Rebekah (33 page)

He unloaded the donkey’s packs and brushed its rough coat. He was weary of trying to understand Rebekah or what had caused her to cling to a vision he did not share.

Did You speak to her, Adonai?

But the question went unanswered, doing nothing to ease the frustration he had with her. Very well then, he would do as he had never done before. He would stop trying to make sense of his wife. He would instead enjoy this time with his son, and when he returned, he would put their disagreement and Rebekah’s vision behind him, behind them both.

 27 

Rebekah turned over on her pallet in the darkening tent, her body drenched in sweat that mingled with her tears. Her throat ached and her eyes felt puffy. She shivered in spite of the heat of the late afternoon and wrapped both arms about her, certain her world had tilted so completely that it could never be put right again.

How was it possible? Had she misunderstood Isaac from the start? Had he ever trusted or believed her? If he did not believe that Adonai had visited her during her pregnancy with the twins, he must not have believed her when she told him of the angel who had visited her just before Eliezer came to meet her. She had trusted Isaac with that revelation.

A sob broke through, but she stuffed a fist to her mouth, not willing to cry out again. She must get hold of herself.

The entrance flap of her tent parted, letting light filter into the deepening darkness. She lifted her pounding head from the mat to see who dared interrupt her, then fell back among the soft pillows when she recognized Deborah.

“Why have you come?” Her voice, raspy from the strain of weeping, sounded like it came from another source, not her. She draped an arm over her eyes, wishing she could sink
even further into the darkness and never speak to another soul again.

“I came to help you.” Deborah moved about the room, and Rebekah peered from beneath her arm to watch. Deborah carried a clay pot in one hand, steam rising from it as she poured a stream of liquid into a clay cup. She turned and handed it to Rebekah. “Drink.”

Rebekah looked away, not wanting to be told what she should do. She was a child no longer, and she did not need such coaxing.

Deborah touched her arm, her grip gentle. “You will feel better if you drink this.” Her tone was firm but kind, and Rebekah gave up her resolve and faced her friend.

She sat up and accepted the cup, inhaling a mixture of mint and tarragon. She sipped, then straightened while Deborah sorted pillows and plumped them around her, making her more comfortable. A deep sigh released the tension from her chest.

“Do you want to tell me what has brought this on and why Isaac has left the camp?”

Deborah’s words nearly made her spill the tea.

“He left the camp? Why would he . . .” She let the words die on her tongue. It was his habit to go off alone when he was troubled. What else did she expect? Except in every other case he had said goodbye, reassured her of his love, and told her how long he would be gone.

“What happened between you two?” Deborah touched her arm, and her eyes held such compassion that Rebekah could not hold her gaze.

She looked beyond her, shame heating her face. “Isaac does not believe me. Has never believed me.” She shifted to face Deborah. “He thinks I am lying to him, or worse, that I am a woman crazed! He denies the fact that Adonai spoke to me about the boys before their birth. He thinks that in
order for it to be true, Adonai should speak to him as well.” The words came out shrill even to her own ears. “He doesn’t believe me, Deborah.” Her voice was a whisper now. “What am I going to do?”

Deborah’s dark eyes, still lovely though lined with age, met hers with a searching look. At last she took the cup from Rebekah’s hands and pulled her close, as a mother would a young child. No words passed between them as Deborah held her, but Rebekah sensed the woman was praying as she rocked back and forth, drawing Rebekah with her. Moments passed in silence until Deborah finally leaned away and cupped Rebekah’s cheek in her palm.

“Dear one, is it possible that you misunderstood his intent? What did you say to him to cause such a reaction? What did he say to you?” She brushed damp tendrils of hair away from Rebekah’s cheeks and tucked them behind her ear, soothing her with the action.

She thought back on the morning—had it been only a few hours ago? “I said nothing that hasn’t been said before. I only told him that I did not want Esau to go with his uncle, to spend so much time with him.” She paused, searching her mind for what she had said. “I told him we must teach Esau more of Adonai and to be kinder to his brother, to be more like his father, to prepare them both for the future.” She looked at Deborah, imploring her to agree with her. “He suddenly seemed upset with me and told me he did not agree that Jacob would rule over Esau. He does not think God spoke to me. He thinks Esau should keep the right of the firstborn.”

She choked on the last words and fisted her hands in her lap, forcing her body to stop its trembling. “Why can’t he see and accept the truth? Why can’t he help me to train Esau to accept this, like Bethuel accepted Laban’s rule? It is not so unusual. Even Isaac is head over his father’s household instead of Ishmael. Why can he not see this?” The questions drained
her, and she sank back onto the pillows, spent. “I have lost him, Deborah. If he will not accept the truth of my vision, the truth God spoke to me, then we will never agree on anything regarding our sons again.” She grew suddenly still at the thought, her whole being saturated with the awful truth.

