Rebekah

by Jill Eileen Smith

  Abraham grew old and came to live with Isaac and Rebekah. And still Rebekah remained barren, her worst fears realized. The trips to the mountains alone with Isaac did no good, the herbs Lila and Deborah prescribed brought about no child, until Rebekah despaired that she was destined to bear a child in her old age like Sarah had done. The thought brought little comfort.

  Rebekah rose stiffly from the small stool where she sat before the loom, setting her work aside. Her time had come upon her again, and the very thought brought a pang of emotion so strong that her throat ached from unshed tears. She should be used to this by now, be resigned to her plight, but after twenty years of waiting, she could no longer hang on to her fragile thread of hope.

  She moved from the weaver’s tent into the sunlight, searching the camp for some sign of Isaac. He would be in the fields or with the sheep most likely, unless he had stayed to keep company with his father, something he did more often since Keturah’s leaving.

  She walked across the compound beneath the swaying palm trees toward Abraham’s tent, the summer’s heat warming her beneath the soft linen head scarf. The tent’s sides were rolled up, and she saw Isaac sitting with his father, their voices too far away to hear their conversation. At her approach, Isaac stood and came toward her.

  “What is it?” His look held concern, and she knew he could read the emotion in her face.

  “I must speak with you, my lord.” She glanced toward Abraham, whose interest had piqued as she neared his tent, his lined face wreathed in a smile.

  Isaac looked from her to his father, and for a moment she feared he would ask her to stay and visit with him. “Father, if you will allow it, I will return to you this evening.”

  Abraham grew serious, and he nodded his understanding. “Take all the time you need, my son. I know you have much to attend, and it is time I rested these old bones.” He reached for a large cushion and did not attempt to rise to move into the sleeping area, but just leaned back on the pillow and closed his eyes.

  Isaac led her away from the tents to walk among the trees, their sandals creating soft footfalls among the grassy knoll.

  “What troubles you, beloved?” He stopped near one of the largest date palms and turned to face her, his turbaned brow knit with concern.

  “You once made a vow to me . . .” She paused, unable to hold his intense gaze. “I do not want you to break it.”

  He waited for her to finish her thought, but she could not speak past the lump in her throat. She looked at him, silently begging him to read her heart. His eyes were dark, probing, and she could not stop the tears at the compassion in his gaze.

  “You fear I will take another wife?”

  She nodded. “Is it not obvious that I am barren? Nothing I have tried has brought about a child, not the herbs in Deborah’s medicines or Lila’s remedies, and even time alone with you has not given what we desire. If God has promised you an heir, as He did through your father, perhaps I am the one to blame. Perhaps the promise is not meant for me.”

  He placed a finger on her lips, making no attempt to keep from touching her in her uncleanness.

  She took a step back. “Please, my lord . . . We must offer a sacrifice . . . We must not displease Adonai . . .” Her words broke off, and she put a fist to her mouth to stifle the urge to weep. Had she somehow already sinned in such a way as to cause her barrenness? If Isaac took another wife, they would know for certain, they would confirm that she was at fault . . .

  “I will not break my vow to you, Rebekah.”

  His quiet words coaxed her to look at him again.

  “I will die without an heir before I take another wife while you live. And I pray that you will live long after I rest with my fathers. We have many years ahead of us, beloved.”

  “It has already been twenty years since our marriage!” Her tone held the edge of despair. As a young woman of twenty, newly married, she had expected, had dared to hope, she would not be like Isaac’s mother had been. Now her fortieth year was nearly upon her, and though she was still far from middle age, she had lost all hope.

  He took her hand in his and held firm, despite her attempt to pull away. “Adonai will not fault me for comforting you, my love. He is a God of mercy and patience, and His love is everlasting.”

  “But I am unclean.” Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  “And now I am too until evening. But are we not all unclean in His sight?”

  His soft touch on her chin made her shiver, but the feeling was one of relief and joy.

  She dried her tears with the edge of her scarf. “What are we going to do?”

  If he would not take another wife, they would have no children—unless God intervened and granted their hearts’ desire.

  Isaac looked into the distance, then pulled her close until she rested her head on his chest. She felt his steady heartbeat and his even breathing. His tender action made the tears surface again, and she wept in his arms. He held her still until at last she quieted.

  “This is what I will do for you, my love. For us.” He tipped her chin to look into his eyes. “I will take you to the mountains again, to the mount where my father bound me, and there I will pray.”

  He held her at arm’s length, and his tender gaze stole her breath. In all of their years together, he had never taken her there, despite his early promise to do so. They had not spoken of his binding since the day he told her the story soon after they had wed. Even when the dreams haunted him. Even through the strained relationship with his father. She had known he would deal with the matter in his own way, in his own time.

  Was now the time? Would the journey there free them both from the burdens that held them?

  “Thank you, my lord.” She smiled, though the effort was tremulous.

  He bent closer and placed a soft kiss on her lips.

  “When do we leave?” she could not help but ask, amid the swell of hope rising inside her.

