Rhoda the Damsel

By Julie Harrison Wallace

Born mute, a baby girl is sold into slavery during the time of Christ. She grows up in Jericho and is not valued enough to be given a name. She is known as “the dumb girl”. Her yearning for a better life drives her to run away to Jerusalem. The 14 year old’s dream is soon shattered. Penniless, and with no voice to ask for help, she is ready to give up and return to Jericho. But, a fateful encounter with Dinah, in the temple courtyard, convinces her that God is watching over her.
Soon she is brought face-to-face with the miracle man from Galilee and is rewarded with a voice. Her innocent nature and beauty inspires a new name – Rhoda, which is Greek for “rose”. But the most precious gift she receives is the daily wonder of Jesus’ love.
Rhoda travels the country with Jesus and His followers during the last year of His ministry. Rhoda befriends the apostles Peter and Andrew, who become like brothers to her. And the faithful women followers take Rhoda under their wings. There is Mary, the sweet mother of Jesus, Salome, the ambitious, vibrant mother of James and John, Mary Magdalene, and many other distinctive women who teach Rhoda to serve and survive.
When Jesus continues onto Galilee, Rhoda chooses employment at Mary Levi’s home as a maid. The three grown children, along with four servants, fill the missing gaps in Rhoda’s orphaned life.
As Jesus’ journey comes to an end, Rhoda witnesses His last purpose-filled months of passionate teachings. After the horrific crucifixion, His resurrection, and His glorious ascension into heaven, Rhoda experiences the dawn of the church. It’s here that we come upon the recorded event in the Book of Acts. Peter has escaped from prison and is knocking at the locked gate. Rhoda, from sheer excitement at Peter’s voice, leaves him locked out on the dangerous street as she runs inside to tell the others. This is the girl we have come to love.
As she learns more about the church springing up around the world, Rhoda determines to use her talent for Jesus. She becomes a missionary; embarking on a sea voyage to the island of Cypress. This story is a two year journey into the life of the girl God loved so much, that He recorded her name and faithfulness in His Word for eternity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julie Harrison Wallace
• Release date: Oct 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311269324

Book preview

Rhoda the Damsel

Julie Harrison Wallace

Dedicated to the Memory of

Meagan Ann Britt,

Who, during her fifteen years on this earth

Shed a light so bright

That those of us left behind

Still see it.

***~~~~~***

My appreciation goes to:

Our sweet Lord.

Through the loving words of His Holy Bible,

I was inspired to write this story.

My daughter Reva, who suggested I write about Rhoda.

My daughter Sydney, who kept me motivated.

My husband Kevin, who believed in me and

Encouraged me to put down the pen

When I wanted to keep rewriting it.

To my mom Sherry, and my in-laws Arlene and Ed,

For their faith in a new author.

And to my many friends who proofread and encouraged me.

Thanks to the cover model, Rachel Danielle.

Your lovely spirit made the perfect Rhoda.

And to Zina Duncan of Zina Duncan Photography.

You were a delight to work with!

***~~~~~***

This novel is based around the events in the Gospels of

Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, and the Book of Acts.

Some of the events and dialogue are fictitious.

***~~~~~***

Rhoda the Damsel

Julie Harrison Wallace

Distributed by Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Julie Harrison Wallace

****~~~~~***

Chapter 1 - The Damsel

Summer, AD 32

To look at me you’d never know there was something wrong with me.

Something abnormal.

It didn’t show in my face. My hazel eyes and caramel brown hair were common enough. It didn’t show in my walk either. My legs were somewhat skinny, but they worked perfectly fine.

No, it only showed up when I was spoken to. I couldn’t fake being normal then, because I couldn’t speak back.

You see, I was dumb. Dumb as in mute, not stupid. I had never spoken a word in my entire fourteen years. Not so much as a tiny, little squeak. It’s not that I never tried. It’s just that somehow . . . I couldn’t.

