Rebekah (25 page)

“It has been good to have you with us this past month,” Lila said, bending close during a short lull in Keturah’s monologue. “Does Isaac plan to make Hebron his home from now on?”

Rebekah met Lila’s gaze, admiring the peace the woman displayed. No lines along her brow betrayed her cares, and even her smile reached her eyes. “Isaac has not made any firm decisions. We had only intended to stay to help see Nadab settled with a wife, but plans do change sometimes.”

Lila nodded, but Rebekah glanced at Keturah’s too-interested expression and determined to hold her tongue. She did not trust Abraham’s wife, and the less she said, the better.

“It is good that Nadab agreed to marry,” Lila said, her eyes flickering with the slightest hint of sorrow. “I hope they are content with each other.”

“Too bad for you that he didn’t choose one of Abraham’s maids.” Keturah’s unwanted comment and sarcastic tone made Rebekah cringe, but Lila did not seem ruffled by the woman’s words. “Don’t think I am not aware of your true feelings in this.”

Lila faced Keturah. “We appreciate your recommendation of a wife, Keturah. I am sure your cousin will make a fine wife for our Nadab.”

Rebekah rolled her shoulders and straightened, trying to ease her tense muscles. Did Lila really believe that Keturah’s Canaanite cousin would make a good wife for Nadab? But Nadab had wanted nothing to do with the maids in Abraham’s camp who worshiped Adonai. The thought saddened her. How hard for Eliezer and Lila to watch a son follow the way of their pagan neighbors. Had the man married the girl out of rebellion because he had lost Selima? All the more reason Rebekah was grateful they had given Selima to Haviv.

“Isaac has done a good job overseeing the wheat harvest.”

Rebekah turned at Lila’s attempt to change the subject. “He enjoys God’s creation and seems to have a knack for caring for things that grow from the earth.”

“Eliezer tells me that this is the biggest harvest they have yet seen. Adonai has surely blessed your husband.”

Keturah noisily stood and gathered the ground flour in her skirts, then took it to the cooking tent to be kneaded into bread.

When she was out of earshot, Rebekah released a deep sigh. “That woman gives me a headache.” She glanced in the direction Keturah had gone. “I am sure she does not take kindly to talk of Isaac or his accomplishments.”

“I’m sorry. I should not have brought it up.”

“No, do not worry. She would have made things worse talking of Nadab and his bride.”

Lila nodded, her dark eyes clouded. “It is hard to watch a
son harbor such resentment. But nothing his father or I can say will mend the rift between him and his brother. Even his sisters and older brothers here in the camp are distant from him.”

“I am sorry for you.”

If only she had given Selima to Haviv when they first arrived from Paddan-Aram. The girl was surely willing enough. Then Nadab would not have been tempted to usurp his brother’s place.

“It is not your fault. When a man matures, his choices are his own. He must decide whether to love or hate, whether to hold resentment close to his heart or to forgive. Not even Adonai will force such a choice on us.” Lila lifted the sieve in one hand and sifted the wheat, the soft flour separating from the hard outer shell and floating onto the wide woolen mat.

“He does not force us, but I daresay He is pleased when we love and forgive rather than hate.” Rebekah looked to make sure Keturah was still visible through the open sides of the cooking tent. “Though some are harder to love than others.”

Lila chuckled. “You will find no argument from me where that one is concerned.” She met Rebekah’s gaze with a smile. “Sarah was much different.”

“Tell me about her.” Rebekah’s heart gave a strange tug, the longing for her own mother suddenly vivid and strong. How she would have enjoyed knowing Isaac’s mother, sitting beside her at the loom or fretting together over the men they loved.

Lila smoothed the mound of flour with one hand, then tossed another handful of ground grain into the sieve. “Sarai—Sarah as you would have known her—was a strong woman. She was beautiful and loving, very giving to those of us who lived in Abraham’s camp. Her only failing was her impatience in waiting on Adonai to fulfill His promise of a son. But then, twenty-five years is a long time to wait.”

Rebekah nodded. “How hard that must have been for her.”
She had heard the stories of Isaac’s promised birth and imagined more than once what his mother must have gone through.

A pang touched her heart. Would she be forced to wait as well? But that was ridiculous. They had only been married seven months.

“Indeed it was.” Lila looked beyond their grinding area toward the trees circling the camp. “But of all the trials she faced waiting for Isaac to finally be born, they were nothing compared to the pain she felt, the betrayal she imagined, when Abraham nearly sacrificed his own son. She was never the same after that.”

Lila’s gaze swung back to meet hers. “You must understand, Sarah loved Abraham.” She lowered her voice, glancing toward the cooking tent as though fearful that Keturah might overhear. “Even to the day she died. But she could not look at him again without seeing Isaac bound with rope and laid on an altar, and though Isaac would tell you he did not scream or beg for mercy, Sarah often woke in the night screaming after that day. I think if Adonai had put her to the same test, she would not have passed it.”

Rebekah paused in turning the millstone, Lila’s words resonating deep within her. If Adonai were to put her to such a test, could she lift a hand against her son? She shuddered to think it.

“Why do you think God asked such a thing? After all of those years waiting for the promised son, then to ask his father to sacrifice him? It makes no sense.” She still cringed whenever she imagined the story, and a sense of horror filled her every time Isaac woke with a start, coated in sweat.

“Who can understand the mind of Adonai?” Lila shrugged, but by the look in her eye Rebekah knew she had pondered the question much.

“Surely you have an opinion. Did Abraham ever explain it to Sarah?”

Lila’s smile was sad. “He did. Many times. He had almost convinced her too.”

