Rebekah

by Jill Eileen Smith

  Deborah darted a look over the camp, her eyes finally settling on the women’s tent. “She is probably in the tent, settling things.” Though now that she thought about it, she had not seen her daughter since they set up camp, when Selima had gone to lay out their bedrolls and deposit their necessary items in the tent.

  “I saw her leave the tent long before the stew was put together,” Rebekah said.

  Deborah glanced at the sky. The sun’s orb suspended halfway between the horizon and its place in the west, nearly out of sight. The spring was more than an arrow’s shot from where they stood, down the embankment where the land dipped away from the camp.

  “If she went for water, she should have long ago returned.”

  Fear sent a prickly feeling up her spine. She looked around, the fear mounting. Where was she?

  “Selima?”

  Deborah turned at the male voice calling her daughter’s name. She glimpsed Eliezer’s son Haviv walking toward them.

  “Why do you seek my maid?” Rebekah’s worry matched Deborah’s. And why was this man looking for her daughter?

  “Is she not here?” Haviv’s brow furrowed, and the concern in his eyes heightened Deborah’s own fear.

  “I saw her leave the tent, and I think she carried the jar to draw water.” Rebekah dried her hands on a piece of linen and hurried to Haviv’s side. “But perhaps she returned and slipped inside again.”

  Rebekah rushed to the tent while Deborah called to one of the men to keep watch over the stew, apologizing for the inconvenience. She hurried after Rebekah, Haviv a few steps behind her, but the tent was dark, as they first suspected.

  “I’m going to check near the camels at the water’s edge,” Haviv said.

  Deborah picked up her skirts. “I’m coming with you.”

  She felt Rebekah at her side, keeping her pace. When they reached the rise, they spread out their search in different directions.

  “Selima!” Deborah’s heart beat fast and hard. She could not come all this way to finally hold the hope of a better life only to lose her daughter! Emotion rose up, filling her throat. “Selima!”

  “Selima?” Haviv’s voice came from the distance, followed by Rebekah’s high-pitched cry. But no answering response followed.

  Had she been abducted by marauders? Had she fallen asleep among the camels? Ridiculous thought!

  And then she heard Haviv’s jubilant call. Deborah ran, following the sound near the last of the line of camels kneeling by the stream.

  “Selima! What happened? We have been worried, and everyone is looking for you.” Deborah fell to her knees beside her weeping daughter. “My child, what have you done? Are you hurt?” She searched Selima’s tear-soaked face, saw the way she rubbed her ankle with both hands.

  “He kicked me.” Selima motioned with her head to the camel at her back.

  Realization dawned. A camel’s kick could have broken a bone.

  “Let me look.”

  A cloud passed away from the moon, giving them more light, and Deborah gently lifted Selima’s robe from the offending limb. The skin was broken and purple and twice its normal size.

  “I need to touch it to see if the bone is still whole.”

  Selima sucked in a breath and winced at Deborah’s touch, but she did not cry again. “I am the biggest of fools.”

  “You are not a fool.”

  Haviv’s voice startled them both, and Deborah leaned back and looked behind her, watching the exchange between her daughter and Abraham’s servant.

  “You are not used to these beasts. Many a man has been kicked who does not take care around them. I should have stayed with you and warned you.”

  “It is not your fault. I was stubborn and fat-headed to think I could manage out here near dark alone.”

  “Yes, well, speaking of dark,” Deborah said, glancing at the sky and suddenly grateful for this man’s presence, “we must get back before that man burns the stew and we all go to bed hungry. I will make you a poultice, and you will be well in a day or so.”

  “I can’t walk.”

  Deborah opened her mouth to protest, but Haviv stopped her words. “Since it is not broken, I am going to carry you back to the camp.”

  Deborah watched her daughter’s large eyes grow wider, as though she had never expected such a thing from him. She clutched her hands together and held them to her chin. “All right.” Her voice was soft, and Deborah could see the interest and embarrassment in her expression.

