Page 34 of Unveiled Tamar’s Story (Mysteries & Wonders of the Bible #1)

He was so afraid. So afraid of losing it all.

He couldn’t see that salvation would come only when he let go of the burden suffocating him.

His fingers were still digging into that ruined veil, clinging to what he knew.

What he understood. What had served him well thus far in life.

He held in his hands the image of the world as he perceived it, the rules he knew to obey, the power and might he had so carefully hewn for himself over decades of planning and maneuvering, politics and service.

To his mind, letting go of it—letting anyone else force it from his hands—would be the end of everything he’d worked for. It would be, in his eyes, his own destruction.

He blinked and lifted his brows. “And you, woman? What have you to say for yourself?”

She had debated all night, as she’d lain awake in the bed Levi and Hannah had given her, what she would say to that question.

She had known what Moshe intended to say in her defense, more or less, but also knew that she’d be given a chance to speak.

How could she respond? What would turning the other cheek or walking the second mile look like?

She hadn’t known last night as darkness fell.

She hadn’t known as she stared up at the black ceiling, seeing nothing with her physical eyes but playing out the preceding days over and over in her mind.

She hadn’t known as dawn turned the room pink and gold and her heart raced with a memory of yesterday’s very different, more-than-physical light.

She hadn’t known until right now, as she stood here. Not until this very moment.

She stepped forward, her heart light and steady and bright.

She offered the high priest a small but sincere smile and bowed her head.

He was striking at her skill as a weaver—she would offer him her very humanity.

He was asking her to bear an unjust punishment—she would offer to bear even more.

“I submit myself to your censure. And I ask that all the blame be put solely on me and that you do not extend it to the other weavers, nor to any of the priests who carried the veil or installed it.”

Her brothers clamored behind her. That, she suspected, was why the high priest narrowed his eyes. “You admit your guilt?”

Sarah’s words filled her mind, about bearing false witness.

She couldn’t lie. She knew very well that the veil had not torn through anything she had done.

It had been God and God alone who took down the divide between heaven and earth.

She tilted her head. “No. I do not believe it was the work or failure of any man or woman that resulted in the veil tearing. I believe only God Himself could have rent the curtain in that way. But I will accept the punishment. And I forgive you for it, my lord.”

His face flushed red. “You forgive me?”

She met his gaze, as she never would have dared to do had she just met him in the street.

But she didn’t fear him. Not because there was nothing more he could do, no other blame he could cast her way that would be any worse than what he already was casting, but because she wanted him to see .

She wanted him to experience the freedom of releasing the burden of sin, the burden of planning his own destiny, the burden of thinking he was responsible for God, rather than the other way around.

She wanted him to taste true freedom. “Yes. I forgive you. These last several days, people have told me what they suspect your motivations are for blaming me—me personally, no one else. Perhaps their suspicions are true…perhaps they are not. Only you know that. But I dare to stand before you now and tell you that I understand your choices. I understand why this has angered you so much. I understand the weight of that veil and all it represents, the responsibility its very existence puts on your shoulders, as perhaps no one else in Israel can. And I am praying that God gives you His comfort and endows you with strength to serve our people well. I forgive you for the pain you have caused my family. I forgive you for blaming me. I will take that blame willingly.”

“No!”

Tamar spun at the unexpected voice—not one of her brothers or cousin, not one of the women she could nearly imagine charging in here to defend her—Sarah, Bithnia, even Illana. It was none of them. It was Davorah who ran forward, falling to her knees at Tamar’s side.

“I bear witness in this woman’s favor,” she cried out, face turned up to Caiaphas. Horror etched her every feature, horror and pleading and a desperation that Tamar knew only too well.

He stood, thunder in his brows. “Davorah! What are you doing here?”

Davorah clasped her hands in front of her, the perfect image of a supplicant.

“Begging you not to make such a mistake as to dismiss the best weaver in Israel from the position she deserves. She allowed no mistake in that veil, my lord. She permits no fault in the weaving room. And she leads us by the best example, inviting us to examine our hearts and dwell on the Lord as we work. She reminds us, each and every day, that our work is holy, and so we are to be holy. We need her.”

Caiaphas’s expression shifted to one she’d never seen on his face before. “You are just as capable of such leadership.”

“I am not.” Tears glimmered in Davorah’s eyes, making pressure band about Tamar’s chest. The woman’s clasped hands trembled visibly. “Nor do I want to be a leader at all. I want only to serve at the loom, doing what I know I can.”

Tamar dropped to her knees beside Davorah and slid a steady arm around her quaking shoulders. The memory of the bitterness, the hatred she had felt the other night shamed her anew.

This woman was no conniver. No betrayer.

Her uncle’s ambitions were not her own. How had Tamar let her own fears lead her into such thoughts?

She knew Davorah. If not as well as others, only because she was quiet and kept her own counsel.

But that was part of who she was. It gave Tamar no valid excuse to heap condemnation and accusation upon her unsuspecting head.

