Jacob could see that she was serious, so he had Leah and Rachel come and sit with them. He then told Bilhah and Zilpah to bring his children so she could meet them. To each one she had something special to say, some unique blessing in the name of Rebekah their grandmother and Isaac their grandfather. It was obvious that she saw the sons as wonderfully handsome young men and Dinah as lovely as her grandmother. Jacob could see the surprise in his sons’ eyes as they realized that she saw only the potential and knew nothing of the reality.
When the children had gone, Deborah turned to Rachel who was sitting next to her. “My dear,” she said, “I can see you aren’t well. It’s not easy to carry a child under these circumstances.”
Rachel smiled. “To one who has been childless for so long, it is no trouble.” Deborah gave her a strange, sad look and patted her hand.
“The young boy with the curling hair and the questioning, intelligent look who brought me the pomegranate wine was your son?” she asked.
“Yes, he is Joseph,” Rachel said proudly. Then a bit shyly she added, “I have only the one, while my sister, Leah, has so many.”
Deborah seemed to notice Leah for the first time. “Her blessing is obvious,” she said smiling, “while yours is all contained in one special lad.”
Leah beamed and Rachel felt comforted.
It was only after they had left that Deborah turned to Jacob. “I know you think I should rest, but I have much to tell you and I must do that first.”
Jacob protested but he could see that she was determined. He found himself fearing what she might have to tell him. He dreaded hearing of his mother’s disappointment when he didn’t get home before she died, and he was sure Esau had been critical of him. What his father was thinking he could not imagine. He almost expected her to tell him that he was no longer welcome in his father’s tent.
Somehow, being a wise old woman, she was able to see all these conflicting emotions and thoughts without Jacob’s telling her anything. “Don’t be afraid, Jacob,” she said, laying her hand on his arm and looking at him with a sharp intensity. “I am bringing you good news.”
“How can it be good news when my mother has died?” he asked with a catch in his voice, turning away so she could not see the tears that welled in his eyes.
“Your mother was concerned about that, and she made me promise that I would come and help you understand.”
“Understand what? It’s quite obvious that I broke her heart and wasn’t there when she needed me.”
“No, no, you don’t understand. She had peace about her going because she could see that everything was working out. It was almost as though she had to go for you to come home and work things out with your father and Esau.”
This surprised Jacob. He couldn’t even imagine what she meant. “My mother was at peace about her going?” he asked.
“I know it must be hard to believe but it’s true. While you have been gone, Esau has had time to discover that he does not find enough challenge and excitement in managing sheep and shepherds. He has often wished you would come home and free him from the burden of his father’s wells and herds.”
“What does he want to do?”
“Well, you remember just as you left he went off to marry one of Ishmael’s daughters. It was Ishmael who first gave him the idea of becoming a partner with him.”
“A partner?”
“Yes, you see Ishmael is not only a clever trader but also has bands of men and outposts manned by his sons to protect the pharaoh’s trade routes. He has wanted Esau to control Mount Seir and make the trade route safe in that whole area.”
“I understand. That is the shortest route north to Damascus and Carchemish. The King’s Highway, it’s been called.”
“Esau has been impatiently riding over to this area. He has driven out the Horites who had terrorized the caravans, and now he wants to move there with his family.”
Jacob could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Then you think he really wants me to come home?”
“He wants to move to a natural fortress in the mountain of Seir; Petra, it’s called. He would still keep some herds but only for his own use.”
“And my mother wanted you to come and tell me this?”
“Yes, and more than that, she wanted you to know that everything had worked out for the best. Esau never did want the burden of the birthright or the blessing.”
Jacob ran his hands through his hair, tugged at his short beard and smiled, then laughed. “Then I really can go home and find a welcome.”
Deborah smiled. “Esau will feel relieved. He can then leave his father and his father’s herds in your hands. At the same time, your father will feel greatly blessed to have so many strong young men to take care of his burdensome wealth.”
“It’ll take awhile to get everything ready to leave. As you saw, my wife, my dear and beloved Rachel, is great with child and not at all well.”
Once more Deborah reached out and touched his arm. “There are many hard things that must be endured, but that is the only way we become strong. Your own mother learned that. It was not easy losing you and dealing every day with Isaac’s blindness and the willful wives Esau married.”
“But she died without ever seeing me again or my children.”
“That was another heartache, but she had come to see that in some ways it was her own fault.”
“Her own fault?”
“She often told me that if she had trusted Isaac’s God to work things out and not tried to manage everything, you probably would never have had to leave.”
“She must have suffered terribly.”
“She felt guilty that you had to leave and that Esau harbored such hatred. She blamed herself for everything.”
“She shouldn’t have. Without Esau’s threat I probably would never have gone to Haran. I would never have married Rachel. How poor my life would have been without my children and my wives.”
“Perhaps she did have a hint of this. Just before she died, she called me to her side and said, ‘I have to trust that things have not gone too badly for my Jacob.’”
Deborah studied his face to see his response.
He smiled. “I wish I could have come in time to reassure her.”
