Rebekah

by Jill Eileen Smith

  “You will make a fine shepherd one day, my son. Your skills exceed the finest among the men in the camp.” Her chin lifted, and she could not keep the pride from her tone. “But what possible excuse did you give your father to allow meat on such an ordinary evening?”

  Jacob continued to carve the goat into serving pieces like she had taught him, pulling the best of the meat and the fat from the bones. He tossed the last of the second goat into the clay jar and lifted the bigger jar in one arm. “The servants met us in the field as we were with the sheep. They have dug a new well, and my father is pleased. Is this not reason enough to celebrate?”

  She shook her head, wanting to smack the smirk from his tanned, handsome face. “You mock me, my son.”

  “Never, dear Ima!” He scooped the carcasses in his other hand and tossed the bones into the fire pit, then lifted the second jar, one on each shoulder.

  “You look like an awkward woman. Let me take one of them.” She extended her arms, but he shook his head.

  “Go gather your spices and meet me in the cooking tent. Let Selima or one of the other women tend to the hides.”

  She ought to correct him, should not allow him to lead her when it was clear he still needed her guidance. But the coaxing look in his eyes made her hesitate. “I should not let you talk me into these things.”

  He strode toward the cooking tent, and she fell into step beside him. “But I need you to chop the spices and measure the right amounts. If you are off tending the hides, who will help me? No one makes the stew to my father’s liking as you do.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her, and she could not stop the smile he elicited. But the brief encounter also brought a stab of sorrow to her heart. Jacob had her love, and he knew it. But he was not so secure in Isaac’s favor.

  Though Isaac gave both boys freer rein than she would have liked, it was Esau who brought the pride to his eyes and the smile of affection to his lips. A smile Jacob received far less often.

  She glanced ahead where Jacob had already entered the cooking tent and hurried aside to enter her own, where she stored the spices that she saved for when she especially wanted to win Isaac’s attention. Something she sensed her son needed now far more than she did.

  The campfire crackled as the sparks flew upward, and Isaac’s laughter followed something Esau had said. Rebekah sat near her men, satisfied that the stew she and Jacob had put together had met with such approval.

  “Well, Brother, you should spend more time in the cooking tents with the women. Your skills exceed even theirs.” Esau rubbed his mouth on the back of his sleeve, making Rebekah cringe. How many times had she taught him to use a linen cloth? But it was the mocking tone toward his brother that troubled her more.

  “I will take that as a compliment and not the insult you intended.” Jacob leveled his gaze at his twin, and Rebekah glanced from one to the other before meeting Isaac’s concerned look.

  Had he not noticed before now the way the two bickered? Did he not see that Jacob needed his support and Esau needed his correction?

  “Think what you want.” Esau picked at a tooth with a fingernail and spit the remnant of food into the dust. “I do thank you for the fine stew, though. Almost tasted as fresh as the real thing.”

  “I could not tell the difference, my son.” Isaac’s comment seemed to soothe the sudden flash of hurt and anger that had filled Jacob’s dark eyes. But Isaac’s focus on his son did not last. He turned to look at Rebekah. “Your mother has always been able to turn the most common meal into a feast, and even the toughest meat into tender, seasoned game.” Isaac’s look held the affection she’d come to love and appreciate, but she did not want his attention now. She wanted him to praise Jacob, not her. To build their son’s confidence to help him become the leader she knew he would soon be. And to ease Esau into accepting a lesser role . . .

  The older will serve the younger.

  The memory of the words was never far from her thoughts, and the turmoil of her pregnancy and the twins’ birth as vivid as though it were yesterday. But it was the vision and God’s voice, the stunning revelation, that she silently treasured above all. Had Isaac forgotten what she had told him? But of course not. She had surely reminded him often enough.

  She looked at Esau, who sipped a cup of barley beer and quickly drew Isaac’s focus to the tale of his recent trek into the nearby hills to hunt gazelle.

