Rebekah

by Jill Eileen Smith

  “Ishmael was your father’s firstborn, but God chose you.”

  The words hung between them, slowly burned away by the heat of the rising sun.

  Isaac looked westward, his face shadowed by the trees above them. “My father was promised a son by my mother. Ishmael would not have been born if my parents had trusted in that promise. As for our sons”—he turned to face her—“God has given me no such word or promise regarding either of them. While I do not deny that He could have spoken to you, I do not know.” He touched her cheek. “You were so overwrought, beloved. Could you not have heard what you wanted to hear to ease your burden?”

  His words, his doubt, rocked her, until the shaking grew to shocked stillness.

  “You think I am lying to you? You think the vision was all the working of an overwrought mind?” Her voice dropped in pitch with each word—words too unbelievable to utter, yet still they came. “If you do not trust me, your wife, who do you trust, Isaac? If our God speaks only to men, then how do you account for his visit to Hagar or his words to your own mother? If God did not speak to me, then who did? I did not make the words up in my mind. Adonai told me, ‘The older will serve the younger.’ If you do not believe this, there is nothing more I can say to you.” She looked long and hard into his eyes, her heart dying within her at the uncertainty she saw in his.

  She turned away from him, tears clouding her vision, and ran all the way back to her tent.

  Isaac slung a goatskin of water and another that held a mixture of dates, raisins, and almonds over the side of a donkey, then fastened his pallet to the back. He left his tent standing, the rest of his provisions tucked inside. He would sleep under the stars or in the shelter of a cave this night, and perhaps many more nights to come.

  Anger, vivid and deep, spurred him to hurry, to retreat from the battle he knew would be quick to ensue if he stayed. He loved Rebekah with an ache so fierce he feared it would consume him, and yet her insistence, her claims to knowledge he did not share, only fed his feelings of inadequacy. She questioned his leadership, did not respect his decisions—in fact, had not respected them since the twins were born, ever since he had merely humored her vision, never truly embracing it as his own.

  Had Adonai truly spoken to her?

  The question prodded him, its fervor relentless. He could not act on her word alone. How could he? Even his father had not been faced with such a plight, had he? He searched his mind for memories of the things either parent had told him, but emotion blinded him with every step.

  He cinched the last of the provisions beneath the donkey’s blanket, gripped the reins, and started forward. Distant wails coming from Rebekah’s tent should have touched him somehow, made him turn back to her, to apologize for not believing her. But how could he? He was not ready to face her again. Not yet.

  He plodded forward, grateful Haviv had been in the camp to accept his quick instructions. He moved past the circle of tents toward the road that followed the path Ishmael had taken that morning. Afternoon light was dappled where the clouds moved to hide the sun from view and then disappeared moments later to give the sun the space it demanded. Much as he needed such distance now from the clouded views of his wife and sons.

  How had everything changed so quickly in the short week since his father’s death?

  Emotion clogged his throat with the memories, but at the sound of running feet coming up the path, he tamped it down, quickening his stride. He would not let her persuade him to stay. He needed time alone.

  But the sound was not that of a woman running. The footfalls were too heavy, too fierce. He turned to see Esau rushing toward him, his tunic girded about his waist, a sack flung over one shoulder and a bow and quiver over the other.

  “Father! Let me come with you.” He pulled up beside Isaac and stopped, panting for breath. “I won’t be any trouble.” He lowered his sack to the earth. “See? I have brought all that I need.”

  Isaac glanced from the sack to the bow and arrows, then looked into his son’s earnest gaze. His chest lifted in a sigh. How could he refuse him? But how could he allow this if he was ever to get any relief, any understanding of Rebekah’s claims?

  “Please, Father. I could hunt for us. You know you prefer wild game to fruit and nuts.” His broad grin lit his dark eyes, coaxing a smile to Isaac’s lips.

  “You would not enjoy my company, my son.” He stifled the urge to sigh once more, instead turning to continue on his way.

