Abraham and Sarah

by Roberta Kells Dorr

  “Abram, be reasonable,” Sarai said. “Five kings from the cities of the plains went up against these foreigners, and they were all defeated.”

  This time she could hear him. “They weren’t just defeated by the armies of the Elamites,” he said. “Two of the kings and their men were fleeing when they slipped and fell into some asphalt pits. Then of course, it was easy for the victors to plunder both Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  “Abram, I beg you, be reasonable,” Sarai was crying. Hagar could tell that Abram had not been moved by Sarai’s arguments. She wondered how this man dared go against such odds. He was either a fool or very brave.

  Now she heard Sarai quite plainly. “Don’t go tonight,” she begged. “Wait until morning. You’re tired and it’ll be a long and dusty ride.”

  Abram was unmoved, but it was obvious he had put his arms around Sarai and was trying to console her. “My dearest,” he said, “you know I have to go. I can’t forget about my nephew. Families have to be able to depend on each other.”

  There were more tears and more pleading, but Abram stood firm. Finally he said, “I have a feeling that everything will work out. I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll be back and Lot and his family and Warda … maybe all of the people of Sodom and Gomorrah will be with me.”

  Hagar knew Sarai well enough to guess what she was thinking. Sarai would assume that this was another of what she called “Abram’s mistakes.”

  After another moment of silence, Hagar felt the tent pole move as the flap on the other side was lifted. She leaned out so she could see him. It was too dark to see much, but she could make out his strong, stalwart form moving toward his men who were gathering beside the fire. How brave he is, she thought with genuine admiration.

  There was only a short discussion between Abram and Eliazer as to the route they were to take and the manner in which they would travel. “Our success will depend on our ability to surprise the enemy,” Abram said. “We must be swift and able to maneuver with agility.”

  At that moment Urim edged into their midst. He had been listening. “They didn’t go up the far side of the Jordan because of the asphalt pits and steep cliffs,” he said. “We can overtake them easily if we follow them up the west side of the Jordan.”

  They were all strong, well-built men who were used to riding long distances. Without more discussion they mounted their donkeys, gave a few sharp taps to their animals’ flanks, muttered familiar commands, and were off down the moonlit road that led to the Jordan Valley.

  “Yah, yah, yah,” the men shouted as they drove their heels into their donkeys’ flanks and hurried them on after the enemy. At the Wadi Far’ah, they could dimly see the soft clay pitted with the enemy’s tracks. There were wheel marks, camels’ dung, hoofprints, and evidence of prisoners in chains. They had no idea what they would do when they caught up with the army, but each man went over and over the problem in his mind. Surprise would be all-important. Without surprise they would surely be taken captive and marched along with the other prisoners.

  Just before dawn their scouting party warned them that the enemy was camped just ahead in a sheltered area at the headwaters of the Jordan. There the river was only a small stream that wound around through mossy dells and large shade trees. Abram knew the area well. He quickly ordered his men to dismount and wait while he and a few of his scouts climbed the cliff behind the camp.

  From the cliff they could look down and see the tents of the enemy with their banners flapping in the early predawn breeze. They were surprised to see no sentries on guard, few signs of life. There were smoldering fires with spits holding half-eaten carcasses, and from some of the tents came the sounds of drunken singing and ribald laughter.

  Abram sent two scouts down to spy out the situation at close range. When they returned, one of them reported, “The prisoners are tied and sitting huddled together in a clearing. The cattle and carts of plunder are close by. When we crept close, one of the prisoners told us all that had happened. He told us that the major divisions of the army had gone on to Damascus, leaving these guards to follow more slowly with the prisoners and all the booty. The guards have been celebrating and are drunk. They even feel secure enough to leave their posts.”

  “And my Warda, did you see Warda among the prisoners?” Urim had squeezed in and was frantically pulling at the scout’s sleeve.

  The man turned and glared at Urim impatiently. “No, there were women and children and many men, but no one who sounds like the person you describe.”