  “The gazelles were as skittish as hares and as hard to find as a partridge in the hills.” Esau laughed, and Isaac seemed fully engaged in his tale. “But I figured out a way to trap them next time. And I got plenty of practice with my bow.” He leaned back and smiled, and Isaac said something in response.

  Rebekah studied Jacob, yearning to go to him, to remove the pensive look from his face. If only she could openly declare God’s choice to both sons and boost Jacob’s confidence and pride.

  She drew in a lengthy breath and slowly let it out. She waited a moment more, then walked away, unable to watch her husband engage one son at the expense of the other. She must do more to make up the lack. Surely Isaac loved Jacob. Had she somehow favored this son too much, causing Isaac to swing toward Esau’s side? But no. Isaac loved the wild, the beauty of the desert, the thrill of the hunt, and Esau shared his passion, nothing more. Jacob shared his father’s private pondering, but perhaps they were too much alike in this. Did Isaac wish himself to be more like Esau and less like Jacob?

  She shook her head to rid it of the troubling thoughts and turned toward her tent to ease the throbbing that had begun just above her brow. But she stopped abruptly at the splintered cry that came from across the compound. Running feet accompanied the sound, and she stood stricken as one of the servants rushed and knelt at Isaac’s feet.

  “My lord, you must come at once. Your father . . .”

  “What has happened to my father?”

  Rebekah’s heart stilled, and she met Isaac’s gaze above the servant’s head. But in her heart she knew before the man spoke the words.

  “Your father Abraham has just now slipped into Sheol.”

  25

  Rebekah at his side, Isaac looked down at Abraham’s still form inside his father’s large tent. The servants had washed his body for burial, and a runner had been sent to summon Ishmael.

  “He looks peaceful.” Rebekah reached for Isaac’s hand and intertwined their fingers, squeezing gently. “He lived a good, long life, old and full of years.”

  Isaac nodded, aware of the lump in his throat. Tears had come earlier when he had slipped away alone. He had led his father’s camp and handled his interests for many years, so the loss was not one of leadership, only of companionship. He had come to appreciate the man since the day God had spoken to his heart on the mountain where he had prayed for Rebekah, for himself.

  “I am glad you had time with him after Keturah.”

  Rebekah’s soft words brought his thoughts around. He shifted to look from his father to her.

  “As am I.”

  She smiled, her expression soft, compassionate.

  “We lost many years in misunderstanding. I am pleased that Adonai gave us time to make up for it.”

  She nodded and leaned her head against his chest. “He loved you fiercely, you know. As you love Esau.” The last came out breathy, as though she feared to say it.

  He stiffened at the insinuation. “As I love you and Jacob as well.” He cringed at the defensiveness in his tone. “Are you suggesting otherwise?” He faced her, searching her eyes for the truth. “You know that I love you.”

  She nodded, but the action seemed hesitant, as though she did not completely agree. “I know you love me.” She breathed the words against his chest. “I fear it is Jacob who is not certain of your love, as you once wondered about your father’s for you.”

  Her words were sharp arrows, tearing at scars now healed. Was it true? He looked away, seeing again his father’s still form, and was suddenly reminded of his loss, of the man who had taught him obedi
ence but whose own obedience had made Isaac question his love.

  “Jacob knows I love him.” He winced at his harsh tone. “I have taught him everything I know.”

  “Not everything.”

  He looked at her again, reading more in her expression than he wanted to dwell on just now. “He does not care for the hunt. I cannot make him do what is not in his heart to do. My father wished me more like Ishmael, but we were not the same. What do you expect me to do?”

  His anger rose with the question. He knew what she wanted, what she said she had heard from God long ago. But he had not heard it, and in looking at his sons, he struggled to believe it.

  “You could teach him to lead, prepare him to oversee your interests. You could prepare Esau to accept Jacob’s rule.”

  “Esau is the older.”

  “The older will serve the younger.”

  “So you say!” His words made her draw back, and he saw that he had wounded her, as her words had hurt him.