  He glanced at Deborah. “With your permission?”

  Deborah nodded numbly.

  “Put your arms about my neck, and I will lift you up.”

  Selima’s breath hitched as he lifted her, and Deborah knew that she had gained freedom and found a man for her daughter all in one incredible moment.

  12

  Selima’s injury forced them to stay an extra day in the camp, but by the end of the first week, the poultice Deborah had fashioned for her had almost healed the bruise. The sun had nearly set when they finally found a water source, and this time Rebekah gratefully thanked the men for watering the camels while the women set up the camp. Despite her growing affection for the beast she rode, she did not trust the animals and would not risk another injury, especially in the dark.

  She settled now, enjoying the warmth of the campfire, and watched Haviv and Selima quietly talk. She smiled. Perhaps she and Selima had both found worthy men to love.

  The thought made her pause, wondering. She knew so little about Isaac. She turned to Eliezer, who sat across from her, whittling.

  “What are you making?” She had seen him carving something out of a tree branch earlier in the week, but this time he carved one of the bones taken from a bird they had snared and eaten.

  “A flute.” He looked at her and smiled. “I would sing, but my voice is as tuneless as Abraham’s. It is better to blow air into something that can make a pleasant sound.”

  She laughed, finding the more time she spent in his company, the more she liked Abraham’s servant. “Can your lord Isaac carry a tune?” Her heart fluttered as his name touched her lips. They would soon arrive in Abraham’s camp at Hebron—within another week or so—and there were still so many questions.

  Eliezer nodded. “Isaac’s ear is quick and his tone the most pleasing in the whole company of men and women. But he rarely sings aloud for a crowd. Isaac is a quiet man.” He flicked a thin shaving of bone to the ground, then looked up, meeting her gaze. “For you, he will probably sing many a song.”

  Rebekah’s cheeks grew hot at the thought of a man singing to her. Such a thing happened at festivals in Harran where irreverent men in the public square would sing to the temple prostitutes. Men in Nahor sang when they had ingested too much strong drink. And on rare occasions, Laban and Bethuel had filled their home with pleasant songs. It was said that her grandfather had sung to the gods when their flocks did not miscarry and their crops produced food.

  “Do you enjoy making music, mistress?”

  Rebekah startled, realizing Eliezer had not stopped looking at her. She lifted her shoulders in a half shrug. “I can’t really say I have had much opportunity. The songs of my people, the songs of the festivals, were not songs I cared to repeat.”

  “Isaac creates his own songs.” Eliezer grew thoughtful. “He spends much time alone, often weeks at a time, in the Negev wilderness or traipsing after the flocks. He is a man of deep thought.” He grew silent again, turning his attention to whittling his flute.

  Rebekah shivered as the night breeze grew chill and the fire dwindled. Would Isaac share those thoughts with her?

  “What else can you tell me about him?” She heard the uncertainty in her voice, and she hoped Eliezer would not think she had begun to regret her decision to marry the man.

  Eliezer sheathed the knife and dropped it into the leather pouch at his side, then carefully wrapped the unfinished flute in a wool cloth. He drew a hand over his beard in an obvious attempt to stifle a yawn, and Rebekah realiz
ed that the women should head to their tent so the men could sleep by the fire. Dawn came earlier each morn.

  “Isaac is a quiet man, but do not take that to mean he is weak. He has an astute mind and is more aware of what goes on with Abraham’s flocks and herds and possessions than Master Abraham is. Of course, he is much younger . . .” He chuckled and glanced beyond her as though seeing something from a different time, then looked at her once more. “He still grieves the loss of his mother. None of us expected to lose her so soon.”

  “But was she not already old when Isaac was born?” She had heard the tales of Isaac’s miraculous birth. What kind of man must he be, chosen of God years before he was born?

  “She was long past childbearing years, this is true. But Abraham still lives, and he was ten years her senior.” He shook his head. “If not for the binding, she might be with us today . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Binding?” Rebekah’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”

  Eliezer gave his head a little shake as though to clear it. “I am sorry. I should not have said anything. It is not my place to share what happened. You will have to wait for Isaac to share it himself, if he will.”

