Papa never again mentioned my pregnancy, but Mama assured me he would come to terms with it. Her insinuation that only a male child would be conclusive proof of God's blessing did not shake my certainly. I knew God had blessed me and was positive He would do whatever necessary to convince Papa. Papa was a stubborn man, but his limp proved he was unable to best God.

When Papa had first told us of his experience with Yahweh, which resulted in a dislocated hip, I was skeptical. How could anyone defy God and come away with only a limp? Surely God would not indulge such insolence. Those doubts preceded my personal encounter with Yahweh. Now I recognized what I had considered weak indulgence as mercy. I was sure God would eventually prove my child blessed.

Our life at Bethel settled into a predictable routine. Because of the drought the men often grazed our herds long distances from camp requiring them to be away for days, even weeks at a time. I was relieved. My expanding waistline seemed to make others uncomfortable. Despite the forgiveness expressed at our repentance service, I was afraid the visible results of my humiliation would rekindle my brothers' anger. It was difficult enough to live with the gossip of the servants. I was aware of the sly smiles, whispered comments and knowing looks cast in my direction, but I chose to ignore them.

Prayer became a daily necessity. The assurance of God's support kept me from once more descending into despondency. Sheerah too was a comfort. I marveled that she could so completely accept my family when we had been responsible for the destruction of hers. One of our many conversations revealed her reasoning. She held some animosity for Simeon and Levi, but viewed them as human pawns of a powerful god and therefore not responsible for their actions. Since the rest had been initially unaware of the massacre, they had no guilt. Her passionate hatred was now directed to the gods who had failed her.

Her wrath was similar to the anger I had felt towards Yahweh after Shem's death. I took every opportunity to compare Yahweh's loving response to the disdain of Baal. I hoped Sheerah would recognize the difference between the typical response of her gods and the response of mine. Although she had an intellectual grasp of the difference, she was unable to believe God would respond to her as He had to me. She told me more than once that I was lucky to have been born into a family protected by such a powerful deity. My explanation that Yahweh would accept anyone into His family could not overcome the ingrained belief that one inherits the protection of the family gods. Sheerah simply said wistfully that perhaps one day she would marry into a family protected by Yahweh.

It was during this time that we first met Necho, a trader from Egypt. Since Bethel was on a major trade route, it was not unusual for caravans to pass by, but we had no contact with most. One day, though, Papa came home from the market with news that we would be sharing our hospitality with a stranger from Egypt. While engaging in the usual amenities before proceeding with business, Papa had discovered Necho was a Yahweh worshipper. Eager to discover how he had come to know our God, Papa had invited him to share our hospitality

The next day the camp was buzzing with excitement. The Egyptian would be staying for several days until his caravan left. Necho's father had met my great-grandfather Abraham when he had lived in Egypt during a time of drought. Despite his family's protests, he had embraced Abraham's God. Necho had been reared to worship Yahweh, but we were the first clan of Yahweh worshippers he had encountered. He wanted to spend as much time as possible discussing religion with Papa.

For a week this short, dark-skinned man was seen around camp with Papa. We wondered how a merchant could have so much leisure time. One morning we watched in awe as a camel caravan paused near our camp. Necho approached followed by two other men. Bowing to Papa, he waved to his followers who deposited their burdens at his feet. After watching the caravan move off, Papa beckoned to servants who took the bundles to his tent. Soon Aunt Rachel, Mama and I were summoned.

Spread out on his rug were swatches of brightly colored cloth. Necho had given these to Papa to show his gratitude for our generous hospitality and his appreciation of the chance to share with a fellow worshipper. We were each to choose one to make a dress, and the rest we would distribute among the maids. Papa's explanation that Necho was a wealthy merchant who often chose to travel with his caravan, but could leave the work to others, answered our questions about the time he spent with Papa.

It would be fun to make a new dress. Although my shape was changing, the gathered style of our clothing made larger clothes unnecessary. As my pregnancy progressed, I merely moved the position of my girdle. It would be nice to have colorful clothes rather than the drab ones I had been wearing. Although the flax cloth didn't have the pleasing softness of silk, anything was a welcome change. Sheerah too was excited about the cloth I gave her. There was enough for dresses for both her and Hurriya. I had made sure of this because I knew Hurriya would get a dress first if there wasn't enough for both. Hurriya was growing rapidly and Sheerah would sacrifice to accommodate her needs.

For the next few days, we hurried through chores so we could spend the extra time sewing. Sheerah wanted to begin teaching Hurriya the art of sewing, and so I had dug through our things for an old bone needle. Hurriya was so proud of it that she carried it everywhere. Once I cringed when I saw her drop it in a pile of dung, pick it up, wipe it on her sleeve and stick it back in her pocket. That evening when we began sewing, I suggested Hurriya might want to wash her needle, but she held it up proudly saying she was taking good care of it. Not wanting to embarrass her by telling what I'd seen, I dropped the matter.

