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Sons of Encouragement
The Priest copyright © 2004 by Francine Rivers. All rights reserved.
The Warrior and The Prince copyright © 2005 by Francine Rivers. All rights reserved.
The Prophet copyright © 2006 by Francine Rivers. All rights reserved.
The Scribe copyright © 2007 by Francine Rivers. All rights reserved.
“Seek and Find” sections written by Peggy Lynch.
Cover illustration copyright © 2010 by Robert Papp. All rights reserved.
Author photo copyright © 2006 by Elaina Burdo Photography. All rights reserved.
Designed by Jessie McGrath
Edited by Kathryn S. Olson
Published in association with Browne and Miller Literary Associates, LLC, 410 Michigan Avenue, Suite 460,
Chicago, IL 60605.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-1-4143-4816-2
Build: 2017-07-25 10:39:44
To men of faith who serve
in the shadow of others.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Book One: The Priest One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seek and Find
Book Two: The Warrior A Note to Readers
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seek and Find
Book Three: The Prince One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Epilogue
Seek and Find
Book Four: The Prophet One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Epilogue
Seek and Find
Book Five: The Scribe Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Seek and Find
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
From the beginning of my writing career, my husband, Rick, has blessed me continually with his encouragement. Without him, I might not have had the courage to send in the first manuscript that began my journey as a writer. He listens to my ideas, makes space for me in his office at Rivers Aviation, brews great coffee, and edits the final draft. He even builds me a fire on cool mornings. I delight in his company!
The Lord has also blessed me with encouraging friends. I want to mention two in particular: Peggy Lynch and Pastor Rick Hahn. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve called Peggy or Pastor Rick to ask where a Scripture passage is and/or to check my understanding of God’s Word. Both of these friends have loved Jesus since childhood, have a passion for God’s Word, and are gifted teachers. Each played an important part in bringing my husband and me to Jesus, and each continues to teach and encourage us in our walk with the Lord today. May the Lord bless you for your kindness!
I also want to thank Scott Mendel for sending me materials on the Jewish perspective. And Danielle Egan-Miller, who calmed the turbulent waters of sorrow when my friend and agent of many years, Jane Jordan Browne, passed away. Jane taught her well, and I know I’m in good hands. I offer special thanks to Peter Parsons for his great love of Amos. He was the first to encourage me to write this prophet’s story. May my rendering of Amos’s story be all you hoped it would be, Peter.
I want to thank my editor, Kathy Olson, and Ron Beers for their continued support and encouragement. I greatly appreciate their willingness to work with me to strengthen each story. There are so many people at Tyndale who have encouraged and prayed for me over the years. From the beginning of our relationship, I have felt part of the team.
To all of you who have prayed for me over the years and through the course of this particular project, thank you. When I’m assailed by doubts, which often happens, I remember you are praying. May the Lord use these stories to draw people closer to Jesus, our beloved Lord and Savior.
INTRODUCTION
Dear Reader,
The five novellas in this volume are about biblical men of faith who served in the shadows of others. These were Eastern men who lived in ancient times, and yet their stories apply to our lives and the difficult issues we face in our world today. They were on the edge. They had courage. They took risks. They did the unexpected. They lived daring lives, and sometimes they made mistakes—big mistakes. These men were not perfect, and yet God in His infinite mercy used them in His perfect plan to reveal Himself to the world.
We live in desperate, troubled times when millions seek answers. These men point the way. The lessons we can learn from them are as applicable today as when they lived thousands of years ago.
These are historical men who actually lived. Their stories, as I have told them, are based on biblical accounts.
For a more thorough reading of the life of Aaron, see the books of Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers. Also compare Christ, our High Priest, as found in the book of Hebrews.
For the facts we know about the life of Caleb, see the books of Numbers, Joshua, and the beginning of Judges. Caleb lived God’s commandment in Deuteronomy 6:5: “You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your strength.” May we show his passion and surrender in following our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
For the facts we know about the life of Jonathan, see the books of 1 and 2 Samuel.
For the facts we know about the life of Amos, see the biblical book that bears his name.
For the facts we know about the life of Silas, see Acts 15:22–19:10; 2 Corinthians 1:19; 1 Thessalonians 1:1; 2 Thessalonians 1:1; and 1 Peter 5:12.
These novellas are also works of historical fiction. The outline of each story is provided by the Bible, and I have started with the information provided for us there. Building on that foundation, I have created action, dialogue, internal motivations, and in some cases, additional characters that I feel are consistent with the biblical record. I have attempted to remain true to the scriptural message in all points, adding only what is necessary to aid in our understanding of that message.
At the end of each novella, we have included a brief study section. The ultimate authority on people of the Bible is the Bible itself. I encourage you to read it for greater understanding. And I pray that as you read the Bible, you will become aware of the continuity, the consistency, and the confirmation of God’s plan for the ages—a plan that includes you.
