that?”
“Yeah.”
Leah copied them a second time, then a third. She was so absorbed in the wonder of it, she didn’t care that Matthew had started down the lane toward home without her, kicking his pebble. She wrote her name one more time to make sure she would remember it, then brushed the dust off her hands and skipped after him.
Abba and her older brothers, Saul and Gideon, were already seated in their places around the platform. “You are late,” Abba said. “You’ve kept us waiting.”
“I’m sorry, Abba.” Leah felt his stern gaze following her as she and Matthew quickly washed their hands. She expected another of his almost-daily lectures on the need for her to grow up soon and act more responsibly, but he must have decided that Leah had wasted enough of his time. After Matthew took his place beside his brothers, Abba recited the blessing. Leah helped her mother serve the food, listening in respectful silence to the men’s conversation.
“Abba, the new lamb that was born this morning is a male,” Saul said. At age eighteen, he worked with Abba every day, laboring in their barley field and caring for their small flock of sheep. His big bearlike frame towered over Abba’s, and he even resembled a bear with his shaggy black hair and beard. But Saul was as gentle and docile as one of his lambs.
“Maybe we can take it to Jerusalem for Passover this spring,” sixteen-year-old Gideon said. He was as different from Saul as two brothers could be—lean and sinewy, with curly brown hair that bleached to gold in the summer sun. His nature was different, too. Gideon was clever and quick-witted—and quick-tempered.
Saul frowned at his younger brother. “I was hoping to fatten up that lamb to help pay for a bride, not eat for Passover.”
Leah felt a sudden chill, as if Mama had opened the door again. If Saul chose a bride this year, it would mean another woman to help her and Mama with their work. But it would also mean that Leah would not be needed as much and could become a bride herself. She waited with her brothers, watching Abba’s face for a hint of his decision.
“This lamb will be for Passover,” he said at last. “There will be other lambs this spring, God willing, for your bride-price.” He scooped a helping of lentils into his mouth with a piece of bread, then added, “We’ll bring the lamb down from the pasture about a week before we leave for Jerusalem. It will be Leah’s job to care for it.” He held up a piece of the burned flatbread and added, “Let’s hope she gives it her full attention.”
Gideon turned to her and grinned. “Remember, Leah, it’s the priests’ job to offer burnt sacrifices, not yours.” All the men laughed, even Abba.
Leah kept her anger and humiliation at bay by savoring her newfound secret: Like all three of her brothers, she knew how to write her own name. Leah was so fascinated with her new skill that for the rest of the afternoon she wrote it everywhere, tracing the letters on the hearthstones with a piece of charcoal, dipping her finger in water to write it on the side of the clay jug, carefully carving it into her weaver’s shuttle with a knife. She glowed with triumph at the thought of mastering a skill that few other women possessed. But at the same time, Leah’s accomplishment only whet her appetite for more learning. Since writing her name was so easy, why couldn’t Matthew or Gideon teach her all of the letters?
She dreamed of learning to read as she methodically wove the shuttle back and forth through the warp threads, barely concentrating on the pattern of russet and gray stripes. The simple loom hung from a crossbeam below the ceiling, and the weight stones, which held the warp threads tight, clicked together rhythmically as she worked.
“Leah,” Mama said, interrupting her thoughts, “don’t forget, you must go and bathe in the mikveh today.”
Leah made a face. She had purposefully forgotten, pushing the unwanted thought from
“Yeah.”
Leah copied them a second time, then a third. She was so absorbed in the wonder of it, she didn’t care that Matthew had started down the lane toward home without her, kicking his pebble. She wrote her name one more time to make sure she would remember it, then brushed the dust off her hands and skipped after him.
Abba and her older brothers, Saul and Gideon, were already seated in their places around the platform. “You are late,” Abba said. “You’ve kept us waiting.”
“I’m sorry, Abba.” Leah felt his stern gaze following her as she and Matthew quickly washed their hands. She expected another of his almost-daily lectures on the need for her to grow up soon and act more responsibly, but he must have decided that Leah had wasted enough of his time. After Matthew took his place beside his brothers, Abba recited the blessing. Leah helped her mother serve the food, listening in respectful silence to the men’s conversation.
“Abba, the new lamb that was born this morning is a male,” Saul said. At age eighteen, he worked with Abba every day, laboring in their barley field and caring for their small flock of sheep. His big bearlike frame towered over Abba’s, and he even resembled a bear with his shaggy black hair and beard. But Saul was as gentle and docile as one of his lambs.
“Maybe we can take it to Jerusalem for Passover this spring,” sixteen-year-old Gideon said. He was as different from Saul as two brothers could be—lean and sinewy, with curly brown hair that bleached to gold in the summer sun. His nature was different, too. Gideon was clever and quick-witted—and quick-tempered.
Saul frowned at his younger brother. “I was hoping to fatten up that lamb to help pay for a bride, not eat for Passover.”
Leah felt a sudden chill, as if Mama had opened the door again. If Saul chose a bride this year, it would mean another woman to help her and Mama with their work. But it would also mean that Leah would not be needed as much and could become a bride herself. She waited with her brothers, watching Abba’s face for a hint of his decision.
“This lamb will be for Passover,” he said at last. “There will be other lambs this spring, God willing, for your bride-price.” He scooped a helping of lentils into his mouth with a piece of bread, then added, “We’ll bring the lamb down from the pasture about a week before we leave for Jerusalem. It will be Leah’s job to care for it.” He held up a piece of the burned flatbread and added, “Let’s hope she gives it her full attention.”
Gideon turned to her and grinned. “Remember, Leah, it’s the priests’ job to offer burnt sacrifices, not yours.” All the men laughed, even Abba.
Leah kept her anger and humiliation at bay by savoring her newfound secret: Like all three of her brothers, she knew how to write her own name. Leah was so fascinated with her new skill that for the rest of the afternoon she wrote it everywhere, tracing the letters on the hearthstones with a piece of charcoal, dipping her finger in water to write it on the side of the clay jug, carefully carving it into her weaver’s shuttle with a knife. She glowed with triumph at the thought of mastering a skill that few other women possessed. But at the same time, Leah’s accomplishment only whet her appetite for more learning. Since writing her name was so easy, why couldn’t Matthew or Gideon teach her all of the letters?
She dreamed of learning to read as she methodically wove the shuttle back and forth through the warp threads, barely concentrating on the pattern of russet and gray stripes. The simple loom hung from a crossbeam below the ceiling, and the weight stones, which held the warp threads tight, clicked together rhythmically as she worked.
“Leah,” Mama said, interrupting her thoughts, “don’t forget, you must go and bathe in the mikveh today.”
Leah made a face. She had purposefully forgotten, pushing the unwanted thought from
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