“Convinced her?”

“Of what he believed. He told her that if God had wanted him to kill Isaac, then God must have intended to raise the dead, because Isaac was the son of the promise. All nations would be blessed through Isaac. So even if he had died, God would have raised him to life again.” Lila laid the sieve to the side and lifted the four corners of the mat, pulling the flour into a neat bundle to add to the evening’s baking. “He could not have done what he did without believing that.”

“Sarah did not agree with him?”

Surely Isaac’s mother trusted Adonai. The stories told of her extolled her for the faith that allowed her to bear Isaac when she was long past bearing age.

Lila shook her head. “No . . . that is . . .” She blew out a breath. “Sarah always struggled with the idea of the promise. Her faith was never as strong as Abraham’s, though she did have such faith. She just could not see as far into God’s plan as he did. She could not imagine Isaac rising from the dead because she could not imagine him dead in the first place.”

“That makes sense.” Rebekah looked behind her at the sound of female voices coming closer. “The women have returned from the field.”

Lila glanced in the same direction, then tilted her head toward the sky. “The sun will be setting soon. We can finish the grinding another day.”

Rebekah scooped the last of the wheat kernels and poured them back into the clay jar. They had enough flour ground for the flatbread that would accompany the evening meal. But as she worked alongside Keturah in the cooking tent a short time later, she could not help but wonder why Abraham had taken the woman to wife. Why not work harder to mend things with Sarah? Or had Isaac’s mother grown so
inward, so focused on Isaac, that she could no longer see her husband? Had the woman traded the love of her husband for the love of her son?

She vowed in her heart that she would never do such a thing. Isaac was such a perfect match for her. Even a beloved son would not change her feelings for him.

The time in Hebron lasted longer than Rebekah expected or appreciated. Though she enjoyed Abraham’s company, she quickly grew weary of Keturah. Three more months had passed, nearly a year since her marriage, and still she had no child. And Isaac had yet to keep his promise to take her to the wilderness, where she could be completely alone with him.

She strode to the field where she knew she would find him among the sheep, determined to convince him to leave Hebron. She spotted him near the water’s edge, his arms draped around a young ewe.

She stepped closer. “Is she hurt?”

Isaac was stripped to the waist, the ewe dripping wet in his arms. His skin glistened from the sun and water, and her heart yearned to feel those strong arms wrapped around her.

He looked up, struggling with the ewe, and rubbed his hand over its gray wool. “She followed her mother too far from the flock and fell into a mud pit. It has taken the two of us”—he nodded toward one of his shepherds—“half the morning to find her and clean her up.”

Rebekah glanced at the sky. The spring rains had brought a recent downpour, which would have filled the wadis and low-lying places. “I am sorry to hear it.”

She stepped closer as he moved from the stream and set the ewe among the grasses. The lamb shook the water from its coat, spraying Rebekah’s skirts. She laughed, and Isaac drew up beside her and lifted her in his arms.

“What brings my beautiful wife to visit me here today?” He kissed her cheek, his breath tickling her ear.

She smiled, warmed by his nearness. “I was missing you.” She lifted her head and glanced above her at the blue expanse. “And the camp can be stifling sometimes.” She did not want to complain, not after seeing such delight in his eyes.

Isaac’s look grew thoughtful. He undid the girdle at his waist and pulled the tunic over his chest, then walked over to a low-hanging branch and retrieved his robe. He came toward her again, tying the belt as he walked.

“You are finding Keturah difficult?” He draped an arm around her shoulder and walked with her among the sheep, stopping to inspect one here and there, allowing her time to frame her response.

“I find her difficult, yes. She harbors anger toward you, I think.” She looked up as his gaze swept over her. “Must we stay here, my lord? I would not begrudge you time with your father, but I daresay even that is strained with Keturah’s sons always underfoot.”

Isaac drew in a slow breath and released it, then ran a hand over his beard. “I have been trying to give my father more time, beloved. I know I promised to take you to the mountains. I did not expect my father to need me so.”

“He has Eliezer and Keturah’s sons.”

“Eliezer is a servant, though a beloved one. Still, I am his heir. My father is planning to send Keturah’s sons away soon.”

“Even the young ones? They are just children!” The thought appalled her. “How would they fare without their mother?”

“Not the youngest sons. The two oldest, Zimran and Jokshan.”

“But they are barely men.”

“They are old enough and trouble enough. This is why Keturah is angry. She wants to go with them, to take all of her sons with her. My father has refused her.” Isaac paused
and turned to face her. “Try to be patient with her, Rebekah. We will leave here soon enough, after the rains have passed. But we will return again from time to time. You must learn to get along with her.”

The quiet reprimand stung.

“Do you think I have not tried? She is sarcastic and unkind in her comments. She treats Lila with contempt. She is worse than Laban’s wives combined.”

Though in truth, Laban’s wives were nothing like Keturah. They had always deferred to her as Bethuel’s only daughter.

“I did not mean to offend, beloved.” He touched her cheek, drawing her eyes to look into his. “I do not know how else I can help you. We cannot leave until the rains end. Please try to find something good to like in her.”

Rebekah lowered her eyes, humbled by his earnest plea. She had not truly tried to like Keturah. She had only kept a list of her failings, letting them mount up, knowing she would soon be free of the woman. But if they were not going to leave for at least three more months . . . The thought grated, but she could manage to avoid confrontation for at least that long.

“I will try, my lord. But she does not make it easy to do so.” She leaned in close. She could learn from his example. Surely she could be kind to Keturah, if only to please him.

 21