  Rebekah stared at the man, her curiosity more than piqued. “This binding that you cannot speak of—it changed him? And Sarah?”

  Sorrow etched Eliezer’s brow, and he clasped his hands together between his knees. “Yes. Sarah and Abraham—they were never the same after that. It is why Abraham took Keturah, and why Isaac keeps many thoughts to himself.” He looked at her. “He misses his mother because she lived for him, protected him, and listened to him. He trusted few others.”

  Not even his father?

  But she did not voice the question. The image of Isaac somehow bound stirred her compassion, and she wondered what could have possibly happened to cause such a thing, and by whom.

  Eliezer stood. “I am sorry I cannot give you more than that.”

  Isaac pounded the dry earth with his staff as he led his donkey, the heat of the desert sands still radiating beneath his sandals. Evenings at Beer-lahai-roi had been a balm, a respite, from the chaotic life in his father’s camp in Hebron. Though he had only his father’s shepherds to keep him company during such times, Isaac did not mind the solitude. He had learned well how to ration his water and food supply on treks farther into the desert, but he wondered not for the first time if his future wife would fare as well. Would she be a woman used to ease and means? Would she enjoy living sparsely, even where wealth abounded?

  He crossed a dry wadi and looked up at the twin mountains that fed it where it wove through the sandy valley. The wilderness could both inspire and terrify a man, and from a distance it looked like a vast waste. But up close, Isaac found it fascinating, teeming with plants of all varieties, ibex and jackals, birds and snakes, rodents and insects, and colorful flowers. He enjoyed the study of the plants and determining how a man could survive against the elements. Somehow it seemed a foe more readily defeated than man.

  Did that make him a coward? The question had troubled him too often of late, the answer always eluding him.

  Am I only blessed because of my father’s faith, because of his character and strength?

  He lifted his face to the dimming sky, his heart yearning heavenward. Would he ever know God’s favor on his own faith or merit alone? Was the faith of a man all that God valued? Or did a man need to earn His favor?

  Surely his father’s actions had proven his faith over and over again, from the moment he left his home in Ur until they walked together to the mount of Moriah. His father’s obedience at Isaac’s binding was an act of that faith. But was not Isaac’s submission to that binding faith as well? Did God accept his submission the same as he accepted his father’s obedience?

  He closed his eyes, pondering the unanswerable. A breeze tickled his face, and he glanced at the sun, whose steady trek toward the west set its rays at an angle that nearly blinded him. He picked up his pace, strode past the wadi, climbed a low ridge, and came out into the field he often visited. Beersheba was not far now, but he would not cross the rest of the distance in the dark. Hebron, where his father’s tents stood, would be another two days’ walk from there.

  He pitched his tent in the middle of the field and built a fire big enough to keep the jackals at bay. He looked to the horizon once more, and his heart stirred at the sight of approaching camels. He recognized the markings of his father’s standard and counted the ten beasts Eliezer had taken with him to Paddan-Aram coming toward him—seven men and three women. So, Eliezer had been successful.

  A strange sense of anticipation and awe filled him. What kind of woman would follow a servant to another land to marry a cousin she did not know?

  Gratitude filled him, and he glanced again at the fiery skies, the orange and yellow hues making the night brilliant and filled with promise.

  He strode closer but stopped as the camels halted, still a fair distance away. One woman glanced in his direction, then quickly ducked her head. Her camel knelt, and she dismounted and spoke to Eliezer. His heart gave a little kick at the short glimpse he’d had of her. She was beautiful even from such a distance! Who was she? What was she like? Would she share his love of the desert, the music of nature? Would she understand his heart?

  Hope surged as he watched, waiting. Soon he would know.

  Then the servant told Isaac all he had done. Isaac brought her into the tent of his mother Sarah, and he married Rebekah. So she became his wife, and he loved her; and Isaac was comforted after his mother’s death.