  Abram turned to Eliazer. “We must move quickly if we are to surprise them. I’ll send men to release the prisoners, so some of them can help us. The rest of us will ready ourselves to attack.”

  Urim decided to go with Abram since the scout had not seen Warda with the prisoners. “She is such a prize,” he reasoned. “One of those vulgar Elamites must have taken her.”

  When everyone was in place and ready, the men attacked the camp of drunk and sleeping Elamites with all their pent-up fury. The rams’ horns blared and shrieked, cymbals clashed, knives flashed in the moonlight, swords cut tent ropes, and over the entire din was the deep-throated roar of the victory shout.

  Abram and a few of his men made for the tent with the king’s banner, but before they reached it, a strange thing happened. A man dressed only in a loincloth dashed out wielding a sword. He was followed by some of his own men who in the darkness mistook him for an attacker. In minutes the whole camp was in an uproar. No one knew his friend from his foe and at last, in the panic that followed, they began to run. Abram, seeing what was happening, signaled his men to follow them.

  While all that was taking place, Urim had gone straight to the tent where the singing had suddenly stopped. He pulled back the flap and saw, just as he had suspected, his beloved Warda tied to a tent pole. Her captors were still drinking and were in the process of casting lots for her. With a catlike spring, Urim was in the midst of the tent wielding a short sword with one hand while he cut Warda loose with a knife he held in the other. Weeping and shaking with fear, Warda clung to him. He took only time enough to snatch up a linen robe and wrap it around her.

  “Come Warda,” he said. “I’ll show you where the women of Sodom are being held. When we finish with this sordid business, I’ll be back to take you home.”

  He stopped long enough to see that Warda was headed in the right direction and then rushed after Abram’s men.

  It was told later that they chased the enemy clear to Hobah, north of Damascus, and then came back and rounded up the prisoners and the spoil and headed back the way they’d come.

  Lot had not joined the men who helped Abram. He was too shaken and miserable. He kept moaning that he had lost everything, even the fine robe he had been wearing. He was left in his linen undergarment until a young Elamite, admiring the fine weave, took that from him also; only his loincloth remained. The night was cold, and he felt sure he would be dangerously ill by morning.

  When the sun came up and Abram returned looking for Lot, he found a very different man. He was deeply grateful for the garments Abram found for him and the food he was given. “I have learned my lesson,” he kept saying. “Sodom is not a good place. I should never have left you, my uncle.”

  One memorable thing happened before Abram reached home. It was to most observers an insignificant thing, but to Abram, it was of profound importance and was to have a great deal to do with all that was to happen in the future. They were coming along the valley of Shaveh, sometimes called the Valley of the Kings, just below the small village of Salem, when their procession was stopped by a richly dressed messenger. “I’m looking for a man called Abram,” he said. “I have a message for him.”

  Abram stepped forward, and the messenger knelt in the dust and kissed the hem of his garment. “Come, come,” Abram said, lifting him to his feet, “give me the message.”

  “My lord,” the messenger said, “the king of Sodom has come up from the valley to meet you, and the king of Salem is comin
g to honor you.”

  Abram cared little for meeting the king of Sodom, but the priest-king of Salem had interested him ever since he had first heard about him. “He has no father or mother,” the people told him. “He was found on the doorstep of a poor shepherd.”

  “He worships only one God, the Creator God,” others remarked.

  Looking up toward the city, Abram saw a majestic old man with white hair and beard, a gold crown, a plain tunic, and a brown cloak of fine linen. He was moving slowly down the long flight of steps that led from the eastern city gate. He was leaning heavily on a gnarled and knotted walking stick. As he came closer to them, they saw that his eyes were kind and his whole manner was one of eager anticipation. When he reached Abram, he embraced him as though he were a brother; he kissed him on both cheeks and then stepped back and studied his face with obvious delight.

  Abram was puzzled. “I have heard much of you and your good deeds but how … ?”

  The king smiled and motioned him to a sheltered arbor under the trees beside the brook Kidron. “You are puzzled that I have greeted you as a brother, though I never met you before. Come and sit awhile, and I’ll explain.”