She was more than a quiet, circumspect woman though.

She was a woman who would run uninvited into the high priest’s court.

That took courage. Never mind that he was her uncle.

That would make it no less intimidating, especially given that she’d taken such care over the last decades to keep the relationship a secret, indicating a desire for humility.

That would be dashed to pieces by this action too.

But a woman who would defend a friend like this was a woman capable of more than she gave herself credit for.

Tamar rubbed a hand over her arm. “You are a woman of strength and conviction,” she said to her friend. “You are a woman of talent and skill. You are a woman who will lead with her actions but who will speak exactly when she needs to.”

“No.” Tears streaming down her cheeks, Davorah leaned into Tamar’s shoulder. “I cannot. I do not want to leave my seat at the loom. It is what I know, what I am good at. I do not want to leave it.”

“We are all called to new things, new challenges. We never know if we can do them, but the Lord equips us.” She gave Davorah a squeeze. “You will be exactly the leader those women need in this time. I know you will be. You are selfless and loyal, brave and true. You can do this.”

Davorah wrapped her arms around Tamar and clung. Focusing solely on her, Tamar didn’t realize Caiaphas had left his seat and approached them until he crouched down and rested a hand on his niece’s head. It didn’t seem to faze Davorah, but Tamar looked up, surprised.

Hers was the face he was studying. His wore a far different expression than it had before. “It seems my niece is right. You have demonstrated exactly who you are in this moment. A leader.”

For a moment, she paused. Had this been a test? Part of his examination? Had he told his niece to come, to see how Tamar would respond? But no, Davorah’s distress was very real—and the high priest’s distaste for Tamar had been too clear.

She rubbed a hand over her friend’s back. This was no plan—just a heartfelt disruption of one. To Caiaphas’s plan, but not to God’s. His plan was already woven. She had only to follow the threads. And right now, that meant encouraging Davorah. “She will be a fine leader too.”

“She will. And perhaps she will have her day. But not this one. Your position remains your own, Tamar.”

It should have filled her with joy, shouldn’t it have? Victory. She’d won.

But she didn’t want to win. She didn’t want to take, to be released from the first mile that was asked of her.

Not that she thought the Lord wanted her to suffer, exactly, but He had made His will known over these last few days.

He had changed the old ways. How could she continue to work for them?

To serve every day creating something she no longer believed was necessary?

She gave the high priest a small smile and hoped he saw in her eyes what made her say, “I thank you, my lord, for your faith in me. But I request that you allow me to retire from my service to the temple.”

Behind her, her brothers and cousins murmured, shifted, clearly wanting to shout out that Caiaphas should ignore her.

His brows furrowed, and a strange sort of regret colored his eyes. “Why? Has this episode made you lose your desire to serve the Lord?”

“On the contrary.” She urged Davorah away, smoothing back the woman’s damp, dark locks from her face.

“But I do truly believe God Himself took that veil down, and I believe it was for a purpose, not just an accident of the earthquake. Far be it from me to try to replace it. If the Lord wishes to show His face again to His people, then I will stand in its light and praise Him for it. I will not seek to cover it again.”

For a long moment, Caiaphas said nothing.

He merely held her gaze, measuring her as she would a skein.

He was a weaver too, she realized. Of people and policy rather than of thread and yarn.

He had heard more cases than she could possibly know.

He had tried and succeeded at keeping the peace between their people and Rome.

He had worked diligently for years to uphold the Law of God under the scrutiny of Pilate.

But in his eyes, she saw respect. Acknowledgment.

And yes, still that shimmer of fear. Because the Lord’s face was a fearsome thing.

Nothing man ever did could make him worthy of seeing it.

But God could choose to make them worthy. God could send the means. God could bridge the divide.

Caiaphas nodded and wrapped an arm around his niece’s shoulders, urging her to her feet. Tamar rose with them.

He looked past her, to her relatives. His lips turned up in a tired smile. “This woman is a credit to your family.”

In unison, they all said, “We know.”

She shook her head. Perhaps a week ago, that mattered. Now, she only wanted to be a credit to her Lord.

He nudged Davorah toward Tamar, nodded once more to her brothers and cousin, and then strode back to his seat. It took only a moment to dismiss their case officially and call forward the next.

Tamar wove her arm through Davorah’s and led her outward until they reached the light of the spring day, not saying another word until sunlight caressed them.

Even then, Davorah beat her to it. “I did not know, Tamar. I promise you. I did not know he had such intentions. I thought he knew I liked things exactly as they were. When Sarah pounded on my door last night and told me what was going on, what he was trying to do…” She shook her head.

Tamar smiled. “You have nothing to apologize for. And truly, my friend, you will rise to this occasion. You will do a wonderful job.”

Davorah looked none too sure. But then, perhaps it wasn’t only her abilities she was questioning. “What did you mean, about the veil? Why do you not want to work on it anymore?”

Ignoring the warning glance Moshe sent her, she drew Davorah onward. “Let me tell you about the last few days. It has been…miraculous.”