“Thank you, Sarai.” Those men are servants, not helpers. And the women, too.
Two suns later, the first experience of Sarai’s efforts to help the women set the pace for me. The work is hard, but what becomes clear is that no matter how difficult, it is important. I am helping them and they make me feel useful, safe, and protected.
Sarai comes into the tent. “Your tunics are almost ready. They will be here later.” A woman arrives when my work is finished. “Is anyone here? There you are. Your tunics.” She turns to leave before I can offer her anything. My arm is caressed by the softest linen. There are three, one yellow with green embroidery, the other green embroidered with blue and white threads, and the last is turquoise. I am the most fortunate person in all Palestine. How did she make them so quickly? I fold them carefully and place them on my slab.
I am surprised when Sandalphon arrives. “It is good to be useful. More important is to be yourself.”
“Why?”
“I must go, but it is important you know that.”
He left before I could ask if Abram told Sarai my secret.
My work done, I go to my mat for a respite. Eyes shut, my attention turns to staying still and waiting. Whatever or whoever helps to heal me kneads my palms like they are making dough. When my reverie is over there is a message. You do not trust, it tells me.
“That is true. Why?”
You lost trust after those of your village turned against you, then you were betrayed by Resheph. That is what makes you suspect your secret might not be kept.
“But I try.”
Ask for guidance without expectations. Make note each time you are answered. Ask for different things. Observe what comes to you, then do it again. Play like a child, make it a game. There is one thing. If it is not the right time, what you want may not come to you.
Play like a child. I trust Sandalphon, Abram, and Sarai more than anyone else.
“Someone said I am angry. Please help me understand why I never feel it.” I wait. About to give up, a new thought crosses my brow. “Why do I cry?”
Crying may be the way you hide angry feelings.
I cry a lot. Was I angry each time?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The sun just made its appearance when Abram comes running into our tent, his hands on his chest. “Sarai, Sarai,” he calls. We both rise from our sleeping space. My sleep cover around me, I run out to find her in her under-shift. Surprised, I turn my head away.
“The Holy Spirit came to me last night.”
Sarai’s hand goes to her breast. “Quick. What did he say?”
This is personal for them, but where to go? I back toward my sleep area.
“Do not go, Elisha. Your ears may hear this. The Holy Spirit said, ‘Fear not Abram. I am a shield to you and your reward shall be great.’
“‘Lord God,’ I said, ‘what can you give me, knowing I shall die with no one to carry on my teachings?’” Sarai nods. “The Lord said, ‘Ishmael shall not be your heir.’ Then he took me outside and showed me the stars. ‘Count them if you are able. Your off spring shall be as many.’”
Sarai is confused. “Who is Ishmael?”
“The Lord did not say.”
“Oh, Abram.” Fear covers her face and her eyes are wide. “Did the Lord say when we might see our young?”
Abram hesitates. Sarai’s face perks up. “No. He did not.” Her shoulders drop and she tries to hold back her tears. I am sorry for her. She is older, but am I not the same? She has Abram. I have no one.
Seven moons have passed. Abram was away in Beersheba longer than usual. Sarai is finishing her morning cleansing. She comes to the cook area. I smile at her and return to preparing the morning food. I no longer have to grind. A servant does that. If I had my harp, my hands would no longer hurt when I played it. Reasonings came together and I need her opinion, but I learned not to speak. Not until she has eaten the first meal. I work until she is ready.
“Sarai, may I ask a question?”
“Of course. You need no permission. You watched me eat and waited. We must prepare for the women. Let us talk while we finish the offerings.”
Embarrassed I turn my back, measure out the flour, and begin the mixing with water. “I came to realize I must change to grow, but how do I think about it?”
“You cannot have a new future by holding on to your old ways. You must decide to change by making different choices. Altering your life is not comfortable to do. You go into unknown places you do not wish to go to but must. You found that on your journey with physical difficulties. Now you must face the difficulties from the sensitive parts.”
“How do I start?”
“Choose one new behavior or way of thinking. That will become comfortable and you choose another. This is not a process to be rushed.” Sandalphon said that. “Doing something in a new way once does not make it yours. You must do this over and over. What else did you consider?”
I sneak a peek at her as I add the fermented dough to the mixture, cover the basin so it can rise, and set the mixture aside. She is smiling. “Can you say more about life giving us what we need to grow?”
“The Holy Spirit makes sure that what we need is put in our way. Then we choose to do what is in front of us, or not.”
Holy Spirit again. “Thank you. I misunderstood. I must get to the tabun.”
Listening to Sarai and being one of those who receive her loving way of teaching, makes me think that if she knew my secret, she would not treat me differently. My heart still recoils.
Sarai and I are ready to prepare for the days visitors when the flap of the tent opens. Abram returned from doing business. He is holding two basins in his hand. One white and the other black. Unlike wood, they shine in the sun.
“What are these, my husband?” Sarai reaches out to touch them and Abram makes a ridiculous face and hides them behind his back.
