Women's Stories

I've been "wearing" three different lenses when I read the Bible: the lens of women’s voices and experiences, the lens of justice and mercy, and the lens of care and responsibility for the created world or the world of “nature.” Reading with these lenses reveals stories and descriptions previously hidden in the shadows of neglect. The lenses of women's experiences have opened up three stories recently (italics are mine).

From the conclusion to the book of Job (42: 12-15)

So the Lord blessed Job in the second half of his life even more than in the beginning. For now he had 14,000 sheep, 6,000 camels, 1,000 teams of oxen, and 1,000 female donkeys. He also gave Job seven more sons and three more daughters. He named his first daughter Jemimah, the second Keziah, and the third Keren-happuch. In all the land no women were as lovely as the daughters of Job. And their father put them into his will along with their brothers.

I’m no Bible or ancient history scholar, but it seems significant that (1) Job’s daughters are named (but the sons are not); and (2) there is a statement that Job put them into his will. From what I do know about the ancient world, women were accorded no status. They were property. They were handed over to their husband’s brother if their own husband died. But here, in Job, we see the beginning of putting things right—putting things back in place as they were in Eden before The Fall, when Adam and Eve were equal, of one, with shared gifts and responsibilities. These women are named in the scripture. And Job acknowledged their worth as human beings, equal to their brothers, and put them into his will.

So I rejoice with Job’s daughters. They have names. They are people. They receive protection and property. Certainly there is much more in this passage. But I rejoice in this different order, a different understanding of women, of one’s daughters.

From the story of the birth of Moses (Exodus 2:1-10)

(v. 1-3) About this time, a man and woman from the tribe of Levi got married. The woman became pregnant and gave birth to a son. She saw that he was a special baby and kept him hidden for three months. But when she could no longer hide him, she got a basket made of papyrus reeds and waterproofed it with tar and pitch…  

[The sister keeps watch over the baby in the reeds. Pharoah’s daughter finds the baby, and when the sister offers to “find one of the Hebrew women to nurse the baby,” the princess agrees.] 

(v. 9-10) “Take this baby and nurse him for me,” the princess told the baby’ mother. “I will pay you for your help.” So the woman took her baby home and nursed him. Later, when the boy was older, his mother brought him back to Pharoah’s daughter, who adopted him as her own son. The princess named him Moses, for she explained, “I lifted him out of the water.”

Moses’ mother saw that he was a special baby. A small sentence. But a profound one. This mother, who has no name in the story, recognizes that her infant is special. Did God speak to her? What words did he whisper into her heart that she knew she had to take action to protect her child, not only because he was her son, but also because “he was a special baby.” And what courage she exhibited. This Pharoah knew nothing about Jacob and how he saved Egypt from ruin during the time of famine some 300 years before. Under this brutal Pharoah, the Israelites suffered “crushing labor” and the murder of their infant sons. Who knows what Moses’ mother risked by devising a plan to protect her child?

But then the greater courage and the deep pain. After caring for her son for some months, perhaps a year or more, nursing him, loving him, tending to his needs, she hands him over to the tyrant’s daughter.

What did she feel? What anguish must she have suffered? For how many days and nights did she weep? Did she know solace at any moment?  Did God say anything to her? Did God console her? Give her any relief from a life of cruel slavery? We don’t know. That part of the story has been lost, just as her name was lost.

I mourn for Moses’ mother, for her loss and pain. I also lift her up and celebrate her as a woman of courage and faithfulness.

Moses, Zipporah, and their family travel to Egypt from Midian (Exodus 4:24-26)

On the way to Egypt, at a place where Moses and his family had stopped for the night, the Lord confronted him and was about to kill him. But Moses’ wife, Zipporah, took a flint knife and circumcised her son. She touched his feet with the foreskin and said, “Now you are a bridegroom of blood to me.”…After that the Lord left him alone.

A woman of action. A woman of agency. That is Zipporah. I don’t remember this story. In all my years of Sunday school and church, prayer meetings and Bible studies, I have never heard anyone talk about Zipporah and how she was responsible for saving Moses from God’s anger. And God was probably pretty ticked at Moses. After all, Moses had been protesting and pleading with God to excuse him from going back to Egypt (at least 5 times between Exodus 3:11 and 4:14). Zipporah recognized that her husband had been whining and acting the coward. She took action to carry out the family’s part in the covenant and circumcise the son.

It's a story tucked away, brushed over, and neglected. Yet it’s a story of courage, a story of agency and action, and a story of responsibility.

How many other stories have been hidden in the shadow of neglect? I look for them and share them with the women with whom I work and live here in Beni--women who have their own magnificent stories.

Surprise Gift

Yesterday morning there was a call from the hallway, “Mama Mary.” I opened my bedroom door to see Maou, our guard, standing in the hall. “Mama Furaha apeleka huyu” (“Mama Furaha sent this.”). He held out a small, thin plastic bag, the ubiquitous shopping sack of Beni. Inside the bag were four handfuls of freshly cut, tender basil leaves. They glistened in the darkness and smelled glorious. 

“Mama Furaha hapa?” (“Mama Furaha’s here?”).

“Hapana. Watoto alipeleka” (“No, the children brought this.”).

I’ve known Mama Furaha since 2010. Until last summer, she served as cook at the international staff house, a role she had for four years. Mama Furaha makes the most succulent samosas and the crispiest frites. She pays attention to what people like and accommodates (and surprises) with her culinary skills and a charcoal stove. She is a consummate teacher, whether she is showing how to make samosas or coaching Swahili in a gentle, encouraging manner.

Mama Furaha lives out her name in spite of hardships. Health issues, a husband who struggles to maintain a job and sobriety, and raising three grandchildren do not dampen Mama Furaha’s spirit. Furaha means joy or happiness.

Mama Furaha knows that I like basil and enjoy a salad of it with chopped tomatoes, fresh spinach (if it’s available), avocado, and a little onion. She also knows that we don’t have basil growing at Bethel House, the guesthouse where I’ve been living for the past several months. Her gift yesterday was an expression of love. Last evening, while relishing my salad, I offered thanks for Mama Furaha and her loving kindness.

This afternoon I’ll visit her to say,“Thank you, dear friend,” and ask her to join me when I move to my own home here in Beni, in two weeks. I’m hoping she will be willing to help manage the house, cook, and continue as my Swahili coach. I’m hoping she will continue to grace me with the joy of her spirit.