That’s why I was in this little farming community just outside Jerusalem, waiting to see the miracle worker. Waiting for this miserable life as a mute to be over.

The bright, midday sun was beating down on us, but a steady breeze made the heat bearable. It was the maddening chaos that was unbearable. Surely my life was about to take a turn for the better. It just had to.

Surrounding me were the heart-wrenching sounds of sobbing and shouting. A woman held up high a baby with a cleft palate. The sight of its gaping mouth sent shivers down my spine. Everywhere I looked, I saw someone who was disfigured or repulsive. I couldn’t keep from bumping into them. People were shoving each other; frantic to reach the Healer, and not caring who got hurt in the process. Dear Lord, I begged silently, please get me through this.

In this pitiful crowd of Israel’s rejects were the blind, the lame, the diseased, and me, the mute girl. There were others who weren’t physically broken, but were beaten down by a harsh life. Our bodies, hearts, and souls were aching to be healed. For many of us, He was our last hope.

In Jerusalem, they said He could heal anyone with just a touch. Anyone. He didn’t even hesitate to touch a disgusting leper. Under His healing hand, the hideous disease melted away right before our eyes. Some dared to say He was the Messiah, the Son of God. Word about this miracle man had spread like wildfire across Israel.

He was Jesus of Galilee.

Being only fourteen, I had my entire life ahead of me and I was not going to live it as a mute any longer! Using my small size to my advantage, I dropped down on my hands and knees onto the grass and crawled through the frenzied mob. Rough sandals trampled on my hands and feet, cutting and scraping them, but no screams came from my voiceless throat.

The nauseating smell of unwashed bodies nearly overwhelmed me. I wanted so badly to stand up and gulp in the fresh country air. The hair that had escaped from my braid was clinging to my sweaty face. Keep going, I told myself. A chance for a normal life was too close for me to give up now.

My determination paid off. Looking up from the ground, I saw several muscular men holding the mob back, their arms as huge as tree branches. The looks on their faces told me no one would get by them unless they allowed it. Even so, these tough men didn’t deter me.

I struggled to stand up, caught in a shoving match between the frantic people and the huge bodyguards. With bleeding hands, I wiped the dirt and grass off my soiled tunic and pushed the sweaty hair out of my face. The movement must have caught Jesus’ eye, because He stretched out His hand, expecting me to take it.

But, I didn’t take it.

Instead, I stood perfectly still and stared at Him.

This couldn’t be the Healer, could it? I thought. He wasn’t at all as I’d imagined. I was expecting someone distinguished. Tall and handsome with nice clothes. But this man was ordinary, like the common Jews that I saw in Jerusalem. He was definitely not distinguished. Not with that simple cotton tunic. It was obviously homespun. Plain leather sandals adorned His dusty feet.

Well, ordinary man or not, this was the moment I’d been waiting for. I placed my small, injured hand in His rough, callused hand. With a deep now or never breath, I stepped toward Him.

There I was, face to face with the miracle man. This Jesus of Galilee.

I looked up at His plain face, not realizing that mine was covered with dirt and smears of blood from my hands. Streaks of clean skin showed where the sweat had run down my face, washing away the dust. Without a voice, I couldn’t explain to Him why I was there. No friends helped me out, because I had come alone.

But an explanation wasn’t necessary. In the middle of all the noise and chaos, He stood there calmly and quietly looking at me. I think He even looked pleased to see me, as if He had been expecting me. His eyes crinkled at the corners and the wind blew His dark brown hair and robe softly in the breeze.

The crowd hushed and stood expectant, as they did each time He cured someone. Jesus put His hands on my shoulders and softly said, Speak, child.

A sound bubbled up in my throat. Master! I exclaimed.

Women drew their hands over their mouths in astonishment. Men frowned and children stared at me with wide eyes. I looked nervously from face to face, not understanding their reaction. I had been so absorbed in Jesus’ compassionate gaze that I didn’t realize I had said anything at all.