“A merchant spoke to me on the passage home. He makes these basins of clay on a new sort of wheel. I am not sure how it works, but they are beautiful and smooth.” He puts them in her hands. “Be careful, they can break, but there will be no more particles from wood to worry about.”
“They are beautiful but must be expensive. What about the washing?”
“They can be used without worry.”
She holds them like a baby. “We will try one at the next meal.”
The sun is high and I cross the fields to gather vegetables for the evening’s repast. The children are playing running games. I watch them for a while and decide to introduce myself. They see me and their faces change. They stop their play as if they did something wrong. “Peace be with you. My name is Elisha.”
They smile and tell me their names but there are so many I cannot remember them. “I did not mean to interrupt you.” There is a tune in my head trying to come forth, but I am not able to grasp it. “Say ‘peace be with you’ to your parents, from me. I live with Sarai.” That was silly. Everyone must be aware of that by now. On the way back to the tent the tune from long ago evades me, and I give up trying.
Sarai surprises Abram by serving him the late meal in the new black basin. He is pleased.
Many full moons pass, and the unbearable sadness descends again. It leaves when I am excited at something new and reappears too soon after. It never stays away. I miss Nathan. Abram reminds me of him. They are alike, always busy with the animals.
Almost every day, Sarai sits with a group of women. Listening to their conversations, I try to learn her special way of treating them. Like Carnia with Pinchas and women of my village, their lives are centered on pleasing their men with no concern for themselves. The meeting over, Sarai’s choice is to enjoy a respite on our mats outside. The air is drier and cooler than usual, and the scent of flowers is enjoyable.
“I miss my family, in particular my brother, Nathan.”
“Oh, Elisha. I am so sorry. Do we keep you from going home?”
“No, Sarai. I am not ready. I have been away a long time and
it makes me sad.”
“I do not know what to say. You are sad quite often.”
“It is the way it is.”
“Would it help if we discuss it?”
I shake my head.
The quiet is broken by the noise of children yelling. Some rough play is going on. Older boys are frightening one of the younger ones. That child is on the ground. I run across the field and pick up the little one.
“What are you doing? That is not nice. He is much younger than you.”
“You are not our ima.”
“No, but your ima would say the same. She is not here. She is working for your food.” Their faces lay bare their shame. “Do not do that again.” A memory flashes across my brow so fast I can catch just a bit of it. I am playing with a group of children near our hut. I go back to Sarai.
“What happened, Elisha?”
“I am not sure. It is not the first time I went to them. Something about rough play bothers me. I had a snippet of a memory but could not catch enough of it to remember more. I have no idea what it might mean.”
“It will make itself clear.”
“What did you say, Sarai?” I try to give her my attention.
“About your sadness.”
“Oh. I never spoke to anyone about that.”
“Your parents never asked? Surely they knew.”
I shrug my shoulders. “No, never. There is little to say. It began as a child.”
We take in the sun’s warmth. She turns toward me. “Returning to what we were saying, I have been wanting to tell you how grateful I am you are with us, Elisha. I do not know how I managed before you came.”
“Thank you for your kind words.” I enjoy her remark.
I have not tried to create a song or sing since Urusalim. That makes me sad. My songs are a need, not a want. My time is spent observing Sarai and being in her presence. I am able to ask her anything. I love to hear the nurturing words she speaks to Abram and see the devotion she conveys to each person with every glance.
Two moons ago, I questioned Sarai. “You pour your love on everybody and all you touch. My parents were unable to express what was in their hearts. How do you and Abram do that?”
“The Holy Spirit made it clear to me that the most important thing is to love without conditions. Abram and I married, and we promised to love each other that way.”
“Tell me about your wedding.”
“We lived in Mesopotamia. Our betrothal was different. Abram and I had the same father. We are not brother and sister because we were born from different wombs. Terah, our father, questioned Abram from sunrise to sunset, to make sure it would be an acceptable match. He realized how much we cared for each other, and he agreed. The papers were signed, and we were betrothed.”
“Not very romantic.”
“It needed to be in writing.” I nod. “The celebration was held after the harvest. People came from all over the land, too many to count. There were happy homecomings, and music played for seven suns. We danced and sang, fell into bed, and did the same over again. Food and wine overflowed, and it was joyous.”
“Seven whole suns? In my village, the celebration is two.”
Her face lights up. “Dawn proclaimed the end of all festivities. We were ready to retire. Abram took the corner of his mantle, held it over my head, and led me to the bed chamber. He vowed that unlike others, he would never take another wife.”
“And he has not.”
“That is true.” Pain clouds her face and I wait for her to continue. “Though that night we promised each other a large family. Many years have passed, and I have not been able to give him one child.”
“Oh, Sarai, I am so sorry. I did not mean to make you unhappy.”
“It is something I must live with.” She goes into the tent, and I hear her crying.
My tears flow for the husband and children I will never have, but my teacher showed me how deep love can be. I want to be like her, pour compassion with the ease she pours wine, teach the way she does. She shows me what to strive for, not to mimic her, but to express myself in a new way. I respect and love her, but still cannot bring myself to tell her my secret.
