Sarai

by Jill Eileen Smith

  “What?” Abram’s expression moved from concern to shock.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle. I spoke without thinking.” Had he sipped so often from the flask that it made his tongue loose?

  “Yes, you did. Such things are not your concern.” Abram moved away from the trees. The sun’s fading glow illumined the sky as he turned in the direction of his tents.

  Lot chewed his lower lip, kicking himself. He hurried after Abram. “I did not mean to offend. We come from different places, you and I. We just see things differently.”

  Abram did not pause in his trek down the hill, and Lot hurried to keep his uncle’s pace. At the base of the hill, Abram stopped at last and turned to face him. “I do not know what is in your mind, my son, or why you can’t seem to decide whether you want to ask my advice or give me your own. Perhaps in the future it would be best if you make your own decisions and leave mine to me.” The slightest irritation flickered in his eyes, though his tone was controlled.

  Lot studied the man for the briefest moment, a sense of sorrow filling him. There was a time when they had both tended smaller flocks back in Ur that they had talked of women and work and faith. He’d accepted Abram’s counsel, even his rebukes, back when he had rashly taken Melah before they’d said their vows. But the man who stood before him now was not the man he was back then. Egypt had shown his uncle’s weakness, and Lot suddenly realized that he no longer held his uncle in such high regard.

  “You are right, Uncle. It is time I made my own choices.” He lifted his chin, his confidence soaring. He would do what he wanted from now on. He bid Abram a brief nod of farewell, then proudly strode home.

  Abram sat beneath the shade of his tent’s awning, in desperate need of an afternoon’s rest. Leaves in the great oaks above him whispered secrets from one to the next, and he closed his eyes, letting his body’s tension slowly subside. The conversation with Lot the week before still troubled him, but bigger problems—bickering and arguing—had arisen between Lot’s household and herdsmen and his, enhancing his sense of loss.

  He drew in a breath, scents of smoke and roast lamb coming to him across the compound. The high-pitched chatter of women at the grindstones drifted over the short distance, and the laughter of playing children sent a pang of longing through him. He closed his eyes, listening to their young voices first calling to and then chasing after each other. If only one of the children belonged to him.

  How long, Adonai Elohim? The waiting grew harder with each passing year. How easy it had been to believe the promise during his seventy-third summer when they set out from Ur. But eleven years had passed since then, and Sarai’s age, though barely showing outwardly, had surely not helped their plight. How long before the way of women left her entirely, making the promised child truly impossible?

  His gaze traveled to Sarai’s tent at the thought, his eyes seeking a glimpse of the woman he had loved for so long. He’d been content in her love and in his roles as husband and brother and son. Adonai’s call had changed all of that, making him long for more, making the promises given to him a thinly veiled hope.

  When?

  The question went unanswered.

  He closed his eyes again, trying to blot out the sounds around him, but what seemed only a few moments later, male voices caused him to look up. He lifted a hand to shade the glare of the sun, spotting Eliezer and two of his chief herdsmen approaching. He reached for his staff and felt the stiffness in his bones as he stood. Gripping the staff for added support, he stretched his back, then moved to greet his men.

  “What is it?” Abram settled a look on his chief steward. Eliezer did not usually interrupt his afternoon rest without good reason.

  “There is trouble at the well.” Eliezer glanced at the two men with him. “Between Lot’s herdsmen and yours.”

  Abram bent to retrieve his turban from the ground and wound it around his head. He stepped away from his tent and the shade of the trees. “Which well?”

  “The one closest to Ai, toward the Jordan Valley.”

  “Nearest Lot’s camp then.”

  “Yes.” Eliezer fell into step beside Abram as the two walked ahead of the herdsmen. “Tensions have been rising in the past few years, but now, trying to share the land with the Canaanites and Perizzites has forced Lot’s herds closer to ours.” Eliezer met Abram’s gaze. “Several of the men have come to blows.”

  Abram stopped at the edge of the camp. The distance to the fields was still nearly an hour’s walk. He glanced at the two chief herdsmen, addressing the first. “Was anyone hurt?” He would never abide such a thing in his household, but Lot was not nearly as forceful with his men. And tempers were not always easily kept in hand.