Francine Rivers
BOOK ONE
The Priest
ONE
Aaron sensed someone standing close as he broke loose a mold and put the dried brick aside. Skin prickling with fear, he glanced up. No one was near. The Hebrew foreman closest to him was overseeing the loading of bricks onto a cart to add on to some phase of Pharaoh’s storage cities. Wiping the moisture from his upper lip, he bent again to his work.
Through the area, sunburned, work-weary children carried straw to women who shook it out like a blanket over the mud pit and then stomped it in. Sweat-drenched men filled buckets and bent beneath the weight as they poured the mud into brick molds. Fro
m dawn to dusk, the work went on unceasingly, leaving only a few twilight hours to tend small garden plots and flocks in order to sustain life.
Where are You, God? Why won’t You help us?
“You there! Get to work!”
Ducking his head, Aaron hid his hatred and moved to the next mold. His knees ached from squatting, his back from lifting bricks, his neck from bowing. He set the bricks in stacks for others to load. The pits and plains were a hive of workers, the air so close and heavy he could hardly breathe for the stench of human misery. Sometimes death seemed preferable to this unbearable existence. What hope had he or any of his people? God had forsaken them. Aaron wiped the sweat from his eyes and removed another mold from a dried brick.
Someone spoke to him again. It was less than a whisper, but it made his blood rush and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He paused and strained forward, listening. He looked around. No one paid him any notice.
Maybe he was suffering from the heat. That must be it. Each year became harder, more insufferable. He was eighty-three years old, a long life blessed with nothing but wretchedness.
Shaking, Aaron raised his hand. A boy hurried over with a skin of water. Aaron drank deeply, but the warm fluid did nothing to stop the inner quaking, the feeling of someone watching him so closely that he could feel that gaze into the marrow of his bones. It was a strange sensation, terrifying in its intensity. He leaned forward on his knees, longing to hide from the light, longing to rest. He heard the overseer shout again and knew if he didn’t get back to work he would feel the bite of the lash. Even old men like him were expected to fulfill a heavy quota of bricks each day. And if they didn’t, they suffered for it. His father, Amram, had died with his face in the mud, an Egyptian foot on the back of his neck.
Where were You then, Lord? Where were You?
He hated the Hebrew taskmasters as much as he hated the Egyptians. But he gave thanks anyway—hatred gave a man strength. The sooner his quota was filled, the sooner he could tend his flock of sheep and goats, the sooner his sons could work the plot of Goshen land that yielded food for their table. The Egyptians try to kill us, but we go on and on. We multiply. But what good does it do us? We suffer and suffer some more.
Aaron loosened another mold. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow onto the hardened clay, staining the brick. Hebrew sweat and blood were poured into everything being built in Egypt! Raamses’ statues, Raamses’ palaces, Raamses’ storage buildings, Raamses’ city—everything was stained. Egypt’s ruler liked naming everything after himself. Pride reigned on the throne of Egypt! The old pharaoh had tried to drown Hebrew sons in the Nile, and now Raamses was attempting to grind them into dust! Aaron hoisted the brick and stacked it with a dozen others.
When will You deliver us, Lord? When will You break the yoke of slavery from our backs? Was it not our ancestor Joseph who saved this foul country from starvation? And look at how we’re treated now! Pharaoh uses us like beasts of burden, building his cities and palaces! God, why have You abandoned us? How long, oh, Lord, how long before You deliver us from those who would kill us with labor?
Aaron.
The Voice came without and within, clear this time, silencing Aaron’s turbulent thoughts. He felt the Presence so acutely that all else receded and he was cupped silent and still by invisible hands. The Voice was unmistakable. His very blood and bone recognized it.
Go out into the wilderness to meet Moses!
The Presence lifted. Everything went back to the way it had been. Sound surrounded him again—the suck of mud from stomping feet, the groan of men lifting buckets, the call of women for more hay, the crunch of sand as someone approached, a curse, a shouted order, the hiss of the lash. Aaron cried out as pain laced his back. He hunched over and covered his head, fearing the overseer less than the One who had called him by name. The whip tore his flesh, but the Word of the Lord ripped wide his heart.
“Get up, old man!”
If he was lucky, he would die.
He felt more pain. He heard voices and drifted into blackness. And he remembered . . .
How many years since Aaron had thought of his brother? He had assumed he was dead, his dry bones forgotten somewhere in the wilderness. Aaron’s first memory was of his mother’s angry, anguished weeping as she covered a woven basket she had made with tar and pitch. “Pharaoh said we have to give our sons to the Nile, Amram, and so I will. May the Lord preserve him! May the Lord be merciful!”
