Rebekah (14 page)

He glanced at Deborah. “With your permission?”

Deborah nodded numbly.

“Put your arms about my neck, and I will lift you up.”

Selima’s breath hitched as he lifted her, and Deborah knew that she had gained freedom and found a man for her daughter all in one incredible moment.

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Selima’s injury forced them to stay an extra day in the camp, but by the end of the first week, the poultice Deborah had fashioned for her had almost healed the bruise. The sun had nearly set when they finally found a water source, and this time Rebekah gratefully thanked the men for watering the camels while the women set up the camp. Despite her growing affection for the beast she rode, she did not trust the animals and would not risk another injury, especially in the dark.

She settled now, enjoying the warmth of the campfire, and watched Haviv and Selima quietly talk. She smiled. Perhaps she and Selima had both found worthy men to love.

The thought made her pause, wondering. She knew so little about Isaac. She turned to Eliezer, who sat across from her, whittling.

“What are you making?” She had seen him carving something out of a tree branch earlier in the week, but this time he carved one of the bones taken from a bird they had snared and eaten.

“A flute.” He looked at her and smiled. “I would sing, but my voice is as tuneless as Abraham’s. It is better to blow air into something that can make a pleasant sound.”

She laughed, finding the more time she spent in his company, the more she liked Abraham’s servant. “Can your lord Isaac carry a tune?” Her heart fluttered as his name touched her lips. They would soon arrive in Abraham’s camp at Hebron—within another week or so—and there were still so many questions.

Eliezer nodded. “Isaac’s ear is quick and his tone the most pleasing in the whole company of men and women. But he rarely sings aloud for a crowd. Isaac is a quiet man.” He flicked a thin shaving of bone to the ground, then looked up, meeting her gaze. “For you, he will probably sing many a song.”

Rebekah’s cheeks grew hot at the thought of a man singing to her. Such a thing happened at festivals in Harran where irreverent men in the public square would sing to the temple prostitutes. Men in Nahor sang when they had ingested too much strong drink. And on rare occasions, Laban and Bethuel had filled their home with pleasant songs. It was said that her grandfather had sung to the gods when their flocks did not miscarry and their crops produced food.

“Do you enjoy making music, mistress?”

Rebekah startled, realizing Eliezer had not stopped looking at her. She lifted her shoulders in a half shrug. “I can’t really say I have had much opportunity. The songs of my people, the songs of the festivals, were not songs I cared to repeat.”

“Isaac creates his own songs.” Eliezer grew thoughtful. “He spends much time alone, often weeks at a time, in the Negev wilderness or traipsing after the flocks. He is a man of deep thought.” He grew silent again, turning his attention to whittling his flute.

Rebekah shivered as the night breeze grew chill and the fire dwindled. Would Isaac share those thoughts with her?

“What else can you tell me about him?” She heard the
uncertainty in her voice, and she hoped Eliezer would not think she had begun to regret her decision to marry the man.

Eliezer sheathed the knife and dropped it into the leather pouch at his side, then carefully wrapped the unfinished flute in a wool cloth. He drew a hand over his beard in an obvious attempt to stifle a yawn, and Rebekah realized that the women should head to their tent so the men could sleep by the fire. Dawn came earlier each morn.

“Isaac is a quiet man, but do not take that to mean he is weak. He has an astute mind and is more aware of what goes on with Abraham’s flocks and herds and possessions than Master Abraham is. Of course, he is much younger . . .” He chuckled and glanced beyond her as though seeing something from a different time, then looked at her once more. “He still grieves the loss of his mother. None of us expected to lose her so soon.”

“But was she not already old when Isaac was born?” She had heard the tales of Isaac’s miraculous birth. What kind of man must he be, chosen of God years before he was born?

“She was long past childbearing years, this is true. But Abraham still lives, and he was ten years her senior.” He shook his head. “If not for the binding, she might be with us today . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Binding?” Rebekah’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”

Eliezer gave his head a little shake as though to clear it. “I am sorry. I should not have said anything. It is not my place to share what happened. You will have to wait for Isaac to share it himself, if he will.”

