Inspired by the story of Dorcas as found in the New Testament book of Acts, Chapter 9
People scurried out of her way, women avoided her eyes, children were pulled out of her personal space, and men scowled as she hurried past. No one wanted to be around her, touch her, or even breathe the immediate air around her. Some folk even held their breath as she went by, waiting until she was safely past.
“I should have waited. I should have let the sun go down further,” was her self-deprecating thought as she clutched her pitcher tighter.
She could feel the dust between her toes; the knot in her sandal strap was coming loose. Stopping, she put down her pitcher and bent to retie it. Quiet footsteps behind her, pauses. She quickly grabbed up her pitcher as a foot came flying towards it, missing the earthen pot but spraying her with dust and dirt. A boy’s laugh, accompanied by about four others.
“Tame'! Tame'! Tabitha bath zanah! [1]” the little creatures shrieked at her as their older brothers looked on approvingly, smirking, and their sisters turned away.
The young woman stood, brushing the dust from her tunic. Hefting her pitcher onto her hip again, she continued on to the well on the outskirts of her district within Joppa.
Yes, she was an outcast. She was the whore’s daughter.
Tabitha bath Rahal was of marrying age but no man would have her lawfully. No boy would even look at her, except to scowl and mock. They would ask when she was to take up her mother’s trade; when she was to be the whore on the street corner, eyeing the men that passed; when she was to take Gentiles and lawless men into her bed. Tabitha never replied. Shame had cleaved her tongue to the roof of her mouth. But those…those were the tolerable ones. There were also those who just looked, those who appraised. Tabitha was a comely girl; she had her mother’s beauty and form. Even in her plain tunic and headscarf, it was plain that she was well-formed, dark tendrils of her hair peeking out from the scarf at her forehead. A few times, she had even been approached, a low, wine-warm voice asking how much to share her bed for the night. Tabitha had once even run from a man who was less than inclined to take no for an answer. Her mother had laughed at her when she came home in tears, wondering why on earth Tabitha had not brought the man home to her. They could have made twice the money.
If she could have, Tabitha would have left her mother’s home long ago, but she could not. She had no lucrative skill, no way to earn money; she would be homeless and helpless. But how was that different from being the whore’s daughter?
Tabitha lived upon the roof of the house, under a porch made of thatch. She only slept under her mother’s roof when the winds became too cold. But now, during the dry heated months, it was a haven for her. She did not like to be around when her mother had ‘visitors’. It shamed her to no end, for their eyes would often turn on her and the slow, hungry smile would start. Then Rahal would laughingly tell the men that her daughter would be a poor choice for them, as she “looked down upon such honest, natural work as this”.
Tabitha spent her mornings in the kitchen, making bread, cheese, and herbs and mixing wine. Her mother insisted upon the best table for her clients. Tabitha had no friends; even when she was a child, everyone had shunned her because of the shameful circumstances of her birth. She had grown up alone, for her mother poked her into corners, out of the way, in order to preserve her business.
“Tabitha? Where is that bread? And the fruit?” Rahal’s voice rang through the house. She sat upon her silk-covered bed, arranging her veils as she waited for her evening appointments.
Tabitha brought the food, keeping back her own dinner portion. She spoke not a word to her mother. She then took her dinner up to the rooftop, the tail of her skirt disappearing just as a young man knocked upon the door.
The young girl set down the bread and cup of water, folding her hands upon her bent knees. “El Elyon na Adonai (God all-powerful, my Lord), I praise You for this day created by Your hands. May my life be lifted wholly unto You. Please bless this food You have so wonderfully provided.”
Breaking off a piece of the small, flat loaf, Tabitha bit into it, chewing slowly. The sun glinted through the cover of the porch and she sat back against one of the poles. Soon, the meal was gone and the sun rested on its horizon bed. Loosing her scarf, she let it slide down over her hair, pooling on the pallet behind her.
The day was done and she lit her lamp, lowering the porch curtain where it faced the street, leaving open where it faced the mountains in the distance. Then she picked up her basket, where her sewing rested. She was working on a cloak for the winter months. She’d wanted it to be beautiful but had decided on leaving it simply plain; she did not wish to give anyone reason to identify her with her mother’s trade.