It is difficult to appreciate how much time passed. The sun and stars are in the same place as when God spoke to Abram about stars and children thirteen full moons ago. I am busy preparing the ingredients for the mid-day meal and Sarai returns to the tent. She is hurried, breathing hard, and almost turns over the jug of flour.
“Stay here in the tent, Abram and Hagar will join us soon.”
“Of course.” The cakes are prepared, and I ready the libation. My head spins with possibilities, not the least of which is the realization she treated me like one of the family.
Once they gather, Sarai becomes the envoy. “Please sit.” They make a small circle. I pick up the cakes I made with grapes and figs and bring them over. She waves them away. Before she speaks the gaze she and Abram share could make the sun stand still. It is filled with love and resignation.
“Since we are getting old, my husband and I came to a decision. We came to this land of Canaan thinking that living on holy ground we would not remain childless. Ten years passed since our mission began and still no descendants.” Hagar shifts in her seat. “The Holy Spirit spoke to Abram of children but it has not happened. We decided to move on.”
She turns to Abram. “I hereby give you, Hagar, my handmaid to carry our child. Hagar, as an Egyptian princess, you are an appropriate match for the father of the Palestinian nation.”
My hand goes to my throat. It is not my concern but giving another woman to her husband is against the desires of wives. My mother said God’s plan is not to have more than one wife to one husband, unless the wife is widowed.
Sarai beholds each of us. “My womb is empty, and we cannot wait any longer to fulfill God’s promise of many nations. According to custom, Hagar will bear the child on my knees, and the infant will be Abram’s and mine.”
For the first time, the strength of an army in a woman is before me, in Sarai. My heart is torn for her loss, her sacrifice. For the face she puts forth. Living with her and Abram, I saw the openness with which they honor each other. How many times did she shade her eyes and scan the area to find Abram working in the fields? He sensed that she needed him and would turn to wave, his face a broad smile. Their love made the air between them shimmer.
Tradition permits Hagar to sit on the lap of Sarai as Abram releases his seed. This shows that the child will belong to them under the law, and Hagar is a substitute.
For many moons, I deal with my own monsters. Each dream is of Abraham invading Hagar’s body. Every morning I wake, and my body remembers Resheph. I grow cold, unable to move from stiffening and needing to scream. Will it ever finish? It is countless moons since it happened.
The wait is all Abram and Sarai talk about. Sarai is different. “Are you not well? You drop utensils and jump at the slightest sound. I am concerned.”
“The consequence of this impregnation has great meaning. I am irritated because I am not sure of which outcome I desire. If she is pregnant, it proves my inability, but if not,” she pauses, “we cannot reproduce and fulfill the Holy spirit’s edict to increase our tribe.”
I am surprised she confides in me but do not show it. “Are you saying it could be Abram?”
“It is possible.”
“Where I came from the blame was always put on the woman.” I try to choose my next words with care. “You say that whatever happens is God’s will. Now more than twice the age span for marriage, I no longer expect a child in my future. You and I share the understanding of deprivation. But I will move on and do the work I am meant to do.”
She watches me a long time before she replies. “You are gaining in understanding and the ability to choose your words. You came far in a short time. You are wiser than you ever admitted to yourself.” My cheeks are hot. Sarai is as wise as the ancients. People tell of her wisdom being evident as a child. Hagar said it was
one of the things that made Abram love her.
The evening meal is not far off, and I overhear Abram and Sarai right outside the tent.
“Abram, all I wanted was to give you a son.”
“Oh, my beautiful Sarai. Your words say you are a failure.”
“My beauty did not give me a child. I would make myself unattractive, scar my face, give up joy, if that will make me conceive.”
“You would still be beautiful in my eyes.”
“My husband, you are the greatest gift God could give me.”
I dash to the opposite end of the tent before Sarai returns and settles herself.
“If I am not too forward, Sarai, how did you and Abram come to this decision?”
She sits on her mat and pulls the covering over her legs. I continue preparing the meal.
“This was the most difficult decision of our lives.” She stares at the tent, her brow creased with pain. “We spoke about my inability to conceive even a daughter. Abram asked me to trust God. I told him I could no longer trust the Holy Spirit would provide. Abram was shocked. ‘That is the first time you ever spoke such words,’ he said. I told him Hagar should be our substitute.”
I shake my head. “If that is the end of the story, he gave no answer.”
“I needed none. He agreed without words.”
“My heart goes out to you for the sacrifice. You are indeed a lucky woman to have a man of such understanding and loyalty.”
“Abram knows me well, in any of my moods.”
If Sarai spoke out in my village, she would be banished for being insolent and disrespectful. We now share not trusting God. How can anyone give away their strength of mind to something they cannot know or see?
Rain threatens the morning. Sarai agreed to have me listen in on her group. There are more women than usual and they sit in a circle inside the tent. Some are calm and others fidget. All eyes turn to me then to Sarai. Are they grumpy because they see me as a mere servant or stranger?
Mountain of Full Moons Page 17