“What would you have told her?” Deborah pressed on relentlessly.
“I would have told her,” Jacob said, “that from the very first night I spent alone, here in this very place, the God of my father and grandfather made Himself known to me and directed my path. I went out with only a walking stick and have come back with wives, children, and servants. My wealth exceeds that of either my father or my grandfather. But most important, Elohim Himself has given me a new name. A wonderful name.”
“And what is the new name?”
“Israel, he called me Israel.”
“Then you have found blessing even in the difficult way you were forced to take.”
“That is true.”
They sat silently watching a hawk dip and soar over the valley before them as they contemplated all that had happened to both of them. Finally Deborah spoke, “As you may have noticed, I am not well. I have prayed only that I might have strength to come and give you the message your dear mother entrusted to me. Now that I have done that, I can depart in peace.”
Jacob gave her a startled glance. “No, you mustn’t think that …”
Deborah patted his arm. “When I am gone,” she said, “I would like to be buried under this tree.”
Jacob could not bring himself to speak. He was too emotionally moved, but he nodded and reached out to press her fragile, long fingers.
During the weeks that followed, Jacob, his wives, and his children became better acquainted with this wise old woman. She told them many stories of their grandmother Rebekah. Their favorite was always the story of how she came from Haran to marry Abraham’s son Isaac. “Isaac loved her the moment he saw her,” she would say, “and she thought he was more handsome than she had even imagined.”
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p; She would usually end her stories by telling them, “Isaac was the son chosen by Elohim and his father for the birthright and the blessing. Isaac always thought Rebekah was his blessing, and he never fretted over the providence that gave them only two sons, your father and his twin brother, Esau. He has lived longer than his father, and in all this time he has had only the one wife and the two sons.”
It never failed that one of Jacob’s sons would look around at his brothers and then ask, “And who has the blessing now?”
Deborah would lean back and study them with a piercing, searching gaze as though she were trying to search out which one of them might inherit the blessing. “Now your father has both the birthright and the blessing,” she would say.
* * *
Some weeks passed as Jacob prepared his family to ride down the ridge to meet his father, who was camped under the great oaks of Mamre. This period of preparation was a happy time of expectation and celebration. Jacob and Rachel were looking forward to the birth of the new baby; Leah was once again busy seeing that all the practical matters of their family went smoothly. Dinah was silent and withdrawn but found some sense of peace in helping her mother. All was going so well, and then once again tragedy struck and the happy times came to an abrupt halt.
The first of the hardships was the death of Deborah. Even though they had expected it, they were all surprised at how much she meant to them. As was the custom, they wrapped her in a covering of woven reeds and buried her that evening beneath the oak tree she had grown to love.
Jacob grieved openly with his wives and their children joining him. Until this time no one in their family had died, and so they wept not only for their loss but in the sudden realization of life’s frailty. “We will call this the oak of weeping,” Jacob said as they were all packed and ready to move on.
With the death of Deborah, a nagging fear settled over Jacob. Rachel’s pregnancy was not going smoothly. She was in a great deal of pain. What would I do, how could I live if Rachel should be taken from me? She never complains. She wants this child so badly.
It hurt him to think that part of her wanting was tangled with her constant need to compete with her sister for his love and approval. It was all so nebulous. So unreachable. He had loved her and only her from the moment he first saw her.
He watched her closely now and saw how pale and weak she was. At times she clung to him as though she were afraid of something. Often at night she would wake up in a cold sweat and cling to him. “Jacob, you must promise me,” she would say, “when I am gone you must protect my son. Leah’s sons are jealous of him. They are capable of great cruelty.”
Jacob was startled by her choice of words, not “if” but “when,” she had said. Jacob would hold her and reassure her that he would watch out for Joseph. “But nothing can harm our son,” he would tell her. “Elohim will watch over him and preserve him from evil.”
“But sometimes even if we pray, things go wrong,” she said.
Jacob had often had the same thought. However, his own experience had taught him that though at times everything seemed to be going wrong, if one just waited and withheld judgment, things eventually would come out right again. What had seemed so hopelessly tangled could even become a blessing when left in Elohim’s care.
He tried to find words to comfort her, but there seemed to be nothing that would ease her pain or bring her peace. If we could just get to the town of Ephrath where there would be proper houses and midwives who could help her, he kept thinking as the camels plodded on and no village was in sight.
The road leading around the small city of Jerusalem was rough and stony. It bordered a brook called the Kidron. Jacob, with his large family, came along this road and, seeing a pleasant grove of olive and myrtle trees, decided to stop so Rachel could rest. He was troubled by her obvious discomfort and, at times, real pain.
“I will be stronger in the morning,” Rachel said as Bilhah helped her down from the litter and led her to a cushioned seat in the shade of a large olive tree.
“Reuben,” Jacob said, “come with me. We must go up to the city and tell them of our plight. We will need their permission to camp here.”