  “So God has said.” Her words were hushed. “You do not believe me.” Her expression grew suddenly closed, shadowed.

  “I did not say that.” Yet he could not deny it.

  “You said enough.” She pulled her hand from his and wrapped both arms around her in a self-protective pose.

  The flap of the tent rustled, and Isaac turned to see Haviv stepping into the darkened interior. He approached, looking uncertain. Isaac motioned him forward, relieved to be through with this conversation.

  “What is it?” He ignored the sense that Rebekah had moved farther away, glancing toward her only briefly to see her leave the tent.

  “Your brother has arrived, my lord. We are ready to take the body to Machpelah.”

  Isaac’s stomach tightened at the news. Ishmael’s presence always posed a challenge and left Isaac’s emotions taut as bowstrings. And now with the added grief over his father . . .

  He glanced from Haviv to Abraham’s still form once more, feeling bereft of father and wife—and apparently at least one son—all in one blow. Ishmael would not make the emotions lighter. But he could not avoid dealing with them.

  He moved with Haviv to the door of the tent. “Take me to him. We leave at sunset.”

  A full moon lit the path on the trek from Hebron to the cave of Machpelah. Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau, and Ishmael’s two oldest sons, Nebaioth and Kedar, carried the bier while servants walked before and behind, carrying torches to light the dark places along the way.

  Rebekah clutched Deborah’s arm for support as the two followed at the head of the women, Selima and Lila and the other maids making a closely woven group. The piercing cries of the mourners made Rebekah’s heart twist in pain. But the pain was not for the loss of her father-in-law nearly as much as it was for what she had done to her husband.

  She looked at him, his back straight and strong, his muscles flexing as he gripped the rod holding the bier. She knew the weight of his father’s body rested most heavily on his shoulders—if not physically, then surely emotionally. Isaac stood as the leader of the clan now, with no other to look to for guidance. And she had added to his burden in the tent of mourning, bringing up a subject that could have waited.

  Would she never learn to curb her tongue?

  She released her hold on Deborah and wrapped both arms about herself. Guilt gnawed her middle as the group at last came to a stop near the large oaks of Mamre. The outline of the cave came into view. Isaac had brought her here once to see where his mother rested, but from then on he had stayed away.

  Had he stayed away? Who knew where he went on those many treks he made to wilderness areas and beyond?

  “Will you go with them into the cave?” Deborah’s voice barely registered.

  How well did she know her husband? What did he really do when he left her in the camp and went off alone or with Haviv or Esau?

  A touch on her arm made her jump.

  “Are you listening? Your husband is speaking.”

  Deborah’s hissed whisper brought her thoughts into focus. She turned and met the woman’s gaze with a silent nod.

  “My father was a great man,” Isaac was saying, his voice carrying beyond her, its clear tones marred by the hint of sorrow.

  She studied him in the torchlight, feeling the pain in his eyes, and suddenly wished she could rush into his arms and hold him close, beg him to forgive her for making him feel worse than he already did.

  “Adonai once promised him that he would become the father of many nations. Three wives have given him eight sons and grandsons too numerous to count. Adonai has fulfilled His promise and rewarded our father’s faith.” He looked at Ishmael, and Rebekah sensed something pass between the brothers that had not been there before. Was that a flicker of respect in Ishmael’s brooding eyes?

  At Ishmael’s slight nod, acknowledging Isaac’s words, she shifted to look at her sons. Esau stood close to his uncle, and she did not miss the furtive glances he cast Ishmael’s way, the admiration sparking in his expression. Had Isaac’s favorite son ever looked at him with such respect, such longing? The thought troubled her further, and she pressed a hand to her middle to quell the unease.

  “He was a man of intense passion in life, and one obedient to Adonai Elohim even unto death,” Isaac said, drawing her eyes to him once more.

  His face carried an expression of awe as he spoke the Name, making her look heavenward. Even the stars seemed brighter somehow, as if the night approved of Isaac’s words.

