Nahor laughed with delight. “You’re like me, all right. I can see it in you.”
“Are we both crazy, then?” Abram asked, more serious now.
Nahor gazed deeply into the younger man’s eyes. “Any man who gives up this world to find God will be called crazy.”
A chill ran down Abram’s back as he digested this thought.
Nahor watched Abram’s serious countenance, pleased that the young man did not dismiss his words. He’s a thinker. He doesn’t talk a great deal, but he doesn’t forget much either. He’s like me, all right.
Finally Abram said, “My family has told me that you left us to find God. Did you find Him, Grandfather?”
Nahor stared down at the waters at his feet, then lifted his eyes to the broad stream that flowed eastward, carrying the rich silt down to the big sea. Then he began to speak as he had not done since his return. He spoke of his journeys to impossible places, and his voice grew tense as he told of the sufferings that he’d endured on his travels.
“I almost gave up more than once, grandson,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “In every town I came to I went to the temples, and I prayed to whatever god was there. You wouldn’t believe, grandson, how many crazy idols I’ve prayed to—and all of them were worthless.”
Abram was absolutely silent, straining his ears to hear every word. He was fascinated by this old man, blood of his blood and bone of his bone, and he knew that there was a mystic bond between the two of them, such as he had never felt with any other human being.
Finally the old man fell silent, staring up at the rising moon. Taking a deep breath, he turned to Abram and said, “And then—I found Him! I was in the desert, at the end of my rope, tired of searching. I had found out that there were almost as many gods as there are men, Abram. For years I had sought for truth among these gods, but I found nothing. I was so tired, I was sick of myself.” He suddenly lifted his hands and, with exultation in his voice, exclaimed, “But there in the desert the one who whispered to me so many years ago came to me!”
“You saw Him?” Abram whispered urgently. “Did He tell you His name?”
“He has many names, and yes, He spoke to me, grandson. He actually spoke to me! I heard His voice. It wasn’t just something in my head or in my heart. I think if you had been there, you would have heard it too. I saw a light that glowed like nothing on this earth, and then He spoke to me. He said, ‘Nahor, you have sought me faithfully, and I desire to be your friend.’”
“Did He tell you His name?” Abram repeated breathlessly. “I long to know His name, Grandfather.”
“I asked the same question…and He told me to call Him the Eternal One.”
Abram gripped his grandfather’s arm and demanded, “What did He look like?”
Nahor shook his head and answered sternly, “He is not a man, Abram! He doesn’t look like anything. God is not a man like us. He made us.”
The old man talked until his voice grew weary, and finally Abram said, “I want to hear Him too.”
“I see that you have a great hunger to know Him, my son, but only those who seek Him with all their heart will find Him.”
“Then I will seek Him with all my heart,” Abram said solemnly. “I will seek Him if it takes my entire life.”
Nahor smiled with pleasure. He reached out to take the young man’s hand and felt the strength of it. Then he said, “And you will find Him, Abram. It may cost you everything—but it will be worth it!”
Chapter 7
Abram was spending more and more time with his grandfather. The two had become inseparable, and it disturbed Terah so much he finally complained to Haran one day as they watched Abram and Nahor from the portico across the courtyard.
“Those two bother me,” Terah muttered.
“Why is that, Father?”
“You know very well why. You’ve heard me tell often enough how my father lost his mind over religion.”
Haran looked out to where Abram and his grandfather were sitting in the shade of a potted palm in the late afternoon. The old man was moving his arms about in expansive gestures as Abram listened.
“I don’t think there’s any danger of that,” Haran said. “Abram has settled down now that he’s married. He’s got more sense than to go off and lose his mind over religion. As a matter of fact, you had to force him to make an offering to Ishtar, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but my father’s always had this wild idea that there’s only one God. I’m afraid Abram is being taken in by such dangerous thoughts.”
Haran’s eyes opened wide. “One God? I can’t believe it. Why, everybody knows there are thousands of gods.”
“Everybody except my own father,” Terah grumbled bitterly. “Look at them. I wish he hadn’t come home.”
Haran stared at his father and shook his head. “I think it’ll be all right. Abram’s a little strange, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders.”
“He’s got a head that’s being packed full of all kinds of nonsense! I wish I could do something about it, but he won’t listen to me. Why don’t you try to talk to him, Haran?”
“I will if you want me to, but I doubt it will do any good.”
From the courtyard, Nahor was aware that he and Abram were being watched. He smiled and said to Abram, “Your father is worried about you. He thinks I’m going to poison you with my ideas.” The thought amused him, and he laughed deep in his chest. “He was always a worrier—always worrying about the wrong things!”
Nahor nodded across the courtyard at Terah and Haran, and the two men, embarrassed at having been spotted, turned quickly to go back inside. Abram watched his father and brother leave, then turned his eyes back to Nahor and said, “Tell me about our family, Grandfather. I know practically nothing.”
