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BACK OF COVER

Before the plagues, there was prosperity. Before the basket floated on the Nile, the Nile ran red from genocide. Before there were scribes and scrolls, there were matriarchs—women who remembered the silent laments and quiet victories of a people not yet a nation. After Joseph’s death, Goshen flourishes. Trade expands. Families grow. Secrets are revealed. Joseph’s granddaughter rises—known not for prophecy, but for building cities. But beneath the peace, fractures form. Enemies awaken. Ephraim and Manasseh now lead without the father who once fed nations. The Hyksos—a Semitic people—ascend Egypt’s throne and favor the Hebrews for a season. But in Thebes, Pharaoh’s true bloodline sharpens its knives, waiting to reclaim control. When they strike, the Nile will carry more than grain. It will carry grief.

This is not yet the story of Moses. This is the story of those who made his arrival possible. From 250 pages of patriarchal blessing and legacy in Prelude, to over 470 pages of upheaval, remembrance, and rising faith—The Moses Chronicles: Hands That Rock the Cradle spans generations, empires, and the sacred breath of women who kept the promise alive. It is a story of trade and betrayal, of kings who died on battlefields, of the bond between the sons of Keturah and the sons of Israel. It is the trauma of genocide. The fight to reunify Egypt. And the desperate prayers of a family of four—hoping that when the basket touches the Nile, mercy will meet it in the hands of the unknown.

Past Remembered
Judah stood at the window, watching her.
He had tried to silence the memory of Joseph’s cries, and the agony in his father’s eyes.
But grief doesn’t obey silence.
So he fled to Chezib, near Adullam, where the hills rolled green and the wine ran dark. There, he found Shua’s daughter, a Canaanite woman with eyes like flame. She became his wife and bore him three sons: Er, Onan and Shelah.
He thought building a household would dull the ache of what he left behind. It did not.
When Er came of age, Judah found him a wife—Tamar, a quiet woman with deep eyes who served his house faithfully.
But Er was wicked and cruel in ways Judah had not seen until it was too late. And Elohim struck him down.
Judah, bound by custom and conscience, gave Tamar to his second son. Clever and selfish, Onan took her to bed—but not to heart. He took her body, but denied her his seed. He spilled his seed like he spilled his name, and Elohim also struck him down, too.
Judah remembered the funerals. Two sons, buried before their time. Tamar’s eyes, unreadable.
And Shelah. The youngest. The only one left.
Judah had promised Tamar that when Shelah came of age, he would give him to her.
But the truth lodged like a thorn in his throat—he was afraid. Not just for Shelah. Not just for the future.
Afraid the curse was not on his sons… but on her.
And deeper still—afraid it was on him.
Was this Elohim’s punishment?
For handing Joseph over to the Ishmaelites? For standing by while Reuben wept and Israel wailed?
He had taken a son from his father. Now Elohim had taken two sons from him.
And he feared Shelah would be next.
So he sent her away.
“Remain a widow in your father’s house,” he had said.
And she obeyed. Silently. That silence lingered for years.
Time moved on. Judah’s wife died.
The loss was quieter than he expected. He mourned… but not like Israel mourned Joseph.
Judah did not rend his garments. He did not sit in ashes. He… became hollow.
Then one day, as the shearing season came, he set out for Timnah with his old friend Hirah. It was meant to be a distraction—business, wine, and a little indulgence.
He saw her on the road to Enaim, veiled, waiting.
And he didn’t recognize her.
All he saw was a woman. A distraction. A chance to forget.
He offered her a young goat. She asked for a pledge. His signet, his cord, his staff—the very marks of his identity.
Judah gave them all.
He lay with her, and she conceived. And vanished.
As he stood above the garden, looking at Tamar, that memory returned—not with shame alone, but with awe.

He tried to cast her away, and Elohim had cast her forward.
Her silence was not submission. It was strategy.
She had waited. Not for vengeance. For justice.
And she had won.