  She felt herself nod in agreement as her gaze shifted to Jacob, finding the same awe in his eyes, and when this son looked at his father, she saw respect, even longing. Why could Isaac not see how this was the son who was worthy to inherit the promise, the blessing, and his affection over the other?

  Isaac stepped aside and allowed Ishmael the chance to speak, but the man waved his right to do so away. She glanced behind her at the waiting throng, forcing her irritation in check. Ishmael had brought only his sons with him to the burial, so the crowd surrounding them now belonged mostly to Isaac. His refusal to speak was fitting, perhaps, though clearly not a good reflection on how he felt about his father.

  A sigh escaped her. Why were relationships between a father and his sons so difficult?

  The sound of movement and the sway of the torches made her turn to watch Isaac again as he took his place once more at the side of the bier. The men lifted Abraham’s body and took the steps to the cave below. She followed and glanced back at Deborah, motioning her to come as well. She did not want to go there, to look on the linen-wrapped bodies, but she could not bear to allow her husband and sons to do so without her.

  They stopped again at the cave’s entrance, set the bier on the smooth stones, and the four younger men gripped the large rock guarding the entrance and shoved it aside. The scraping of stone on stone grated on her ears, and she gritted her teeth against the sound. She looked at Abraham’s body and wished again that she had known him sooner, known him when Isaac was a boy. If she had understood the father, she might better understand her husband and her sons now.

  She strained to hear the hushed voices of the men, but she only half heard the giving of directions and the grunts as they bore the bier in strong, masculine arms and disappeared into the cave. Moments later the men emerged, the stone was shoved back into its slot, and the men moved back up the stairs.

  Rebekah waited with Deborah, unsure what to do. Esau never glanced her way, but Jacob stopped at her side and slipped his arm through hers. She smiled into his eyes.

  Isaac came up behind both sons but barely paused in his climb back up the steps, as though he could not be free of the place fast enough. His jaw was set in a grim line, and he did not look at her, causing the guilt and regret to mix anew within her.

  She felt Jacob’s grip and tug as he silently led her to follow the men. Looking at him once more, seeing the affection for her in his gaze, she felt a small measure of relief to know she was loved.

  But as she lay alone in her ten
t that night, it was Isaac whose arms she missed, Isaac whose heart she longed for. And she knew from experience that his return to her would be a long time in coming.

  The period of mourning for Abraham lasted seven days, with talk and feasting and celebration of the great man’s life. Ishmael set his tents just outside the circle of Isaac’s camp but spent each evening at the door of Isaac’s tent, breaking bread and talking as they had never done before.

  Rebekah stayed near the shadows, listening and watching with increasing distress as her son Esau asked his uncle Ishmael question after question, until the two fairly dominated the discussion. Only when Ishmael discounted the goodness of Adonai did Isaac finally speak.

  “I do not see how you can call Him good, Brother, after what He put you through,” Ishmael said. “Or perhaps it is our father you blame for nearly taking your life on the mountain?”

  Isaac stroked his bearded chin, his look thoughtful. “I do not blame our father, nor do I blame Adonai’s command to him. Look around you at the many blessings Adonai has given. You have twelve sons and are the wealthy prince of a mighty clan. Our flocks and herds are flourishing, the land has yielded grain when we need it, the rains fall mostly when they should. Has our father’s God not blessed us both? Does this alone not make Him good?” Isaac leaned forward on his cushion and rested both elbows on his knees, his expression challenging.

  Ishmael ran a finger along the edge of a golden goblet of spiced wine, but his gaze never left Isaac’s. “You are to be commended, Brother. You make a good point.” He glanced at Esau and smiled, then faced Isaac again. “I will admit, God has blessed us both with sons and flocks and the fruit of the land, but if our father’s God is truly good, why put His people to the test? Why allow my mother to be sent away? Why command you be killed? Our father’s God was not kind to our mothers in either case. So I will ask again—how can you say that He is good?”