“Our family? Well, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. Terah doesn’t seem to take much pride in the family, but I do.” He settled himself on the stone bench and locked his fingers together, his eyes growing dreamy, it seemed to Abram. “My own father’s name was Serug. I left his home many years ago, when I was young and impetuous—and not interested in learning the wisdom he had to pass on. I will tell you more of him—when the time is right—but you should know of those who came before. My grandfather’s name was Reu, and Reu’s father was Peleg. Peleg’s father was Eber. His father was Shelah, and Shelah’s father was Arphaxad. I could tell you stories about all of these men, and I will if I live long enough, but Arphaxad’s father was a very unusual man. His name was Shem.”
“Shem? I think I’ve heard of him.”
“Well, you should have. He was one of Noah’s sons. You have heard of him, haven’t you?”
“No, not a great deal.”
“I ought to beat that son of mine! You’d think he’d have enough pride in his family to pass along the stories of the great men.”
Nahor looked up and watched as a line of birds flitted their way across the sky toward the river. After they disappeared from sight, he said, “After the world was created, men sinned and grew very bad, until the Eternal One was wearied by the iniquity of men. He chose to destroy the whole world by a flood, but He had His eye on one man, a righteous and just man whose name was Noah….”
Nahor spoke for a long time, describing the history of the flood and how God had saved Noah and his wife, his three sons, and their wives. Then he turned to Abram and said, “Noah had three sons—Shem, Ham, and Japheth. It would take too long to go into the history of Ham and Japheth and their descendants. But I will tell you of Shem, for it is through his line that the Eternal One has chosen to bring a great gift to the world.”
“What gift?” Abram whispered, his eyes fixed on his grandfather.
“I’m not exactly sure, but the Eternal One has told me that out of our family will come One who will redeem the whole earth and bring peace and righteousness.”
“When will that happen?”
“I cannot say. The Eternal One has not told me.” Nahor put his ha
nd on Abram’s knee. “But you come from proud stock, grandson. You are a chosen one, a son of the Eternal One. We may never see the promise fulfilled, but we can be sure that one day from our blood will come a redeemer.”
Abram sat listening as his grandfather spoke of his family, that which had been and that which was to come. The shadows grew long as the sun descended in the western sky, and still the two of them talked on—the older one speaking of the greatness of the God he had found, and the younger one aching with the desire to meet this Eternal One. Abram finally whispered, “I can’t believe that out of all the people on earth, the Eternal One has chosen our family.”
“He is the great and almighty One. The One who always was. The One who created all that you see—the stars, the moon, the sun, the rivers. He made the mountains, and He made the plains. But His joy is not in these things. His joy, my son, is in man. Even though man has gone far away from what the Eternal One intended, He has told me that He will not destroy the earth again—at least not by water—but He will redeem men. Even our own family does not recognize that through them lies the whole hope of the world.”
Nahor suddenly pulled at the leather thong around his neck. Abram had noticed it and watched curiously as the old man opened a pouch with a drawstring. He removed a round object and, for a moment, held it in the palm of his hand so that Abram could not see it.
“Look, grandson….”
Abram looked at the object that Nahor handed to him. It was a round medallion made of gold, and Abram saw that it was engraved with the image of a lion. The beast was very lifelike. He had one paw uplifted in victory, but it was the eyes that caught Abram’s attention. They were made of brilliant gemstones such as he had never seen. Even in the fading light they glittered like the stars overhead. He stared at it in silence, then whispered, “It’s beautiful, Grandfather! Where did you get it?”
“That which you hold in your hand is older than anything you’ve ever touched,” Nahor said quietly. “It once belonged to Seth, the son of Adam, the first man. Seth gave it to his son, and it’s been passed down for many generations. Noah received it and gave it to his son Shem. Each man who receives it has the obligation of keeping himself close to the Eternal One—and of passing the medallion on to the next one God chooses.”
“What does it mean, Grandfather?”
“I don’t know, Abram. I don’t think any man who has carried it knows the full significance of it. But it means something special—I know that much. I believe the lion has something to do with the redeemer who will come, though I’m not sure what. Look at the back of the medallion.”
Abram reversed the disk. “A lamb.”
“Yes, and that has meaning too—but no man knows what it is. One day it will be clear to the bearer of the lion.”
“Who will you give it to?”
“I will give it to whomever the Eternal One tells me. It’s not my choice, Abram, but God himself will show me the man who is to bear this medallion, and I will place it on his neck before I die!” He then took the medallion, replaced it in the leather pouch, and slipped it under his robe. “And I think that will not be too long, grandson!”
****
Months passed, and Abram returned to his flocks with Sarai, but he also took his grandfather with them. He was aware that Terah was relieved to have his father out of his home, although he made a formal protest that the desert was no place for an old man. “He needs to be here where we can care for him and give him comfort.”
When Nahor heard this he snorted, “Comfort! I’m not interested in comfort. You can have the town. It was made by men. I want to go out and live in that part of the world God made, with the open spaces stretching before me and the sky above me.”
As Abram and Nahor tended the flocks together and talked often of eternal things, Abram absorbed more and more of the spirit that was in his grandfather. And the desire to know God, the Eternal One, the true God, grew in him so much it was painful.
Sarai watched all this with a careful eye. She had learned to love Abram’s grandfather, for she found Nahor had some of the same qualities she admired in her husband. The old man was at times sharp with his words, but he also had a gentleness about him that Sarai found endearing, and she cared for him tenderly, seeing after his comfort.