“You have not lost him, dear one. Isaac loves you more than his very life. Anyone can see his affection for you.” Deborah refilled the cup, urging her to rise again and drink. “But is it possible that you have pushed him to accept something that God has not yet revealed to him? Perhaps the vision was for you alone until such time as the boys are ready to rule in Isaac’s place.”

Rebekah took another sip of the tea, calmness growing within her. “Do you think he will eventually accept this then? Is it only that I have pushed him too soon?”

Was it possible? And yet, she was not sure she could forgive the tone or the meaning behind his words. How could she look on him again with respect if she did not have his trust?

“A man’s pride is a fragile thing, Rebekah. You must be patient and let Isaac see the difference between his sons, how the one favors his faith and the other does not. Let Jacob arise to be the leader Isaac wants. Then he will believe your words. Right now, Esau is more outspoken and charming and has more in common with his father.”

“But that is not true! Isaac and Jacob are far more alike in spirit. Both of them think and feel deeply, and both are gentle and loving and kind.” She looked away, struck by the character of the man she had loved for so long, the man who had walked away from her without a word. This was so not like him. Had she pushed him too far?

“Esau can be gentle and loving. He is more temperate with his father than he is with you, I daresay. I think both of your sons can feel the tension between you and Isaac, dear one. It concerns them. If you continue to favor Jacob over Esau,
if Isaac continues to favor Esau over Jacob, and if you both do not resolve your differences, it will be the boys who suffer for it.” Deborah’s sigh filled the space between them. “Both of them will suffer.”

Rebekah stared into the contents of the cup for a long moment, her heart aching with the pain, the truth, of Deborah’s words.

Oh, Isaac, why can’t you see?

But perhaps Deborah’s point made sense. She could not blame Isaac entirely. And the twins were only fifteen. They had many years ahead before they would be given the blessing. Isaac had many more years to live, God willing.

But she need not sit idly by, waiting for things to change or hoping Isaac would see things her way. She must groom Jacob, training him to be all that the vision, the word of the Lord, had in store for him. If Isaac would not listen, Jacob surely would.

Resolve tightened her muscles, and she stood, retrieved a cool cloth and dried her tears. Deborah rose with her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“So you are well now?” She looked at Rebekah, uncertain.

Rebekah forced a smile that she prayed Deborah would find genuine. “I am well. Somehow we will work things out. When Isaac returns, I will welcome him.”

She would not do to him what his mother had done to his father, no matter their differences. Somehow she would find a way to convince him, with or without words.

Isaac spent a restless night tossing on his pallet at the mouth of the cave, finally giving up the notion of sleep, and rose at the first hint of dawn. He kindled the fire that had long since died during the night, listening to Esau’s soft snores. He studied his son in the pale pink light, his heart yearning with
affection. The boy stirred, rolled over, and flung an arm over his head, his movements as violent as the passion with which he lived. Longing, even envy, touched the edges of Isaac’s thoughts. How he wished he could be like his son, so self-assured, so quick to make decisions. Surely Esau possessed the marks of a good leader. If he had the right guidance and training, the men and women of the camp would do exactly as he wished.

But will he do as I wish?

The thought came from a place deep within, and he could not tell if the desire was for obedience to him as Esau’s father or to Adonai. Esau showed interest in the questions of life, but only on the surface. He did not explore them to their depths as Ishmael had done, as Isaac himself did on his visits to the desert, to the fields, and among the sheep. Esau would not have taken time to sit long enough to give the words of Adonai that much thought. Would he?

The first twittering birdsong met him as he left the fire to draw water from a nearby stream. As he bent low at the water’s edge, he looked to the opposite bank, where the water line dropped too low for this time of year. He filled the skin, glancing toward the eastern ridge. Waves of heat that should have dissipated with the night still hovered over the cloudless sky, threatening drought.

He stood but did not return to the fire. Instead, he trudged up the incline to look down over his fields in the plain below. The sky brightened further, and he picked his way down the low hill until he came to the first heads of barley. He fingered the stalks, frowning. Already the signs of too little water and too much heat were evident in the thirsty green stems. There was not enough water in the stream to divert to the fields even if he brought a hundred men to carry it.

He turned back, releasing a sigh, the weight of the goatskin too light in his hands. This was not good. They would lose
the crop, and the herds would have little place to forage for food if they stayed in this place.

Concern rippled through him as he walked back to the fire. Esau sat before it, a camp stove set over the flames and a handful of wheat berries already toasting above it.

“Where did you go?” Esau met Isaac’s gaze, then glanced toward the skin in his hands. “I could have gotten that for you. You should have awakened me.”

Isaac smiled despite his anxiety. “I dare not come near a man who thrashes about so in his sleep.”