he must begin to build if he expected to fill it with a wife and children.

  He looked toward the well where the women had begun to gather. Surely there was an available virgin among the group. But then—there she stood, so close he could shorten the distance between them in a few easy strides. Deborah. His heart beat faster at the way her name sang in his thoughts. She stood tall and proud, a jar on her shoulder, beside a donkey heavy-laden with water skins. Her long dark hair blew like a wild thing, barely kept in place beneath a fiery golden-orange headscarf. Laughter spilled from her pink lips at something her friend or a cousin said, and when she turned toward him ever so slightly, he caught the shining brilliance of the rising sun reflected in her dark eyes.

  His heart skipped its racing beat.

  Ask for her. Ask Yuval to speak for you.

  He couldn’t. How could he possibly? He turned away, the sudden thought so unnerving he forgot all about the need for water until he was halfway home and had to turn back to the well once more. Foolish man to think such thoughts. She was Deborah. Favored only daughter of one of the village elders. Outspoken at times. He had heard her grand opinions at the wine treadings while she laughed with a male cousin she seemed to favor—and put often in his place. He had nearly sm
iled at the chagrined look on her cousin’s face at that last gathering, until he recalled that at least that man could speak with her. Lappidoth had never been able to muster the courage to draw close, let alone say a word.

  Had her cousin already asked for her hand? You will not know if you do not ask. Then he would not know! He chided himself as he returned to the well to find it blessedly and yet disappointingly empty of the female chatter. He quickly filled his skin and hurried back along the path he had come.

  Ask for her. The thought seemed different as he passed the merchant stalls once more, and it shouted in his head when he passed her house and caught another glimpse of her handing the reins of the donkey to her brother.

  He paused but a moment lest she see him and think him odd.

  “Deborah?”

  Lappidoth startled at her mother’s voice calling from inside the house, and then other voices of her father and more brothers came from behind, the men obviously preparing to take a trip. He fairly ran back toward his uncle’s estate, slipped into his dim room, and sank onto his mat. He should continue his work until his aunt called him to the morning meal. The cool goatskin reminded him of his thirst, and he took a greedy drink. What kind of wife would Deborah be? A challenging one—of that he was certain.

  Ask for her. Had God spoken to him? Or was the thought one borne of his silent desperation after living alone in this place, far from home without the love of family, for too long? He sipped again, tied the string tight at the neck, and set the skin on the floor beside him.

  He would never know if he didn’t ask. He would be a fool to risk her rejection. But after sitting in darkness for too many breaths, he forced his weighted limbs to stand, opened the door once more, and strode to his uncle’s house. He would give Yuval what he wanted—to seek a wife in Deborah and to silence the thoughts that begged him to ask.

  Lappidoth folded his hands in front of him in a vain attempt to steady his nerves. How was it possible? And yet here he stood in Deborah’s sitting room with his uncle and her father, who, though he carried a hint of anxiety to prepare to be off to Shiloh, had taken the time to hear them out and agreed to the match! The buzz of excited voices filled his ear as Deborah’s mother and grandmother spoke in another room just off the sitting area, and Yuval reached into a pouch and pulled out a handful of gold to show Deborah’s father he was quite willing to pay the bride-price.