  “Several bruised jaws and ribs, but nothing that won’t eventually heal,” the man said, rubbing a hand along his square, bearded chin.

  “The tensions are still simmering, though,” Eliezer added. “I came as soon as the messenger reached me. Lot is apparently already there trying to keep the peace.” His scowl reached his eyes.

  “And not doing a good job of it?” Abram had come to read Eliezer’s expressions with ease. It truly felt like the man could be his own son, lessening the worry that often nagged on days when he succumbed to faithless doubts. Hadn’t God sent Eliezer when Abram needed him? Surely He would also send the child when the time was right.

  “Lot is not you, my lord. He commands his own servants well enough, though sometimes I wonder if he isn’t part of the problem.”

  Abram looked at the herdsmen as he started off again, picking a quicker pace. “Go on ahead of us and do your best to keep the peace. Tell them I am coming.” He looked at Eliezer as the two took off at a fast jog. “I have no doubt Lot is some of the cause. He’s a restless sort, and servants tend to follow the lead of the master.”

  Hadn’t Abram learned that lesson long ago? Surely his many years had taught him something of value, though at times he wondered if he would ever learn enough.

  “Then your servants are blessed. Their master is wise.”

  Abram chuckled. “I fear your memory is in short supply, Eliezer. Have you so quickly forgotten Egypt?” He used the staff to guide his way down a gentle slope, taking care to avoid rocks and bramble bushes in his path.

  “I have not forgotten, my lord. But I fear perhaps you have remembered too well.”

  They approached the valley where numerous flocks of sheep and goats spread out before them, covering much of the grasslands. Beyond them, Abram knew, cattle would envelop even more of the open spaces.

  “You fear I live with too many regrets?” Abram lifted a hand to shade his eyes, then continued on.

  Eliezer kept pace with him. “You grow pensive at times, and Lila has noticed the effect your silence has had on Sarai. Sarai worries that you blame her.”

  Did he? Abram drew in a breath, slowly releasing it. “How could I blame her? For what? Her beauty? I might as well blame Adonai for making her so.” He shook his head, stifling the unexpected irritation. “And if I blame Adonai for her beauty, might I also blame Him for her barrenness?” He glanced at his steward. “No. I cannot blame the Creator for what He has chosen to make. It is I who am unworthy.”

  Voices of angry, arguing men reached them before they saw the gathered crowd. Abram looked at Eliezer, reading in the other man’s expression the same concern he felt. Had Lot done nothing to appease them? He straightened his shoulders and marched ahead, Eliezer parting the crowd before him.

  “What is the meaning of this trouble?” Abram stopped near the center of the crowd, where Lot stood watching two men wrestling. “Put an end to this now!” His shout brought the jeers and jibes to a halt, though the two men did not stop. Abram nodded to Eliezer, who stepped forward, pointing at several of Abram’s men.

  “Stop this at once.” They quickly obeyed, moving in to pull the men apart.

  When at last the men stopped straining against those who held them, Abram approached Lot. “We are kinsmen, are we not?”

>   “Yes, my lord. Of course we are.”

  Abram nodded. “Then we must not let strife come between you and me, and between your herdsmen and my herdsmen.” He clapped a hand across Lot’s shoulders. “What can I do to settle the differences between us?”

  Abram released his hold as Lot met his gaze, tilting his head, his eyes wide. “There is nothing to be done, Uncle. The land simply cannot hold all we have.”

  “Then we are not using the full extent of the land there is.” He swept a hand toward the Jordan Valley he knew Lot favored.

  Lot turned, a wistful look filling his expression. Silence passed between them. The voices of men were abuzz about them, Eliezer’s calm, confident tone setting things right.

  “Is not the whole land before you?” Abram said, moving his arm in an arc from the Jordan toward the west where the land was hillier and the water scarce.

  Lot nodded. “You’re right. There is much more land available than we are using now.”

  Abram came alongside Lot and placed an arm across his shoulders again. “Then separate yourself from me. If you take the left hand, then I will go to the right, or if you take the right hand, then I will go to the left.”