  Genesis 24:66–67

  Then Abraham breathed his last and died at a good old age, an old man and full of years; and he was gathered to his people. His sons Isaac and Ishmael buried him in the cave of Machpelah near Mamre, in the field of Ephron son of Zohar the Hittite, the field Abraham had bought from the Hittites. There Abraham was buried with his wife Sarah.

  Genesis 25:8–10

  13

  Rebekah’s heart did a little dance within her as she waited for her camel to kneel, her eyes on the man in the field moving toward them. She lifted her leg over the camel’s hump and walked toward Eliezer, who had dismounted his camel as well.

  “Who is that man in the field coming to meet us?” She stole another glance, seeing he had stopped for a brief moment and then started walking again.

  “He is my master,” Eliezer said, smiling down at her.

  She nodded, then pulled her veil across her face and secured it behind her ear, leaving only her eyes visible. Heat crept up her neck, and her heart skipped a beat at his approach. How handsome he was! Dark hair poked beneath a striped tan and blue turban, and his beard held strands of gray mingled with the black. Dark eyes probed hers as he drew near, and the hint of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. She lowered her eyes, certain he could see her cheeks flaming beneath her veil.

  “Isaac, my lord, how good it is to see you!” Eliezer stepped forward, and Isaac clasped the man’s shoulders and kissed each cheek, treating the servant as an equal, a friend, rather than the servant that he was.

  “I see you have had a prosperous trip.”

  At Isaac’s words, Rebekah looked up again, hearing the rich timbre of his voice and seeing the twinkle in his eyes.

  “Yes, we have. Adonai Elohei Abraham, the Lord God of your father Abraham, has given us great success.”

  Rebekah stood with hands clasped in front of her, listening as Eliezer recounted the tale he had shared with her brother of how God had answered his prayer at the well. She watched Isaac’s reaction, unable to take her eyes from him, satisfied that he seemed taken with her as well in the way he kept glancing over Eliezer’s shoulder to look at her, approval in his eyes. Relief filled her when at last the report had finished and Isaac seemed pleased.

  She sensed Deborah and Selima at her sides, the three of them silent, waiting. At last Isaac broke away from Eliezer and approached.

  “We will set up camp here tonight, then
tomorrow we will begin the journey to Hebron where my father Abraham lives. Does that seem reasonable to you?”

  She grew warm under his intense look, and she had to remind herself to breathe. She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  He smiled, holding her gaze but a moment longer, then gave a little bow and backed away. She released her breath only when she realized he had gone to unload her camel. She hurried to help him, undoing the basket holding her robes and tunics from the leather straps that held it to the camel’s saddle, while Isaac took her goat’s-hair tent from its binding.

  Tucking the sack under one arm, he offered a hand to take the basket from her. She reluctantly obeyed, then turned to remove the water jar and blankets from their clasps. She felt his presence beside her and glimpsed him watching her.

  “You will not need the jar in the desert. There is no well or spring to draw from. But you can bring it if you like.” He started forward, then motioned for her to walk beside him. “Come.”

  She fell into step with him, noticing the easy way he walked over the uneven ground, his stride sure, his posture relaxed.

  “Did you enjoy the journey?” His question lifted her attention from watching each step among the spiny plants growing here and there in the field.

  She nodded. “Yes, my lord. I have never done anything quite so bold.”

  He laughed. “Well, I for one am glad that you did.”

  She smiled, relieved at his pleasure. “I was only surprised that my uncle did not send his son on the journey with his servants. My family would have enjoyed the chance to meet you.”

  Isaac looked at her for a long moment, then he turned to watch the path once more. Had her comment offended him? Her heart skipped a beat, and she feared she had.

  They continued several paces in silence until at last he stopped to face her once more. “My father’s God told him to leave the land of his birth. He did not want his son to visit there and face the temptation to stay in Paddan-Aram.” His look held a hint of sorrow. “He did not know that such a thing would not have been a temptation.”