And God had been merciful, letting the basket drift into the hands of Pharaoh’s daughter. Miriam, at eight, had followed to see what became of her baby brother, and then had had enough boldness to suggest to the Egyptian that she would have need of a wet nurse. When Miriam was sent for one, she ran to her mother.
Aaron had been only three years old, but he still remembered that day. His mother pried his fingers loose. “Stop holding on to me. I have to go!” Gripping his wrists tightly, she had held him away from her. “Take him, Miriam.”
Aaron screamed when his mother went out the door. She was leaving him. “Hush, Aaron.” Miriam held him tight. “Crying will do no good. You know Moses needs Mama more than you do. You’re a big boy. You can help me tend the garden and the sheep. . . .”
Though his mother returned with Moses each night, her attention was clearly on the infant. Every morning, she obeyed the princess’s command that she take the baby to the palace and stay nearby in case he needed anything.
Day after day passed, and only Aaron’s sister was there to comfort him. “I miss her, too, you know.” She dashed tears from her cheeks. “Moses needs her more than we do. He hasn’t been weaned yet.”
“I want Mama.”
“Well, wanting and having are two separate things. Stop whining about it.”
“Where does Mama go every day?”
“Upriver.”
“Upriver?”
She pointed. “To the palace, where Pharaoh’s daughter lives.”
One day Aaron snuck away when Miriam went out to see about their few sheep. Though he had been warned against it, he went along to the Nile and followed the river away from the village. Dangerous things lived in the waters. Evil things. The reeds were tall and sharp, making small cuts on his arms and legs as he pressed through. He heard rustling sounds and low roars, high-pitched keens and frantic flapping. Crocodiles lived in the Nile. His mother had told him.
He heard a woman laughing. Pushing his way through the reeds, he crept closer until he could see through the veiling green stalks to the stone patio where an Egyptian sat with a baby in her lap. She bounced him on her knees and talked low to him. She kissed his neck and held him up toward the sun like an offering. When the baby began to cry, the woman called out for “Jochebed.” Aaron saw his mother rise from a place in the shadows and come down the steps. Smiling, she took the baby Aaron now knew was his brother. The two women talked briefly, and the Egyptian went inside.
Aaron stood up so that Mama could see him if she looked his way. She didn’t. She had eyes only for the baby she held. As his mother nursed Moses, she sang to him. Aaron stood alone, watching her tenderly stroke Moses’ head. He wanted to call out to her, but his throat was sealed tight and hot. When Mama finished nursing his brother, she rose and turned her back to the river. She held Moses against her shoulder. And then she went back up the steps into the palace.
Aaron sat down in the mud, hidden among the reeds. Mosquitoes buzzed around him. Frogs croaked. Other sounds, more ominous, rippled in deeper water. If a snake got him or a crocodile, Mama wouldn’t care. She had Moses. He was the only one she loved now. She had forgotten all about her older son.
Aaron ached with loneliness, and his young heart burned with hatred for the brother who had taken his mother away. He wished the basket had sunk. He wished a crocodile had eaten him the way crocodiles had eaten all the other baby boys. He heard something coming through the reeds and tried to hide.
“Aaron?” Miriam appeared. “I’ve been looking all over f
or you! How did you find your way here?” When he raised his head, her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Aaron . . .” She looked toward the palace, yearning. “Did you see Mama?”
He hung his head and sobbed. His sister’s thin arms went around him, pulling him to her. “I miss her, too, Aaron,” she whispered, her voice breaking. He rested his head against her. “But we have to go. We don’t want to cause her trouble.”
He was six when his mother came home alone one night, grieving. All she could do was cry and talk about Moses and Pharaoh’s daughter. “She loves your brother. She’ll be a kind mother to him. I must take comfort in that and forget she’s a heathen. She’ll educate him. He will grow up to be a great man someday.” She balled up her shawl and pressed it to her mouth to stifle her sobs as she rocked back and forth. “He will come back to us someday.” She was fond of saying that.
Aaron hoped Moses would never come back. He hoped never to see his brother again. I hate him, he wanted to scream. I hate him for taking you away from me!
“My son will be our deliverer.” All she could talk about was her precious Moses, Israel’s deliverer.
The seed of bitterness grew in Aaron until he couldn’t stand to hear his brother’s name. “Why did you come back at all?” he sobbed in rage one afternoon. “Why didn’t you just stay with him if you love him so much?”
Miriam cuffed him. “Hold your tongue or Mama will think I’ve let you run wild while she was gone.”
“She doesn’t care about you any more than she cares about me!” he yelled at his sister. He faced his mother again. “I bet you didn’t even cry when Papa died with his face in the mud. Did you?” Then, seeing the look on his mother’s face, he ran. He ran all the way to the mud pits, where his job was to scatter straw for the workers to stomp into the mud in the making of bricks.
At least, she had spoken less of Moses after that. She had hardly spoken at all.
Sons of Encouragement Page 1