  Esau hurried to join him, keeping pace at his side. “I do not care if we talk. I just want to be with you.”

  His young legs slowed to match the donkey’s stride while Isaac’s mind churned with reasons to make him turn back the way he had come. But a part of him wanted him here, needed the reassurance that Esau was not what Rebekah claimed. That he was right in his assessment of the boy.

  He glanced at his son. Red hair poked beneath a striped turban—Rebekah’s handiwork—and his chin was beginning to show the same curly red hairs that covered his body and would fill his cheeks with the beard of a man. How different this son had been from his twin, even from birth. Esau, the hairy one, while Jacob’s skin was smooth and light brown like his mother’s.

  He looked at him a moment longer, then allowed a slight nod and was rewarded with Esau’s exuberant whoop. He chuckled and felt some of the anger dissipate. “Very well. You may come. But do as you said and keep your silence. I am weary of words.”

  How often had he thought the same and said so to Rebekah? Why was it so hard to talk to each other as they had in the early years of their marriage? The twins had changed her, changed them.

  They walked in silence, Esau keeping good to his claim to hold his tongue, until they had reached the field where the barley had grown to nearly full height. The harvest would be upon them soon if the latter rains fell as they should. But the season’s heat had been harsher than most, and the threat of drought worried him. He glanced at the sky, too bright in its nearness, then looked toward his son.

  “We will make camp up ahead in the cave at the side of the hill.”

  He motioned with his hand and looked at Esau, suddenly grateful for his company. As much as he enjoyed time alone, he did not realize how discouraged it made him feel, how often his thoughts circled back to the same things he had thought before, and how difficult it became to get past his frustrations. Had he done Rebekah a disservice by going off and leaving her alone with the servants so often over the years? And yet, some of his trips could not be helped. There were flocks to oversee and fields to attend.

  “I am glad you came,” he said.

  He smiled at Esau, pushing past the excuses that he continually raised against the boy’s mother. How could he treat the woman he loved with such distance? This was exactly how his mother had treated his father after his binding, and he had hated the separation of his family. Why could he not break the cycle?

  Esau’s wide smile warmed him. “I thought you might need someone . . . I heard Ima weeping.” He shrugged as though a woman’s tears were a daily occurrence. In truth, Rebekah rarely wept, and never so bitterly as he had heard this day.

  “I should have gone to her.”

  Dare he admit such a thing to a child? Well, not actually a child, but still young enough to not understand such things.

  Esau reached the cave two steps ahead of Isaac and dropped his things onto the dry earth. He turned and took the donkey’s reins from Isaac’s hand. “She was not ready to listen to you, Abba. You were not ready to speak with her.” He tied the donkey to the branches of an overhanging tree. “You will settle things between you when we return.”

  His confidence soothed some of the rough places in Isaac’s heart, but at the same time he knew it was not as simple as that. As long as he and Rebekah held to different goals for their sons, as long as she believed something he did not, there would be a divide between them—as wide a chasm as the Jezreel Valley between its opposing mountains.

  The thought pained him, but he could
not share it with Esau. Maybe it would be best not to think on such thoughts at all.

  He unloaded the donkey’s packs and brushed its rough coat. He was weary of trying to understand Rebekah or what had caused her to cling to a vision he did not share.

  Did You speak to her, Adonai?

  But the question went unanswered, doing nothing to ease the frustration he had with her. Very well then, he would do as he had never done before. He would stop trying to make sense of his wife. He would instead enjoy this time with his son, and when he returned, he would put their disagreement and Rebekah’s vision behind him, behind them both.

  27

  Rebekah turned over on her pallet in the darkening tent, her body drenched in sweat that mingled with her tears. Her throat ached and her eyes felt puffy. She shivered in spite of the heat of the late afternoon and wrapped both arms about her, certain her world had tilted so completely that it could never be put right again.