The crowd now frightened me and I ducked my small frame under the protective arm of the Healer. The speechless amazement of the witnesses swelled into many voices.

I can’t believe it! someone cried. Did you see what He did?

She spoke! The dumb damsel spoke!

A miracle! He truly is the Son of God.

It slowly began to make sense. They were talking about me. That sound had come from me!

I looked up at Jesus from under His sheltering arm. A smile tugged at one corner of His mouth. After all these years of being mute, I was used to being pointed at, ridiculed, and mocked. But I wasn’t used to being smiled at. This was nice.

His warm brown eyes met my timid hazel eyes. It’s okay, little one, He said. You’ve been made whole.

A bashful Thank you, Master came from my lips. This time I clearly heard the beautiful sound of my new voice.

My voice!

A jubilant smile spread across my face. Joy grabbed my spirit and pulled it upward. I wanted to shout and twirl with my hands raised up high to the sunny sky. But the crowd wouldn’t allow it. They had already dismissed me and were pushing forward, anxious for their turn to be healed. I took a half step away from Jesus and hesitated, truly not knowing where to go. Jesus turned me toward a cluster of trees across the field. Go tell my mother to feed you, He whispered and again gave me that crooked smile. Gently, He pushed me in that direction.

He didn’t have to tell me twice! His guards cleared a path for me and I ran downhill across a field of flowers. The yellow blooms became little more than a sunny blur.

As the crowd disappeared behind me, my courage grew, and I began yelling at the top of my lungs, I can talk! I can talk! He healed me . . . I can talk! My laughter seemed to fill the entire countryside, until even the flowers were laughing with me.

What a sight I must have been. At fourteen, I was a young woman in years, but still a child in appearance. Skinny as a stick. Dirty. Bruised. A long, ratty braid and shabby clothes. Of course, at the time I wasn’t thinking about how I looked. I was overwhelmed by the healing.

Ahead of me was the cluster of pine trees. Behind them, a low stone wall stretched down the hill and out of sight. Donkeys were standing near the trees and some women were working nearby. A thin line of smoke spiraled up from the camp. As I ran closer to the women, I began to see their individual faces. They exchanged knowing smiles with each other as if this was something they saw every day. Their smiles encouraged me to keep running toward them.

The sun never looked more dazzling and the warm wind wrapped itself around me and hugged me like a soft blanket. It was if the sun was shining just for me.

One of the women moved toward me during my bounding run. I had trouble slowing down and came to a clumsy stop in front of her. She steadied me by grasping my shoulders or I would have toppled over. Gasping for breath, I looked up at her face and saw warm brown eyes that crinkled in the corners. I knew exactly who she was.

Her mouth spread into a smile as wonderful as her son’s smile and she laughed and hugged me tight. The smile I returned was as big as the Sea of Galilee. I may have looked an awful mess, but I didn’t care. I had never been happier in my life. My body had been broken and Jesus put me back together. It was a gift of love, a deep love I’d never experienced before.

Shalom, little one, said Jesus’ mother, cupping my face with her hands. My Jesus is a wonder, isn’t He? I nodded my head vigorously in agreement, not used to the concept that I could speak. I can't believe I have a voice, I giggled. Then I giggled at the sound of my giggle. How did He do it? All He did was tell me to speak.

Still smiling at me, she said Come, child, you must be hungry. I’m Mary. Let’s get some food in you first and then you can tell us all about yourself. She kept one arm around my shoulders as she led me to a clay basin of water. You can wash up here. She was so sweet I could have melted.

As I dipped my bloody hands into the water, I noticed the cuts and scrapes were gone. The blood and dirt washed away easily and my skin was perfect. I looked at my feet and knees. They were healed too. Even all my bruises were gone. Impossible! I thought. He wasn’t kidding when He said I had been made whole. I’d been healed from head to toe.

