Tamar:

They look at my swollen belly and spit at my feet. I straighten my shoulders in effort to not shrink beneath their judgment. They call me a whore and that my tainted money is no good. I must buy my fruit elsewhere. They’re right about one thing, I have played the prostitute. What would they say if they knew I didn’t do it for money?

My husband is dead, praise be Yahweh. I didn’t mourn for him, not many did. When my father gave me to Er as a wife I was proud to marry into the Hebrew family. Er was son of Judah, grandson of the illustrious Jacob, descendent of Abraham. He was wealthy and I was anticipating building a family. The only thing I built were walls to survive. Er was evil to his core, so despicable in fact that the Almighty took his life, sparing mine in the process. Scars on my heart and mind were all that were left of my marriage.

Canaanite by birth and Hebrew by marriage I was now committed to living under the law and the eye of the Almighty. He had acted justly in the killing of Er and I trusted him and my father in law Judah. Surely this righteous man, this son of a patriarch would do right by me. Soon after Er died Judah gave my hand to his second son, Onan. According to custom Onan would give me children and we would raise them up to be heirs of Er. Onan took my body and crushed my soul by refusing me children. The shame sat heavy on me like a cloak every time he left my tent, having used me for his pleasure and wasting my future on the ground. Time and time again he refused to uphold his duty and again, the Almighty saw his wickedness and put my husband to death.

Widowed and childless again. That’s when the whispers in the village began. “What kind of curse is this woman that no man can survive in her home? And no child as well … Cananaites and their heathen practices.” Things intensified when Judah sent me back to my father’s house under the pretense of waiting for his youngest son to grow up. But the whispers came back “He sent her away so she wouldn’t be the death of Shelah too...Judah thinks she is cursed!”.

Abused, used and now deemed a curse. So many tears spilled on my pillow, despising the day of my birth, a wretched woman I had become. I trusted the Almighty but it seemed he had forgotten me. When I saw Shelah in the marketplace my heart dared to hope. Maybe here, in this young man, I would be redeemed. Maybe in marriage to this final son of Judah, my shame would be taken away. So, I waited. And waited. It was my mother who finally said the words, "I do not think he is coming". She said them with gentleness as she wiped my hair off my tear stained cheek. I knew she was right. Judah was protecting his son from the curse I had become.

The gossips will tell you that it was lust that drove my next decision. That as a widow I was finally free to embrace the role of the scarlet woman so synonymous with my Cananite heritage. But when I married into the Hebrew tribe, Jehovah became my God. I waited for Him to bring justice to my situation as he had done with my two previous husbands … but the waiting was hard, the rumors painful, and eventually I could not take the silence any longer.

I am not proud of my next steps but they are mine. Jehovah abandoned me, so I wrapped myself in the veils of the Baal prostitutes and waited for Judah to come. When it was over and I held his staff and signet in my hands, proof I knew I would need, I made my way home numb. My tears washed the road dust from my face as I felt my soul shred with every veil I peeled off. I borrowed an identity while searching for justice and now all I'm left with is shame.

A stranger grabs my arm and I recoil. "You are Tamar, the Cananite! You've been unfaithful to your widowhood, Judah says you are to burn!". I don't even hear the other insults they hurl as I'm dragged to the center of our village. I see my mother clutching her scarf, her face contorted in grief. I see Shelah look on with revulsion as his father stands beside him, his arms crossed with righteous anger flashing in his eyes. I am thrown at his feet just as the babies in my womb jostle each other, an obvious symbol of what I am here to answer for.

They're shouting and lighting a torch and the panic feels like a noose around my neck. Jehovah, help me, this isn't what I wanted.
The staff. The signet. I fight for breath and scream "Wait! I am pregnant by the man to whom these belong. Please, identify the owner of this seal, cord and staff". I struggled to my feet and held the items out to the man who bartered them for my body, the man whose sons had mistreated me, the man who denied me my place in his family, the man whose children I now carry.

The world stopped when he took them. It began to spin again when, rather than having them light my cloak on fire, he squeezed the staff tight and said "She is more upright than I am". He looked in my eyes and said "She is more upright than I, because I wouldn't give her to Shelah my son".

I felt the breath return to my body as the torches fell to the ground around me. As they sizzled out, the dying embers lit a spark of hope in my heart. Maybe Yahweh does see, maybe He does know, maybe … there is redemption for women like me.