  How was it possible? Had she misunderstood Isaac from the start? Had he ever trusted or believed her? If he did not believe that Adonai had visited her during her pregnancy with the twins, he must not have believed her when she told him of the angel who had visited her just before Eliezer came to meet her. She had trusted Isaac with that revelation.

  A sob broke through, but she stuffed a fist to her mouth, not willing to cry out again. She must get hold of herself.

  The entrance flap of her tent parted, letting light filter into the deepening darkness. She lifted her pounding head from the mat to see who dared interrupt her, then fell back among the soft pillows when she recognized Deborah.

  “Why have you come?” Her voice, raspy from the strain of weeping, sounded like it came from another source, not her. She draped an arm over her eyes, wishing she could sink even further into the darkness and never speak to another soul again.

  “I came to help you.” Deborah moved about the room, and Rebekah peered from beneath her arm to watch. Deborah carried a clay pot in one hand, steam rising from it as she poured a stream of liquid into a clay cup. She turned and handed it to Rebekah. “Drink.”

  Rebekah looked away, not wanting to be told what she should do. She was a child no longer, and she did not need such coaxing.

  Deborah touched her arm, her grip gentle. “You will feel better if you drink this.” Her tone was firm but kind, and Rebekah gave up her resolve and faced her friend.

  She sat up and accepted the cup, inhaling a mixture of mint and tarragon. She sipped, then straightened while Deborah sorted pillows and plumped them around her, making her more comfortable. A deep sigh released the tension from her chest.

  “Do you want to tell me what has brought this on and why Isaac has left the camp?”

  Deborah’s words nearly made her spill the tea.

  “He left the camp? Why would he . . .” She let the words die on her tongue. It was his habit to go off alone when he was troubled. What else did she expect? Except in every other case he had said goodbye, reassured her of his love, and told her how long he would be gone.

  “What happened between you two?” Deborah touched her arm, and her eyes held such compassion that Rebekah could not hold her gaze.

  She looked beyond her, shame heating her face. “Isaac does not believe me. Has never believed me.” She shifted to face Deborah. “He thinks I am lying to him, or worse, that I am a woman crazed! He denies the fact that Adonai spoke to me about the boys before their birth. He thinks that in order for it to be true, Adonai should speak to him as well.” The words came out shrill even to her own ears. “He doesn’t believe me, Deborah.” Her voice was a whisper now. “What am I going to do?”

  Deborah’s dark eyes, still lovely though lined with age, met hers with a searching look. At last she took the cup from Rebekah’s hands and pulled her close, as a mother would a young child. No words passed between them as Deborah held her, but Rebekah sensed the woman was praying as she rocked back and forth, drawing Rebekah with her. Moments passed in silence until Deborah finally leaned away and cupped Rebekah’s cheek in her palm.

  “Dear one, is it possible that you misunderstood his intent? What did you say to him to cause such a reaction? What did he say to you?” She brushed damp tendrils of hair away from Rebekah’s cheeks and tucked them behind her ear, soothing her with the action.

  She thought back on the morning—had it been only a few hours ago? “I said nothing that hasn’t been said before. I only told him that I did not want Esau to go with his uncle, to spend so much time with him.” She paused, searching her mind for what she had said. “I told him we must teach Esau more of Adonai and to be kinder to his brother, to be more like his father, to prepare them both for the future.” She looked at Deborah, imploring her to agree with her. “He suddenly seemed upset with me and told me he did not agree that Jacob would rule over Esau. He does not think God spoke to me. He thinks Esau should keep the right of the firstborn.”

  She choked on the last words and fisted her hands in her lap, forcing her body to stop its trembling. “Why can’t he see and accept the truth? Why can’t he help me to train Esau to accept this, like Bethuel accepted Laban’s rule? It is not so unusual. Even Isaac is head over his father’s household instead of Ishmael. Why can he not see this?” The questions drained her, and she sank back onto the pillows, spent. “I have lost him, Deborah. If he will not accept the truth of my vision, the truth God spoke to me, then we will never agree on anything regarding our sons again.” She grew suddenly still at the thought, her whole being saturated with the awful truth.