  Lot’s eyes seemed to skim the west but clearly lingered on the well-watered Jordan Valley. “It’s like the garden of the Lord, like Egypt.”

  Abram stifled a shudder at the comparison. Egypt’s inundation was predictable, trustworthy, offering her inhabitants little reason to fear the barren land or lack of rainfall. Egypt was like Ur and Harran, whose rivers brought security and prosperity . . . and faithlessness. Like the Jordan Valley spread before them now.

  “I will go east,” Lot said after barely a moment’s hesitation. He looked at Abram, rested his hands on both shoulders, and kissed each cheek in respect. “Thank you, Uncle. You are most gracious.”

  Abram kissed Lot’s cheeks in return, his heart heavy. “Take care, my son.”

  Lot’s gaze grew shuttered. He knew what Abram meant. But as he looked toward the valley, his countenance changed. A smile lit his face, turning the corners of his mustache upward. “Never fear, Uncle. Have I not servants aplenty to protect me? Do not worry about me.”

  He kissed Abram and thanked him once more, then turned to his men, ordering them to gather his flocks and move east toward the valley floor. Abram joined Eliezer and headed back the way he had come, feeling suddenly older than he had earlier that day. Concern for Lot and his family weighed heavily on him, and yet as they came closer to his camp near Bethel, a greater peace accompanied each step. Had not God commanded him to leave his family and go to the land He would show him? Parting company with Lot would finally allow him to do as Adonai had commanded. Perhaps now that he had fully obeyed, Adonai might fully give as He had promised.

  19

  Melah watched the campfire sparks flying upward toward the black of night and shivered. She pressed her hands, palms down, closer to the flames, knowing she should be huddled beside her children in the tent rather than standing here waiting, fearing for Lot’s safety. Where was he?

  She cinched her scarf closer to her neck and glanced once more at the sparkling city lights winking like so many distant stars across the plain. Two months living on the plains had done little to still her restless spirit. If Lot cared about her at all, he would have listened to her pleas and given her a house of stone inside the city, with bars to shut them in and keep them safe. What kind of protection did he expect from a tent?

  Her fear turned to anger and mingled with deeper dread as she left the fire and strode the short distance to the thin-walled shelter. The girls’ even breathing met her ear. Moonlight bathed the entryway, casting grotesque shadows over the baskets and cushions and cooking utensils. She removed her sandals and crept along the wall, letting the flap close behind her.

  She stilled, cocking her head to listen. Male voices drew close. Too close. Her heart beat faster, her breath growing thin. Lot’s men were usually more considerate coming into camp late at night.

  She pressed a hand to her middle to cradle the babe, easing her way back toward the opening. A man’s shadow filled the entrance. She scooted back a pace, nearly tripping in her rush, fear clogging her throat.

  He stepped into the room. She drew in a breath, but a hand clamped over her mouth, blocking her cries. “Hush. Don’t scream.” Lot’s voice in her ear made her legs lose their strength. His arms came around her, holding her steady. “It’s all right. It’s me.” He pulled her close until she could feel the beat of his heart against her ear. She drew back enough to meet his troubled gaze.

  “Where were you? What happened?” She reached for his hand and drew him further into the tent on the other side of the partition to her own sleeping quarters. “Tell me everything.”

  He drew in several breaths, then sank onto her cushions. “We escaped bandits by the space of an arrow’s shot, perhaps less. They were waiting for us as we led the sheep to the rock pens. My men fought them off, and those we didn’t kill barely escaped. They did not flee in pairs, but alone and wounded.” He squeezed her hand. “I fear my uncle was right. It is not safe in the plains.”

  “I have thought the same myself. Surely now you will listen to reason and move us to the city to a house of stone with doors that bar.” She knelt beside him and skimmed his lips with hers. “Please, my lord. Think of your children, of the babe.” She lowered her chin, letting his beard brush her face, then reached to stroke his cheek with one gentle hand.

  He covered her hand with his. “You do know how to get your way with me.” His smile made her respond with a playful pout, but rather than the passion she hoped would come, he planted a chaste kiss on her forehead. “I will listen to reason,” he said, his breath on her ear. “We will move at first light.”