Hurriya was making satisfactory progress with her dress, pricking her finger only occasionally. This evening she was sewing the bulky seam where the sleeve joined the body of the dress. Needing extra pressure to get the needle through, she jabbed hard. Her cry of pain startled us. The needle had gone through the cloth and penetrated her finger almost to the bone. While Sheerah anointed her finger and wrapped it, we diverted her attention with stories of our painful encounters when learning to sew. Afterward Hurriya insisted on trying to finish her work, but the bandage was too bulky. Stating that the pain was better, she removed the bandage and began to sew. Her determination paid off. By bedtime, she had successfully sewn in both sleeves. Her new dress was finished.

The next day, Hurriya proudly wore her new dress. I noticed her sucking her finger several times, but when questioned, she said it was nothing. We all forgot about it until the next night when Sheerah shook me awake. Hurriya was tossing and moaning in her sleep. Her face was hot. When Sheerah touched the arm laying across her chest, she cried out in pain, opening her eyes and looking reproachfully at Sheerah. Turning her hand over, we saw that the finger she had pricked was swollen and red. Even in the light of the dim oil lamp, we could see the red lines running up the finger and across the palm of her hand.

Seeing my fear reflected in Sheerah's eyes, I suggested she bathe Hurriya's face with a wet cloth while I wakened Mama. After Mama was up, we moved Hurriya into the front room to keep from waking the rest of the children. There we lit several lamps so Mama could examine the wound more closely. Shaking her head, Mama indicated there was little to be done. Sheerah could continue to try to cool Hurriya with water. If no improvement was shown tomorrow, the finger could be lanced to relieve the swelling and oil placed in the incision. Our main recourse, however, was prayer.

Deciding to keep Hurriya where we had placed her, I offered to move my mat in and help Sheerah watch Hurriya. Since the night was half spent, Sheerah suggested I rest. My services might be needed the next night if the fever didn't break. Mama and I returned to our mats while Sheerah lay next to Hurriya soothing her back to sleep with songs and stories.

Early the next morning, I arose to find Sheerah sleeping against the center pole with Hurriya's head in her lap. Seeing that the cloth on her head was dry, I prepared a fresh cloth with cool water. When I replaced it, Sheerah stirred. Opening her eyes she looked down at her little sister. Then turning to me she said, "She's still awfully hot. I can feel the heat through my dress. What will I do if something happens to her? It's all my fault. I shouldn't have let her take the bandage off; I should have kept a closer eye on the puncture wound. I don't even have any family gods to petition on her behalf. Who will protect her now?"

Kneeling beside Sheerah I said, "Don't think about the worst. Children are remarkably resilient. Sarah can have a high fever strike suddenly, and it goes just as quickly. No one is to blame. None of us thought the wound cause for worry. We have all had similar incidents without infection. I will pray to Yahweh that her health be spared. Yahweh is no respecter of persons. He doesn't care whose clan one is born into. If you acknowledge Him, He offers you His protection. You too can pray to Him."

Shaking her head, Sheerah responded, "I wish I could believe He would really hear my prayers, but I can't. I am of no use to Hurriya.

"You are tired. Let me stay with Hurriya and you try to rest," I said. "Things always seem worse when you are exhausted."

Agreeing, Sheerah began to move Hurriya's head from her lap. The slight movement caused Hurriya to cry out. Opening her eyes, she clutched Sheerah's hand and begged her not to leave. She said she was afraid that if Sheerah left she would be just like their mother and never return. Smoothing her hair, Sheerah promised not to leave, but only to stand and stretch her cramped legs. Knowing no amount of encouragement would induce Sheerah to rest, I stayed nearby all day replenishing the water, bringing food which neither ate, and doing whatever I could to help.

During the midday rest, Sheerah stretched out on a mat beside Hurriya. I took over the job of keeping cool rags on Hurriya's forehead and coaxing her to drink water. After dozing fitfully for an hour, Hurriya opened her eyes and smiled at me. Then she asked why it was so cold and drafty. Looking around she wanted to know where she was, why she had left her palace room. Finally she wanted to know if she and Sheerah were visiting me like I had visited them. Recognizing her questions as fever induced, I agreed that she and Sheerah were here for a visit. Before closing her eyes again she said she hoped the wedding was soon and then asked for a covering for warmth.

When Sheerah woke, Hurriya was again ranting. Her fever was obviously elevated, but she was huddled under a cover complaining about the cold wind blowing in through the tent flaps. Seeing Sheerah awake, she begged to go home asking if Shem would be coming soon to claim me as bride. Glancing apologetically at Sheerah, I told Hurriya I was sure Shem would arrive soon.