  “You have not lost him, dear one. Isaac loves you more than his very life. Anyone can see his affection for you.” Deborah refilled the cup, urging her to rise again and drink. “But is it possible that you have pushed him to accept something that God has not yet revealed to him? Perhaps the vision was for you alone until such time as the boys are ready to rule in Isaac’s place.”

  Rebekah took another sip of the tea, calmness growing within her. “Do you think he will eventually accept this then? Is it only that I have pushed him too soon?”

  Was it possible? And yet, she was not sure she could forgive the tone or the meaning behind his words. How could she look on him again with respect if she did not have his trust?

  “A man’s pride is a fragile thing, Rebekah. You must be patient and let Isaac see the difference between his sons, how the one favors his faith and the other does not. Let Jacob arise to be the leader Isaac wants. Then he will believe your words. Right now, Esau is more outspoken and charming and has more in common with his father.”

  “But that is not true! Isaac and Jacob are far more alike in spirit. Both of them think and feel deeply, and both are gentle and loving and kind.” She looked away, struck by the character of the man she had loved for so long, the man who had walked away from her without a word. This was so not like him. Had she pushed him too far?

  “Esau can be gentle and loving. He is more temperate with his father than he is with you, I daresay. I think both of your sons can feel the tension between you and Isaac, dear one. It concerns them. If you continue to favor Jacob over Esau, if Isaac continues to favor Esau over Jacob, and if you both do not resolve your differences, it will be the boys who suffer for it.” Deborah’s sigh filled the space between them. “Both of them will suffer.”

  Rebekah stared into the contents of the cup for a long moment, her heart aching with the pain, the truth, of Deborah’s words.

  Oh, Isaac, why can’t you see?

  But perhaps Deborah’s point made sense. She could not blame Isaac entirely. And the twins were only fifteen. They had many years ahead before they would be given the blessing. Isaac had many more years to live, God willing.

  But she need not sit idly by, waiting for things to change or hoping Isaac would see things her way. She must groom Jacob, training him to be all that the vision, the word of the Lord, had in store for him. If Isaac would not listen, Jacob surely would.

  Resolve tightened her muscles, and she st
ood, retrieved a cool cloth and dried her tears. Deborah rose with her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “So you are well now?” She looked at Rebekah, uncertain.

  Rebekah forced a smile that she prayed Deborah would find genuine. “I am well. Somehow we will work things out. When Isaac returns, I will welcome him.”

  She would not do to him what his mother had done to his father, no matter their differences. Somehow she would find a way to convince him, with or without words.

  Isaac spent a restless night tossing on his pallet at the mouth of the cave, finally giving up the notion of sleep, and rose at the first hint of dawn. He kindled the fire that had long since died during the night, listening to Esau’s soft snores. He studied his son in the pale pink light, his heart yearning with affection. The boy stirred, rolled over, and flung an arm over his head, his movements as violent as the passion with which he lived. Longing, even envy, touched the edges of Isaac’s thoughts. How he wished he could be like his son, so self-assured, so quick to make decisions. Surely Esau possessed the marks of a good leader. If he had the right guidance and training, the men and women of the camp would do exactly as he wished.

  But will he do as I wish?

  The thought came from a place deep within, and he could not tell if the desire was for obedience to him as Esau’s father or to Adonai. Esau showed interest in the questions of life, but only on the surface. He did not explore them to their depths as Ishmael had done, as Isaac himself did on his visits to the desert, to the fields, and among the sheep. Esau would not have taken time to sit long enough to give the words of Adonai that much thought. Would he?

  The first twittering birdsong met him as he left the fire to draw water from a nearby stream. As he bent low at the water’s edge, he looked to the opposite bank, where the water line dropped too low for this time of year. He filled the skin, glancing toward the eastern ridge. Waves of heat that should have dissipated with the night still hovered over the cloudless sky, threatening drought.