  He gave a smile in return, but it did not reach his eyes, and she knew in that moment that this trip would cost him more than a simple prayer. Would he sacrifice his memories and pain on God’s altar?

  “When your time has passed. Then we will go.” He turned in the direction of the camp.

  As she watched him go, she saw the slightest sagging of his shoulders, and she suddenly wished she had not laid her troubles at his feet. But if not his, then whose? She had no other choice.

  Isaac dug his staff into the earth, each step of the climb up the mountain harder than the last. He glanced behind him to be sure Rebekah followed close, but she did not notice his struggle as she tried to avoid the brambles and sharp weeds dotting the rock-hewn path. The area was one that wild gazelles and goats and jackals trod at various times of the day or night, but there was little evidence that men had spent much time here. Had God somehow preserved it since that long-ago day when his father walked with him here?

  He had been glad of Haviv’s company on the three-day journey, and grateful Selima was not heavy with child and was able to accompany Rebekah. Deborah had been more than pleased to spend time with her three young grandchildren. And Isaac needed Haviv’s support, though in truth, he sensed that Rebekah would have been pleased to be alone with him. She had her wish now, as they had left the other couple where they had camped the night before. Only Rebekah would join him as he walked farther on. He could not bear to share the memories with another.

  He reached the top of the ridge before she did, and his heart gave a little kick at the sight. He moved closer, each footfall heavier, until he came to the rock-hewn altar, its rough construction only partially broken down, the stones having barely shifted with the passing years. He clung to his staff, the effort sapping what little strength he still possessed. The night had not passed easily—his sleep restless, the dreams unceasing—and he awoke long before dawn, unable to risk closing his eyes once more.

  “Is this it?”

  Rebekah’s soft voice held a reverent tone, and he turned, catching the awe and horr
or mingled equally in her large, luminous eyes.

  “Yes.” He forced a steady breath and took her hand. “Come.” He managed to lead them closer until he stood at the edge where the trench around the altar was no longer visible, the winds of time having filled in his father’s painstakingly slow attempts at its construction.

  The wood had burned with the ram who had taken his place, and the only evidence of its having been used in the sacrifice was the blackened stones scarred across the altar’s top. Rebekah reached a hand to touch the surface and lifted a coated finger to her lips. She sniffed, then kissed the spot and bent to rub it clean in the surrounding grasses. She faced him and slipped her arms around his waist.

  “This is a sacred place,” she said, resting her head against his chest. “This is where you heard God’s voice.”

  He closed his eyes and let her words register in his heart. He heard again the urgent thunder clap, the trumpet sound of God urgently calling his father’s name, insisting he stay his hand. The voice that had saved his life. Adonai, who had never intended his death, only his father’s obedience.

  The truth hit him with a force that made his knees suddenly weak. Then slowly, as if waking from a dream, he disentangled Rebekah’s hold on him and sank to the earth at the base of the altar.

  O God, Elohim Adonai Eloheynu Echad, my Creator, my Lord, my God, my King. You did not abandon my soul to the grave. You did not intend to see my destruction that day.

  His hands splayed before him, his mouth tasted dust.

  Forgive me. I have blamed my father, I have blamed You, but I did not understand. I did not see . . .

  Emotion rose, a deep well within him begging release, until he could no longer hold back the tears. He was vaguely aware that Rebekah had knelt beside him, heard her tears mingling in a duet of sorrow with his own.

  Bitterness rose like bile within him. Father, what have I done to you?

  He had not forgiven him soon enough, had allowed his mother’s anger to harbor his own. How had he not known it before now? Guilt came in waves, but as the wind shifted, he sensed it taking the pain with it.

  I am not worthy.

  And yet God had spared him. God did not hold his sins against him.

  He rose to his knees, studying each stone his father had carried, had laid one atop the other. Their symmetry did not match, but they had remained fitted together well and strong as though they were meant to remind him, to help him see the truth in the testing. What he had considered betrayal had carried a far deeper meaning, and he sensed he would not understand it fully in this life. But it was time he faced his past and accepted the lesson it carried.

  “You are worthy of honor and glory, Adonai.” He whispered the words, his voice hoarse against his spent emotions. He looked at Rebekah, her eyes bright as though their shared grief had somehow changed her as well. “You have given us Your promise, that all nations will be blessed through the seed of this woman whom You have given to me.” He reached for her hand and gently squeezed. “And now, O Lord God, please hear my prayer and grant this desire of our hearts, grant the answer to what You have promised. Give my Rebekah a son.”

  He lifted their joined hands toward the heavens, then released her fingers and raised both arms over his head in praise. Peace as he had never known filled him, and he felt the feather-light touch of joy in his spirit. Rebekah’s voice rose beside him in the quiet cadence of song, its clear tones making even the birds stop to listen. Isaac joined her, the song new yet familiar, one he had learned as an adult yet had known all of his life.

  A song of praise to Adonai.

  Isaac prayed to the LORD on behalf of his wife, because she was barren. The LORD answered his prayer, and his wife Rebekah became pregnant. The babies jostled each other within her, and she said, “Why is this happening to me?” So she went to inquire of the LORD.