  The two men ignored the king of Sodom and his men who waited impatiently just out of sight around a bend in the road. They sat down on cushions and faced each other. “First,” Melchizedek said, “let me offer you some bread freshly baked and wine from our best grapes. Then I’ll explain.”

  When the bread had been eaten and the wine taken, Melchizedek leaned back and said, “I saw in a dream that one like you would come. One who worships as I do, the supreme God, the God who created the heavens and the earth. I am to encourage you and to bless you.”

  “How strange!” Abram said. “I had thought I was the only one left who believed in the one supreme God.”

  Melchizedek sat and listened to all that had happened to Abram from the time he had first believed and had destroyed his father’s idols to the promises that had not been fulfilled. The wise old man listened and advised him to be patient. “Some things take time, but be assured that the promises made by Elohim, the Creator God, will come to pass.”

  He then rose and called for his priestly robes. When he was ready, he turned to Abram and told him to kneel. Then placing his hand on Abram’s head, he said, “The blessing of the supreme God, Creator of heaven and earth, be upon you, Abram, and blessed be God, who has delivered your enemies over to you.”

  Abram rose slowly, his face radiant with joy. “It is true,” he said, “without Elohim’s guidance and help, I would never have been victorious. You have indeed encouraged me.”

  He ordered his men to give Melchizedek a tenth of all the spoils. As that was being done the king of Sodom with his retainers appeared. He ignored Melchizedek and strode over to Abram. “Just give me back my people,” he said with an arrogant toss of his head. “Keep for yourself the booty stolen from my city.”

  Abram realized he had been one of the kings trapped in the bitumen pits and had not been taken captive with the others. “I have promised Elohim, the supreme God, Creator of heaven and earth,” he said. “I will not take so much as a single thread from you, lest you boast that I am rich because of you.”

  Abram finally did agree to accept food for his men and agreed that a share of the booty should be given to Aner, Eshcol, and Mamre, his allies.

  As the king of Sodom prepared to leave, he turned to Lot. “Are you not returning with us?” he asked.

  Lot hesitated only a moment before responding, “I have had enough of city life for a time. I have decided to stay with my uncle.”

  It had been five days since the men marched out on their dangerous mission. As they approached the outskirts of Hebron, a joyful band of women and children, singing and dancing, met them. Leading the group was a creature of such exuberance and charm that all eyes were drawn to her. She had tucked up her skirt so her bare legs were visible, taken off her sandals, setting her feet free to stomp and tap in time to the music. Her jeweled ankle bracelets tinkled in a fascinating way while her hair fell wild and free, now covering part of her face, then spilling over her one bare shoulder. Partially holding the hair in place was a garland of golden grapes.

  When Abram first saw her, he was stunned by her beauty and grace. It was only as the dancers came closer that he recognized her as Hagar, the Egyptian handmaiden to Sarai.

  He stopped and looked past Hagar and the other women, hoping to see his spunky little wife, but she was nowhere to be seen. He briefly wondered if she even knew of his victory and moment of triumph. Was she still angry that he had gone against her advice? He wanted more than anything to see Sarai smile again with love and approval.

  The procession stopped a moment while Hagar impulsively removed her garland of golden grapes and placed it on Abram’s head. He was pleased but embarrassed. “Where is Sarai?” he asked. He was surprised when Hagar didn’t answer but tossed her head, lifted her chin, and with a look of arrogant pride elbowed her way through the crowd and disappeared.

  Abram thought little of it until later, much later. Then he realized that Hagar had done what Sarai should have done. The wives and children of all the other men had come out to welcome them home. Only Sarai had stayed behind, tending to some weaving she wanted to finish before sundown. “She’s a good wife,” he told Lot. “She’s always busy. She’s up with the sun and bakes the best ash cakes.”

  Later, when Abram and Sarai were alone together, Sarai asked about Lot. “I suppose he’ll be going back to Sodom,” she said testily.