Taking Sheerah aside, I told her I would seek Mama's advice, but before I could leave, Mama entered. Approaching Hurriya she knelt and started to remove the cover. Crying out for Sheerah, Hurriya demanded to know the identity of the small-eyed slave. Soothing her, Sheerah explained who Mama was and why she wanted to move the cover.

When Mama lifted Hurriya's arm, she cried out in pain. The red lines leading from her finger were now halfway to her elbow. Her whole hand was swollen. Looking up she spoke to me without taking her eyes from Sheerah. "Go get your father, Dinah. If she is to keep her arm, the only recourse is lancing." Then reaching over and touching Sheerah's hand she said, "I'm sorry, child. We are all praying with you."

When I returned with Papa, Mama had laid out a cutting tool, the oil, and a bandage. She had tried to get Hurriya to drink some wine, but she refused everything. Nodding to Mama, Papa demanded that Sheerah and I wait outside indicating we would need all our strength later. Not daring defy him, we left and Mama closed the tent flaps. Standing outside, we heard a loud scream followed by ominous quiet. Sheerah stood head high, shoulders shaking with silent sobs while tears streamed down her face. Ignoring the curiosity seekers finding excuses to pass our tent, I put my arms around Sheerah.

Emerging from the tent, Papa indicated we could go inside. We found Mama tenderly bathing Hurriya's face. Looking up she told us that Hurriya had fainted when Papa lanced her finger. She had bandaged her whole hand because it was easier than doing only one finger. Indicating we would know whether the lancing was a success if Hurriya improved by nightfall, she suggested Sheerah and I try to rest while Hurriya remained unconscious. Seating ourselves on either side of her pallet, we prepared to wait.

During the afternoon vigil, I prayed intermittently. I encouraged Sheerah to do the same, but she simply shook her head saying it would do no good. I longed to comfort her but didn't know how. Hoping my presence would be enough, I stayed. Hurriya slept most of the afternoon, but as night approached, she awoke. Her eyes glazed with fever, she cried pitifully for her mother. The damp clothes no longer affected her raging fever, She refused to drink causing her skin to become dry.

Neither of us noticed when evening became night. When Hurriya slept again, we lay down beside her. I don't know how long I slept before the sound of sobs woke me. Somewhat disoriented, I lay for a moment before I realized it was Sheerah crying. Sitting up I asked if something had happened. Through tears she indicated Hurriya still slept, but sobbed, "It is useless. Her skin is like the dough when we roll it out thin: hot and dry as though fresh from the oven. The only possibility is to take her arm. If we do then she will be useless. What man wants a one-armed wife? I wish we had perished with our parents."

Not knowing what else to do, I lifted my eyes heavenward and began to pray. Without realizing it, I prayed aloud. "Yahweh, I know you see Sheerah in her despair. Just as no one could comfort me when I desired death, I do not know how to reach her. Please, Lord, surround her with Your love, make her aware that You care." Remaining with my tear-streaked face raised, I felt the presence of God fill the tent. Forgetting Sheerah, I basked in the comfort of His closeness.

My meditation was interrupted by a small wavering voice. "God of Dinah, I know you are present; I can feel the change in the room. How can I, the daughter of a Baal worshipper, ask you for healing for my sister? Dinah has told me a lot about you, but I don't know how to approach you or if I can without the family tie necessary for the protection of a god."

As I watched, Sheerah, who had been slumped staring down, slowly raised her head. It was as though an invisible hand beneath her chin caused her to look up. For a long time she sat with eyes fixed as though listening intently. All the while tears rolled silently down her face. Finally she said, "I understand that You are the only real God, the creator of all things. Why would You be interested in me, a weak woman?"

As her tears dried her expression had changed. Doubt had replaced despair. As I watched, her face became a battleground, wonder fought with skepticism. Without conscious thought, I encouraged God, asking Him not to abandon His attempt to convince Sheerah.

Tensely Sheerah sat without speaking aloud, but her face told of the continuing silent communication. Suddenly she said, "I want to believe, but I cannot understand. Demonstrate Your power and Your willingness to protect those born into another religion. Make Hurriya well, and I will become Your follower."

Appalled at Sheerah's brazen request, I expected Yahweh's presence to go. Sheerah, however, remained transfixed. She stared into space while I gazed at her face. Our concentration was broken by a small voice begging for water. Both of us turned in surprise to Hurriya who was sitting up. As though in a daze, Sheerah filled a cup and placed it to Hurriya's lips. With her other hand, she stroked Hurriya's exposed arm. Tears began to fall, and Sheerah's whole body to shake. I quickly grabbed the cup as Sheerah fell on her face crying out, "Forgive my unbelief. I am unworthy of Your love."