Rebekah stared at the man, her curiosity more than piqued. “This binding that you cannot speak of—it changed him? And Sarah?”

Sorrow etched Eliezer’s brow, and he clasped his hands together between his knees. “Yes. Sarah and Abraham—they
were never the same after that. It is why Abraham took Keturah, and why Isaac keeps many thoughts to himself.” He looked at her. “He misses his mother because she lived for him, protected him, and listened to him. He trusted few others.”

Not even his father?

But she did not voice the question. The image of Isaac somehow bound stirred her compassion, and she wondered what could have possibly happened to cause such a thing, and by whom.

Eliezer stood. “I am sorry I cannot give you more than that.”

Isaac pounded the dry earth with his staff as he led his donkey, the heat of the desert sands still radiating beneath his sandals. Evenings at Beer-lahai-roi had been a balm, a respite, from the chaotic life in his father’s camp in Hebron. Though he had only his father’s shepherds to keep him company during such times, Isaac did not mind the solitude. He had learned well how to ration his water and food supply on treks farther into the desert, but he wondered not for the first time if his future wife would fare as well. Would she be a woman used to ease and means? Would she enjoy living sparsely, even where wealth abounded?

He crossed a dry wadi and looked up at the twin mountains that fed it where it wove through the sandy valley. The wilderness could both inspire and terrify a man, and from a distance it looked like a vast waste. But up close, Isaac found it fascinating, teeming with plants of all varieties, ibex and jackals, birds and snakes, rodents and insects, and colorful flowers. He enjoyed the study of the plants and determining how a man could survive against the elements. Somehow it seemed a foe more readily defeated than man.

Did that make him a coward? The question had troubled him too often of late, the answer always eluding him.

Am I only blessed because of my father’s faith, because of his character and strength?

He lifted his face to the dimming sky, his heart yearning heavenward. Would he ever know God’s favor on his own faith or merit alone? Was the faith of a man all that God valued? Or did a man need to earn His favor?

Surely his father’s actions had proven his faith over and over again, from the moment he left his home in Ur until they walked together to the mount of Moriah. His father’s obedience at Isaac’s binding was an act of that faith. But was not Isaac’s submission to that binding faith as well? Did God accept his submission the same as he accepted his father’s obedience?

He closed his eyes, pondering the unanswerable. A breeze tickled his face, and he glanced at the sun, whose steady trek toward the west set its rays at an angle that nearly blinded him. He picked up his pace, strode past the wadi, climbed a low ridge, and came out into the field he often visited. Beersheba was not far now, but he would not cross the rest of the distance in the dark. Hebron, where his father’s tents stood, would be another two days’ walk from there.

He pitched his tent in the middle of the field and built a fire big enough to keep the jackals at bay. He looked to the horizon once more, and his heart stirred at the sight of approaching camels. He recognized the markings of his father’s standard and counted the ten beasts Eliezer had taken with him to Paddan-Aram coming toward him—seven men and three women. So, Eliezer had been successful.

A strange sense of anticipation and awe filled him. What kind of woman would follow a servant to another land to marry a cousin she did not know?

Gratitude filled him, and he glanced again at the fiery
skies, the orange and yellow hues making the night brilliant and filled with promise.

He strode closer but stopped as the camels halted, still a fair distance away. One woman glanced in his direction, then quickly ducked her head. Her camel knelt, and she dismounted and spoke to Eliezer. His heart gave a little kick at the short glimpse he’d had of her. She was beautiful even from such a distance! Who was she? What was she like? Would she share his love of the desert, the music of nature? Would she understand his heart?

Hope surged as he watched, waiting. Soon he would know.

Then the servant told Isaac all he had done. Isaac brought her into the tent of his mother Sarah, and he married Rebekah. So she became his wife, and he loved her; and Isaac was comforted after his mother’s death.

Genesis 24:66–67

Then Abraham breathed his last and died at a good old age, an old man and full of years; and he was gathered to his people. His sons Isaac and Ishmael buried him in the cave of Machpelah near Mamre, in the field of Ephron son of Zohar the Hittite, the field Abraham had bought from the Hittites. There Abraham was buried with his wife Sarah.

Genesis 25:8–10

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