  Abram awoke to the sound of birds chirping before the voices of the rising women could drown them out. He rose quickly in the darkness of his tent, alone. Sarai’s uncleanness had kept her in her own tent—again. A sigh escaped him, bringing with it a sense of resignation. Nothing could be done but to wait on Adonai, and though Sarai grew impatient, he knew that fretting would do them no good.

  He thrust his arms through the sleeves of his tunic and robe, reminding himself once again that Adonai could be trusted. Hadn’t He rescued Sarai from Pharaoh’s clutches? Hadn’t He given them peace with their neighbors and a land of promise? Why should he doubt? Yet the nagging uncertainty of when remained.

  Setting aside the disconcerting thoughts, he donned his sandals, lifted the tent flap, and stepped into the stillness, ready to greet the dawn. Pink-hued skies blanketed the earth, beckoning him to climb the hill toward the altar he had built when he first arrived in Canaan. A sacrifice would be needed soon. Though Adonai had not commanded it, Abram sensed deep within him that he owed Him as much and more.

  As he reached the summit of the low hill, Abram paused, glancing again at the lightening sky, marveling at the beauty, the splash of color and light beckoning sleepers to wake. You are great, Adonai. Your creation speaks of Your glory.

  He could not observe a sunrise without a stirring in his soul. Surely God was with him, knew him by name. He could not imagine it otherwise or imagine life apart from knowing the Creator.

  The last vestige of color crossed the threshold of the horizon, fully embracing the sky’s expanse, when suddenly the air grew thick around him, cocooning him in gentle warmth. He looked about him, sensing a presence, feeling the softest brush of wind on his cheek. But nothing moved in the stillness, the only sound his own breath.

  He stood still, waiting, his heart beating faster, an inexplicable joy filling him. The breeze caressed his face now, and he turned to watch it weave through the branches of the adjacent trees.

  Abram.

  He felt his name more than heard it, his whole being yearning heavenward.

  Yes, Lord, I am here.

  The response seemed nonsensical. Surely God knew where he was. He waited again, tilting his head, but the sound s
eemed to come from every direction at once, echoing in the ground beneath and the air above.

  Lift up your eyes and look from the place where you are, northward and southward and eastward and westward, for all the land that you see I will give to you and to your offspring forever. I will make your offspring as the dust of the earth, so that if one can count the dust of the earth, your offspring also can be counted. Arise, walk through the length and the breadth of the land, for I will give it to you.

  The words ended. Slowly Abram turned, sensing the presence had gone as unexpectedly as it had come. He lowered his body to the grasses and pressed his face to the earth. “Your servant is unworthy.” The very ground seemed set apart, as if the dust itself belonged to God. “I will do as you say, Adonai.”

  When he lifted his head, the sun had barely moved, suspended in the exact spot it had been when he first arrived at the altar. He must find Eliezer and quickly offer a sacrifice, then set out to inspect the length and breadth of the land God had promised.

  Melah sank onto a plush couch in the sitting room of her new home, barely able to enjoy the luxury. Exhaustion came over her in waves, and she tilted her head to listen. Could she hear Assam’s cries from here? Oh, but she needed to rest! Surely he would sleep for a while.

  She closed her eyes, faintly aware of the chatter of her servants and the scraping of the millstone in the courtyard beyond. In the three months since Assam’s birth, she had done nothing but attempt to feed and care for him. She would allow no one else to interfere. Let the servants do the daily tasks.

  The thought pleased her as her mind drifted in a half sleep to the shores of the Euphrates where Lot had first wooed her. Their love had meant something then. Surely he had loved her. And she had at last given him a son.

  Tinny, high-pitched shrieks and squeals jolted her. Where was she? She blinked hard, anger flaring. What were they arguing about now?

  Her limbs protested movement, but she forced herself up, her temper rising with her daughters’ bickering voices. She stomped down the hall toward the chamber they shared. They would wake Assam if they kept up this racket. She stopped at his door, her heart plummeting at his soft cries. She would punish them but good this time! Could he not sleep even an hour?