“Do you think he will live much longer, Abram?” she asked one day when the two of them had drawn aside. Abram had spent all morning listening to Nahor teach him more of the lessons and insights he had learned over a lifetime.
“I hope so. I have so much more to learn from him. There’s no one like him, Sarai.”
“I agree, he is unusual.” She sometimes listened as Nahor spoke about the one true God he claimed to have met, and she wanted to know more herself. Now as she and Abram walked together, looking over the flocks that grazed in the distance, she asked, “What do you make of all that Grandfather says about this one God he professes to know?”
“I think it’s all true,” Abram said simply. He reached down and took her hand, a habit he had which pleased her very much. Having no child, Sarai reveled in his shows of affection.
Smiling up at him, she said, “If this God is anything like you, my dear husband, I want to believe in Him too. But I can’t help wondering how everyone in the world can be so wrong. We’ve all been taught that there are thousands of gods. Where did such an idea come from if it’s not at all true?”
“I can’t answer that, but I know in my heart that this God that my grandfather has met is the One I’ve been seeking for all these years.”
“But why doesn’t He speak to you? You’ve been such a good man, and you’ve been searching for so long.”
“I don’t think our time is the same as His time. He’s called the Eternal One, Grandfather says. We live for a few years and then we’re gone. Just think what His name means—the Eternal One—He has always been, and He always will be! Isn’t that exciting?”
Sarai smiled at her husband. She remembered that she had promised to support him in every way, and now she said, “You’ll find Him. I know you will.”
“And you’ll find Him too, Sarai. I know that one day—” He broke off and lifted his gaze. Shading his eyes, he peered off in the distance. “Someone’s coming in a hurry. Look at the dust they’re raising.”
The two stood waiting for the figure on a donkey to approach, and then Abram said, “Why, that’s Hillel. There must be something wrong at home.”
The two of them waited until Terah’s trusted servant brought the donkey to a halt in front of them. Hillel’s face was fixed with a strange expression.
“What’s wrong, Hillel? Is someone sick?”
“It’s your brother Haran,” Hillel said. He hesitated, licked his lips, and then went on. “He’s been hurt. Your father wants you to come at once.”
“How bad is he?” Abram demanded.
Hillel dropped his eyes and shook his head. “Very bad, I’m afraid,” he muttered. “A wall fell on him and crushed him. He was examining the new building he and your father are working on.”
“Sarai, stay here and take care of Grandfather,” Abram ordered. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Sarai watched as Abram mounted his own donkey, and he and Hillel disappeared toward the city. She turned and started for the tent to give Nahor the bad news, and when she told the old man, his face grew sad. “I hope he lives. Haran is a good man. He’s become too interested in business, but there’s still time for him to change. He’s young.”
****
As soon as Abram went into the bedroom where Haran was lying, he knew immediately that his brother could not live. Haran’s wife, Dehazi, knelt on one side of his bed, while the other members of the family stood around the walls of the room. Abram went at once to kneel beside the bed. He took Haran’s still hand and whispered, “How are you, brother?” He thought at first that Haran was already dead, but then he saw the faint rise and fall of the chest. Haran’s face was battered and scarred, his chest black and blue. The
re was, however, a flicker of life, and the eyes opened. “I came as soon as I could,” Abram whispered.
Haran tried to speak, but his voice was so faint Abram had to lean forward. He caught the words, “Please…look after Lot, Abram. Dehazi cannot raise a son all alone.”
Abram at once squeezed his brother’s hand. “I will. I’ll be a second father to him. You have my promise on it, my dear brother.”
Haran nodded slightly and then closed his eyes. He said nothing more, and Abram got to his feet. He turned to his parents and saw his mother’s tear-stained face. He went to her and put his arms around her, and she fell against him, her body shaking as she wept.
“He can’t live,” Terah whispered, sadness in his eyes. He had always been very close to his Haran, and now great sorrow etched the old man’s face. He looked drawn and wan and shook his head. “There’s nothing we can do.”
Indeed, there was nothing to do, and despite the many prayers and special offerings made to the gods, Haran died the next day. He struggled for life, but his body had been crushed beyond any healing that man or stone god could offer.
Abram went back to get his grandfather and Sarai and bring them to the funeral. After Haran was laid to rest, Abram said to Sarai, “We’ll stay in town awhile and comfort my parents and Dehazi as best we can.”
“That’s the right thing to do,” Sarai agreed.
“I made a promise to my brother to look after Lot, to be a father to him.”
“That is good, my husband,” Sarai said. “And I will be only too glad to help Dehazi with her baby in any way I can. As the boy grows he can visit us whenever he likes,” Sarai went on. “You can teach him the things of the desert.”
“Yes, he’ll be like a son to us.” He squeezed Sarai then, and she smiled up at him.
“It’ll be all right,” she assured him.
****
The death of Haran affected Abram strongly. He was silent, for the most part, but thought of his brother often. They had not been as close as he would have liked, and now Abram regretted he had not spent more time with his brother.
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