The More Righteous One
Judah stepped down from the stone threshold into the garden, each step slower than the last. The fragrance of myrrh and olive hung in the air, mingling with the rustle of fig leaves and the soft cooing of morning doves.
Tamar had requested a meeting.
They had not spoken in years—not truly, not since the day she lifted his signet and exposed his hypocrisy without raising her voice.
She stood beneath the olive tree now, still veiled, though her face was more visible than he remembered. Her posture was neither proud nor bowed—it was balanced and grounded. She had the bearing of someone who knew what she was owed—and had nothing to prove.
He stopped a few paces away. She turned and bowed, giving him the honor that was due.
“Thank you for seeing me,” she whispered.
“You shouldn’t have had to ask,” he replied hoarsely.
Silence fell between them.
“I owe you the respect of meeting whenever you need,” Judah said. “I tried to make a fool of you-before the elders, before the house.”
He gazed at his feet, the dust of the garden curling around his sandals.
“I called for fire. And you handed me a mirror.”
“I did not ask for fire,” she answered gently. “Only for what was mine.”
He met her eyes at last. The years had deepened her, not worn her down.
“You waited for Shelah,” he said. “I sent you away. I was afraid.”
“That you would bury another son?”
“That Elohim was punishing me.
Not just for Er or Onan.
For Joseph.
For selling my brother.
For walking away from Israel’s grief… and building a house where I could forget.”
He swallowed hard.
“Now, two sons are gone. One was sold. And the tribe still needs a leader.”
Tamar stepped closer, and her voice softened.
“You once said I was more righteous than you.”
He nodded. He had never stopped believing it.
“Then let righteousness lead.”
Tamar stood a moment longer beneath the olive tree, her fingers grazing the lowest branch. Judah waited, uncertain. She had more to say—he could feel it pressing beneath the silence.
Then she turned to him fully, her voice softer than before, but no less steady.
“There is something you never asked me about… the night our sons were born.”
Judah blinked. “You mean Pharaz and Zerah?”
She nodded.
“You were not there. I do not blame you. You gave us a house. You ensured we had land. But you never came near.”
She looked off toward the reed wall at the edge of the garden.

“I was not wife… not concubine… not even kin. I was the woman who bore your children. Nothing more.”
He swallowed. He did not argue.
“But Elohim came near.”
Judah’s gaze lifted.
“Zerah’s hand came first—just his hand. The midwife tied a scarlet thread to it and said, ‘This one is the firstborn.’ She was certain.”
Her hands trembled now—not from fear, but from memory.
“But then he pulled it back. And Pharaz… burst forth. No warning. No pause. Just life, breaking through.”
She turned to him, her eyes shining now.
“It wasn’t just birth, Judah. It was a command. As if Elohim Himself said, ‘This one.’”
Judah stood silent, stunned. This was new to him. He had never thought to ask.
“From that moment, I knew Pharaz was chosen. Not just by blood. By destiny.”
She stepped closer now, inches from him, and lowered her voice.
“I never thought we would end up in Egypt. I never imagined Elohim’s path would bring us here. Tomorrow, the council will meet to confirm new leaders.”
She reached into her sash and removed something wrapped in cloth. She unwrapped it—the old scarlet thread, faded but preserved.
“I kept it. Not for Zerah’s sake, but for mine. To remind me that the hand man chose was not the one Elohim appointed.”
She held it out—not as a threat, but as testimony.
“Name Pharaz, Judah. Not Shelah. Pharaz was chosen in the womb when the fire was still between us. Let the house of kings begin with him.”
She paused, then added with humility, “And if he leads… then I will no longer be the woman forgotten by the fire. I will be remembered in the line. In the telling. In the scrolls. Not for shame, but for obedience.”
A single tear fell down her cheek, and she let it fall.
At that moment, the man who had once sold his brother stood face to face with a woman who had never sold her dignity.

Judah’s Dream
The light had almost gone now, soft pinks bleeding into violet. Judah hadn’t moved from the base of the olive tree. The scarlet thread still rested in his palm.
His stomach rumbled once and then fell still. He was no longer hungry. Not for food. But for Elohim.
Footsteps approached—soft over the garden path. A servant bowed and set a small tray beside him on the low stone table.
“My lord,” the young man said, hesitantly. “The evening meal is ready.”
Judah opened his eyes, but did not look at the food.
“I’m not hungry,” he murmured. “Not for food.”
The servant lingered.
“But I would welcome a steady arm. I’m tired.”
The boy moved beside him, offering his shoulder.
Judah took it with a sigh and rose slowly to his feet, the scarlet thread still curled in his palm....

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