Mary handed me a cloth on which to dry. How brown her hands were. I peeked at her face and saw it was tanned, too. Her veil was pushed back on her head and its mustard color only made her face look darker. She was only a little taller than me, but so motherly that I loved her already. Mary pointed out a grassy area for me to sit, while another woman walked toward me with a plate of food. The thick grass I sat on had been warmed by the sun and I reached up eagerly for the plate.

Mmm. I took a moment to breathe in the scrumptious aroma. Steaming hot beans, wheat bread, and fresh figs. Thank you, ma’am, I said. Then I giggled at the sound of my new voice. This was going to take some getting used to.

This lady looked so much like royalty that I couldn’t take my eyes off her, not even with the mouth-watering food right there in my hands. The deep blue fabric of her tunic was luxurious. It was all I could do to keep from touching the plush folds. Her veil was the color of the yellow field flowers and looked oh, so soft. Glossy, black hair was parted down the middle and peeked out from beneath her veil. Her skin was a lovely shade of olive. I was mesmerized.

Her appearance was very different from Mary’s, but they both shared the same sweet gentleness. I found myself smiling as I studied her.

What is your name, child? asked the lady.

The smile abruptly dropped from my face. My eyes fell to the untouched plate. I think the sky even turned a sad gray. Amazingly, I didn’t want to speak. Shame from my past had crept into my thoughts.

But the elegant lady kneeling in front of me was looking at me with such tenderness that the words sputtered out.

I don’t have a name, ma’am. My mother didn’t give me one. She sold me . . . after I was born . . . when I cried . . . and no sound came out. I’m just known as . . . the dumb girl.

***~~~~~***

Chapter 2 - Running Away

Summer, AD 32

Painful memories flooded over me, causing my spirit to sink low. I thought about my parents, (whom I couldn’t remember), selling me into slavery when I was only a baby. They couldn’t have loved me. I used to wonder why I had even been born. What good was a baby that didn’t laugh or talk?

If this rich lady only knew about the many masters I had while growing up - their rough ways and harsh words. My muteness mistakenly caused them to believe I was also deaf. Or just plain stupid. Some think it’s okay to be mean or belittle someone who’s different.

When instructed to do something, I was pushed or jerked by my arms or hit on the head. Because I was handled so roughly, I would take to hiding whenever possible. Not a good thing for a servant girl to do. Lazy servants don’t stay around long. I was sold or traded several times. But the cruel treatment continued wherever I went.

Jericho is where I grew up, which was only a two-day walk from Jerusalem. I didn’t have the freedom to travel out of the city, since I was a slave. I was forced to stay at the house and work. My parents never came to see me and I didn’t know if I had any other family. To my knowledge, I was completely alone.

The beautiful lady was still kneeling in front of me, searching my troubled face. I tried to think of something I could tell her about myself. Something that wasn’t too upsetting. But the only memories I could find were of humiliation and fear. Memories too painful to voice.

Maybe I should tell her what happened about a week ago, when I decided to run away. When I thought I’d be better off alone than living with those who mistreated me. But where could a mute girl go? Nowhere near Jericho, thank you. I could be caught and turned in. Jerusalem? I’d heard that thousands of people lived there. Maybe even hundreds of thousands. I’d be a small face in a big crowd. Jerusalem it was.

I packed one change of my simple clothes and put as much food as I could cram into my little brown knapsack. That was all I had. I slipped away before dawn, scared but excited, too.

Jerusalem wouldn’t be difficult to find. I simply took the main road out of Jericho and followed the clouds of dust. The road was normally crowded with people going to Israel’s capital. Merchants traveling in their caravans came from all over the East. Jews made their pilgrimage to the temple. I wasn’t a Jew, but I believed deeply in God. I only hoped He approved of what I was doing. I prayed that He would help me.

Following the crowd was easy. I enjoyed walking behind families because I could watch the children play together. I was curious what it was like to be a normal child in a family. I never had that opportunity.

Goodbye, Jericho. I only wished I could say it out loud. Little did I know that I had picked a good time to leave. A few months ago, I couldn’t have made this journey. The spring rains would