  “No, he’s not going back,” Abram said. “It seems he’s had enough of such places. He’s learned his lesson.”

  Sarai laughed. “Lot will go back. You’ll see, he’ll find it dull here after Sodom.”

  Abram disagreed. He had seen Lot. Lot had suffered more than most. Abram knew he was a changed man. “No, Sarai,” Abram said, “Lot has had his fill of Sodom and so has Urim. Neither one will go back.”

  Sarai reached out, patted his arm, and said softly but confidently, “We’ll see.”

  In the end it was as Sarai had predicted. Lot was no longer happy away from the excitement of the city. At first he made furtive visits to his old friends. Then he began to spend some time sitting with the elders at Sodom’s gate. The final break came when Mara begged him to go back, saying that she missed the niceties of her stone house on the wall. Many of her fine furnishings had been taken in the raid, but she was determined to replace them as soon as possible. “I can never leave my house,” she insisted.

  When that approach failed to have the desired effect, she produced another more impressive argument. “Have you forgotten,” she chided, “our daughters were to have married those two young men from wealthy families. If we linger here any longer, we may miss this chance for fine marriages.”

  When Lot came to tell Abram he had decided to move back to his old home, he found his uncle sitting before a small fire of dung patties at the door of his tent. Abram was not pleased. “I don’t think the men of Sodom will make very good husbands,” he said finally.

  “On the contrary,” Lot said, “they have land and houses. They are wealthy.”

  “And how do they come by their wealth? Certainly not by herding animals.”

  Lot smirked and twisted the fringes on his linen kirtle. “They have land and raise fine barley for beer. The pleasure groves are always ordering their beer. My daughters will never want for anything. Anyway, they are still too young. They are only being promised to them now.”

  Abram studied Lot for a moment. He noticed the eyes that were suddenly shifty, the weak chin and the nose that had somehow taken over his face since he had lost his teeth. He obviously had no conscience. “Do you not find it difficult,” he said finally, “to live among people who think only of their stomachs and sexual games? Have you totally forgotten the God who brought us out of Ur and promised us blessings?”

  Lot moved uneasily on the goat hair rug and nervously twisted his riding p
rod. “Of course I’ve not forgotten,” he said, turning to look at Abram directly, “but where are these promises? We came to the land, and it was barren and ugly with drought. Sarai is just as barren. Can’t you see there are men, evil men, who have their houses full of children and their fields rich with the harvest? Elohim’s promises are worthless.”

  Abram was stunned. What Lot said was true. He had seen the worshipers of idols with children like olive shoots around their knees and their granaries full to bursting. He had no answer for Lot, and in the end he merely bade him a sad farewell.

  That night when he sat with Sarai eating some large, fresh dates folded in grape leaves, he told her all that had happened. Sarai flared up in defense of Lot. “Lot has cause to think the way he does,” she said, brushing the damp hair back from her face and readjusting her mantle. “I agree with him. What has your God ever done for you? How many of the promises have been fulfilled? Just think, Abram, how much time you’ve wasted thinking about this God and His promises.”

  “Sarai, Sarai,” Abram sighed. “Remember it was our God who brought us safely out of Ur, rescued you from Pharaoh’s harem, and Lot and his family from slavery.”

  “I would say you were the one who rescued Lot. Without you, Elohim could do nothing.”

  Abram looked at Sarai and shook his head. “I can see you don’t understand,” he said.

  “Oh, but I do understand. What about the promises of land and a child, blessings, where are they? I’ve been patient. I’ve waited. I’ve gotten old waiting and nothing has happened.”

  For the first time Abram saw lines of bitterness around Sarai’s mouth and hard accusation in her eyes. Her hair was no longer braided in the small shoulder-length braids, and instead of the golden headband she wore a fringed mantle like the Chaldeans. Her vitality and girlish slimness, the way she tossed her head or lowered it in a flirting sort of way and looked out sideways at him, the way she walked, so straight and proud with a hint of arrogance—all that gave the illusion of youth. Now Abram was seeing her as angry, resentful, and suddenly old.