When the elders of the city heard their story and determined that Jacob was indeed the grandson of Abraham, Melchizedek’s old friend, they gladly gave their permission. The story of Melchizedek’s meeting with Abraham and Abraham’s generosity in paying him a tenth of the spoils taken in battle had been told over and over until they knew it well.
They not only gave their permission but ordered supplies of cool wine and big round loaves of freshly baked bread to be given them for their evening meal. Because Jacob feared that the elders may have heard of the massacre at Shechem, he hastened to assure them that they would stay only for the night. He could tell by their quick glances back and forth among themselves that they were relieved. “Stay,” they chorused, “stay as long as you like.”
When Jacob returned to the camp with the news that they could rest there for the night, everyone was relieved. Bilhah almost wept with gratitude. “My lord,” she said, “Rachel has only this moment fallen into a deep and troubled sleep. I bathed her poor, swollen hands and feet in cool water from the brook and made her an herbal drink.”
“I must see her,” Jacob said.
“She’s sleeping,” Bilhah warned him. “Go and eat. There’s nothing you can do.”
Jacob moved past her as though he had not heard. Determined not to wake Rachel, he quietly sank down on the mat beside her. To his surprise she reached for his hand, breathed a sigh of relief, and went back to sleep. He sat without moving, studying the dear, loved face and pondering the strangeness of things. It was obvious that no one came into the world in any other way and no one, no matter how elegant or important, could leave without dying and being buried.
He shifted uneasily. He did not want to carry those thoughts to their conclusion. He preferred to think that with a bit of rest Rachel would be all right.
It was late afternoon and from a distance came the rhythmic, swinging chant of harvesters. Looking up he could see men driving their animals around the threshing floor on a great rock that rose above the city to the north. Nearby he could hear his wives giving orders in whispers and his sons guiding the sheep down to the brook with soft cooing sounds. In the darkening sky above the olive trees, small sparrows dipped and swooped, then settled on the lower branches to rest.
Evening came quickly. It was announced first by the call of watchmen on the city walls above them. Then the hollow, strident tones of a ram’s horn signaled the end of day and the closing of the city gates. In their camp, fires were lit and the tempting odor of roasting game filled the night air. Later, much later, there was singing. On this night it was the lonesome, haunting songs they sang, with no exchange of the usual jokes or dancing.
Joseph came from the fire to where Jacob still sat holding Rachel’s limp hand. He didn’t say anything but crept close to his father and was soon asleep. Jacob dozed off hearing only the periodic, eerie call of the night watchmen on the city wall announcing the progression of the night. When Rachel stirred he gave her sips of hot broth brought to her by Leah. Then finally, even he drifted off into a sound and dreamless sleep.
In the morning, before dawn, Jacob roused and noticed that Rachel was having periods of contracting, wrenching pain. She would be in real labor soon, and they must try to reach his father’s camp near the Oaks of Mamre. With growing alarm, he ordered everyone to quickly gather up their things. “We must be on our way out of this valley before sunrise,” he said.
Just as the sky was lightening in the east, they headed down the road that led around the city to the Hebron road. They stopped briefly at a cave that contained a spring to fill their water skins. “It’s called Gihon,” a shepherd standing nearby told them. “Gihon means ‘bursting forth,’ because it flows out in bursts,” he said. The water was cool and refreshing and they felt encouraged.
It was the end of summer and almost tim
e for the early rains. The brief light at dawn quickly faded and soon dark clouds rolled in, covering the sky. There was an unwelcome chill in the air, a barren look to everything. Instead of the bright flowers that carpeted the ground in spring and summer, there were now only the thickets of thorns and leafless vines hanging over the stone terraces. Most of the olives had been harvested, and only rarely did they see women out beating the branches to gather the last green nub. These trees still had their leaves though they were now a gray-green, dusty and tattered.
Fear clutched at Jacob’s heart as he nudged the pack animals along. He knew they must hurry, but to get to his father’s camp began to seem impossible. It could be that in the very act of hurrying, they would bring on some disaster. He struggled to remember how far it was to the Oaks of Mamre from the fortress of Jerusalem. Perhaps, if we cannot get that far, then dear God, let us at least make it to Ephrath.
They passed a cluster of small, stone houses and were told the place was called Giloh. The women stood in their doorways staring at them with wide, troubled eyes. They had heard that the wife of the wealthy prince was already in labor. No one threw stones at them, and even the dogs didn’t bark as they passed by onto the high plane above the village.
They were encouraged when at last they began to catch glimpses of Ephrath in the distance. “If we can just get to the city and find proper lodging,” Jacob urged, “there is a well on the north side and many caves where we could find shelter if there is no room in the inn.”
They had not gone much farther before Jacob ordered them to stop. “We must let Rachel get down and rest a bit,” he said, mopping his brow. There was a small cave nearby, and he decided this was the only suitable place for her to rest.
Leah came forward and took charge. She first checked Rachel to determine her condition, and then quickly ordered the men to go to the well and get as much water as possible.
Jacob didn’t move. He looked at her with alarm and then frustration as he said, “You sound as though you think the child will be born here.”
The Sons of Isaac Page 29