  The LORD said to her,

  “Two nations are in your womb,

  and two peoples from within you will be separated;

  one people will be stronger than the other,

  and the older will serve the younger.”

  Genesis 25:21–23

  The boys grew up, and Esau became a skillful hunter, a man of the open country, while Jacob was a quiet man, staying among the tents. Isaac, who had a taste for wild game, loved Esau, but Rebekah loved Jacob.

  Genesis 25:27–28

  22

  Rebekah sat up with a start and clutched her bulging middle. The action roused Isaac, and he rose up on one elbow, his heart beating too fast. “Is it the babe?” The question seemed ludicrous even to his untrained mind. What else could it be? “What can I do?”

  She stroked her sides and whispered cooing sounds, but even through the thin sheet, he could see the babe’s kicks causing her skin to move as though a war were being fought within her.

  “He is a strong one.” She winced, and his heart constricted with her agony.

  “Is it painful?”

  She nodded, then shook her head. “Not painful in a way that I fear he will be born too soon,” she said through a clenched jaw. “But he does not sleep. Even in the day”— she gasped—“it is as though he cannot find a comfortable position to rest.” She turned her face to him, and he could make out the tears through the dim light of the flickering oil lamp. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Is God punishing me somehow?”

  He drew her as close as the babe would allow and pulled her head against his chest. It was a question he had asked himself many times in the months since God had seen fit to bless them. Never in his years had he seen a woman so torn by pregnancy. Keturah’s sons had caused her little distress, and Selima seemed to birth children on top of one another without a struggle.

  Why, Adonai, have You given my Rebekah such grief?

  “It is not your fault, beloved. I only wish I could take this from you and carry it in your place.”

  She laughed, though it came out garbled by tears. “You would look mighty strange, a man carrying a child within him.” She cradled her belly and spoke softly. “There, there, my sweet child. Rest now and let your mother sleep.”

  She snuggled closer against him, and within moments he heard her soft breathing. She seemed to rest better in his arms, and he gladly allowed it if only to give her peace but a moment. But his own sleep was long in coming, and he worried not for the first time what kind of son would be born to him, what kind of son could bring such turmoil.

  Rebekah paced the confines of her tent, her legs barely carrying her from one side to the other. She pressed both hands against her protruding middle, stroking and speaking softly, quietly begging her unborn son—for surely it was a son—to still long enough to give her a moment’s rest. Since she had first felt the stirrings of his life, he had not ceased to shift and kick and roll until she thought she would scream for the frustration of it! Why was this happening to her?

  Neither Deborah nor Selima, nor any other woman in the camp, had experienced such agony so early in her pregnancy. The pains didn’t come upon a woman until her travail, which for Rebekah was still two months away.

  A little cry escaped her, and she stuck a fist to her mouth to stifle the sound. It would only frighten the camp if she screamed as she wanted to. And she feared, always feared, it would somehow harm the babe.

  She sank onto the cushions, spent from her pacing, but the movement within her would not cease.

  Oh, Adonai, what wrong have I done?

  If only He would answer.

  Unable to sit still, knowing the only way to get any relief was to walk, she rose on shaky legs and left the tent, making her way to the edge of the tree line where Isaac’s altar stood. Should she ask Isaac to offer a sacrifice on her behalf? Perhaps God would relent, allow the babe to rest, if she humbled herself in that way.

  She stopped at the altar’s edge and rested a hand on the blackened stones as she had done at the altar on Mount Moriah. God had heard Isaac’s prayers for her there and granted the request for this babe. Oh
, but she had never expected the result to be so hard!

  She gripped the stones for support and sank slowly, awkwardly, to her knees, faintly wondering if she would be able to rise again with the burden of the babe so great. But she must humble herself, must do something to seek God’s favor if she was to find peace.

  She braced her hands on her folded knees, unable to lean close enough to touch her forehead to the dust as she had done that day on Moriah, and prayed that the One Who Sees Me would notice her here regardless of her posture, would somehow once again show His great mercy.

  Oh, Adonai, why is this happening to me?

  She waited, hoping against hope for an answer. But as the shadows lengthened and she could no longer kneel in her awkward position, she rose, defeated. Perhaps God did not hear the prayers of a woman.

  She brushed the dirt from her robe and bit back the urge to weep. She must strive for strength to endure until the day came for his birth. There was nothing else to be done.

  She moved away from the altar, then turned back for one more look and was startled at the sight of a man not unlike the one she had seen many years before, when Eliezer had come to take her to Isaac. The thought brought a swift pang of fear to her heart, and her knees nearly buckled beneath her.

  “My Lord,” she whispered, wondering that she could speak at all.

  His look held such kindness, taking her fear and causing it to still within her.

  “Two nations are in your womb,” he said, his gaze never leaving hers, “and two peoples from within you will be separated; one people will be stronger than the other, and the older will serve the younger.”

  With that he vanished from her sight.

  She blinked, not certain his presence had been real, and yet knowing it was. As with the first visit of the Lord many years before, she had not imagined this.

  Two nations are in your womb.

  No wonder she suffered so. There were two, and already they fought within her.