Many weeks passed. Winter season turned to planting season and then to harvest. Life continued on as it had: lonesome for Tabitha. She came to the well at dusk, as was her custom. Sitting at the well, his head reclined upon its edge, was a man. He seemed no older than in his early third decade, perhaps old enough to be her father. But he also seemed peaceful, his eyes shut, his breathing quiet.
She immediately thought of turning back, not wanting to disturb nor anger him with her presence. Tabitha turned to go.
“Where are you going?”
She froze.
“Where are you going, Dorcas?”
She turned around. The man was looking at her, his head still resting on the stones but his eyes open and alert. They were deep, piercing eyes, yet gentle.
“My name is Tabitha,” she said quietly, her wits suddenly gathering back. She clutched her water pitcher tightly.
The man sat up. “It was, once, and it will be again…long from now. But, right now, you are Dorcas bath Yahweh,” he said, almost offhandedly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to rename people one had never met.
Dorcas bath Yahweh. Dorcas, daughter of God.
“Who are you?”
He smiled. “I am Jesus. Please, come here. Perhaps you can get me a drink. I have no pitcher, as you can see.” His eyes laughed.
Jesus. The Teacher. “You do not know who—what I am, Rabbi.” Tabitha slunk back from his presence.
“Yes, I do, Dorcas. Come here.” Jesus’ voice was compelling, though not harsh.
Not wanting to disobey, Tabitha shuffled forward and lowered the skin into the well. When she drew it up, she emptied it into the pitcher and offered it to Jesus. The Teacher drank thirstily, as though he had been on the road all day long.
Tabitha waited until he was finished and then refilled the pitcher but Jesus declined. “No, thank you. That is yours.” Then he looked at her, as a father looks at child. A look she had never before seen.
“Dorcas, it’s time.”
She hesitated to ask. “Time for what?”
“It is time for you to leave your mother’s house. You are not what she is; do not remain there. Go to Mihal the weaver; she needs you.”
Tabitha was confused, her mind tumbling end over end. Leave? She had dreamt of it many times but never actually considered leaving Rahal’s house.
Reaching out, Jesus took her hands, pulling down to sit beside him. He held onto her small hands, looking from them to her. His hands were rough from years of work, tanned and scarred. A man’s hands. He touched her, without shame or remorse or lust. “Learn from Mihal; put your skill to the trade. Your life shall be a blessing, the work of your hands will care for the poor and the widows,” he told her. “Do not allow your past to cloud your future, Dorcas bath Yahweh. Repent of your sin and shame and leave your mother to hers; the Father has a plan for you.”
Tabitha felt tears fill her eyes and she fell to her knees before Jesus. “Master,” was all she could whisper before her voice broke with weeping. Jesus laid a hand on her head and let her cry as the sun began to sink; after a while, he pulled her to her feet.
“Go now. Do as I say, Dorcas. Begin again and serve the Lord your God.” Jesus smiled at the young woman, picking up her pitcher and handing it to her. “Oh, and thank you for the drink.”
Tabitha smiled through her tears and turned towards the village again as several men coursed out towards Jesus, speaking of bread and wine and rest. Jesus merely smiled at his disciples and watched the girl disappear into the village.
“Peter.”
“Yes, Rabbi?” Simon Peter came at his call.
“Remember this place, Peter. For you shall be called by it someday.” Jesus replied and then, taking his share of the bread, moved on to a place where they could rest and eat.
Tabitha stepped through the door of her mother’s house, setting the pitcher down. Rahal turned from her place before a lamp.
“Where have you been?”
“To the well,” was Tabitha’s reply. She crept towards the stairs, a strange smile on her face.
Rahal eyed her daughter suspiciously. “And what are you so smiley about, Tabitha?” she questioned.
Tabitha paused on the stairs. “Dorcas. My name is Dorcas.” Her voice was serene, confident. For the first time in her life.
With that, she moved on up to her porch to ponder what Jesus had said to her. In the morning, she left the district for Mihal’s weaving shop.
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