Havah (34 page)

“For your sake the world was created,” I whisper. “And together we filled it.” Imperfectly, with imperfect results, but the best we could.

I stay with him as Shet comes to receive his blessing. He kneels with his father’s hand upon his head. The others are kneeling, too, though Adam does not, I think, know or even see them.

And then we sit in silence, listening to the rise and fall of his chest. In the last moment, upon his last breath, his eyes widen and he gasps. His face is transformed by wonder.

And with that hope he dies.

33

He dies at the time of day that was once his favorite: the cool of the waning afternoon. I hold him in my arms, and the wind sighs through the trees. I think I hear the breath of the One, which never stops and never stills but continues forever.

I understand. And I know now the last look upon Adam’s face—it is the same beatific bliss that I once saw on Hevel’s and upon Shet’s. The same that I wore once, so long ago.

And so the One had not needed me. Having made his promise, he has carried it out in his own way. Somehow beyond the dark water, Adam has found his garden again.

Now here I am, an old woman—the oldest person on earth. And I wonder if anything matters as much as I thought. I used to think that every action, every lifting of the hand, every notion, sent ripples into the universe, unseen by us, to rise to invisible waves a world, a league away. If an act such as eating might reverse the entire fortune of the world, what might be scratching a nose? Or laying a kiss upon a forehead? Or spewing a curse, or turning a back?

Now mark this, my sons and my daughters: God does not work by the laws of this realm. He has created it and can create it anew. To the question of a lifetime I now know the answer, but it has taken a lifetime to learn it. Now, at last, I can say to the One, “I know. I understand.”

“But what of the seed and the promised strike to the serpent? You said you saw the serpent in a dream and that he lives,” Shet says. His eyes are red from weeping.

“I saw him in a dream, and I saw the adam restored, though it was not the same Adam. I do not know how it will be.” But I know that my dreams have always been true.

I know, too, that for every child I birthed and raised up and watched go his way, aching for his hurts and longing for his heart, so, too, has the One. As I never left them, neither has the One left me.

“Stay here awhile,” I say to my son. “I am going into the mountains for a time.”

“Let me come with you.”

“I would be alone with my husband.” He nods, thinking he understands. But I do not mean Adam.

I roam these precious hours and rest when I am weary. I think of the pendant, clasped in Adam’s hand. I have no more need for it or for any token. This is my last great gift, this time with the One. It is mine, as the days before my making belonged to the adam.

Adam once said to me, “You were always concerned more with things greater than the world, with the future and things not of this realm. Perhaps it is because I am taken from the earth that I am base.” But he was never base. He was crafted for the company of the divine.

They are looking for me, I know. Even from here I feel Shet’s grief and concern for me—and his mystery, too. He will be a great spiritual man someday, I think. Perhaps he is the seed. It no longer matters to me to know who—only to know that it is true.

It is enough.

They are looking for me. They have not seen the direction I have gone and will worry because it is dark. I must remember to tell them to bury Adam here, in Eden, nearest the place from which he came. How strange to walk away from him. Shet is bent over his body. I see it as though I stand there. But Adam is not there. He came before me to life. He goes before me to that other place. Hevel waits for him—and Kayin and Ashira and the others. All my children before and to come.

Even now I feel him near me as I make my way toward the mountain. Perhaps I will look down on the watery valley with the dawn. It is cold tonight; I should go back. But then I do not feel the chill so much.

At last I sit down and rest. I am suddenly weary—my legs, my feet, my heart, so very weary. And there is pain, pain in my chest, and I do not know—is it grief? I am struck with it and fall to the ground. But this is Adam’s earth. It is the body of my lover.

I once feared death but now consider it a grace not to be trapped in this life or this body forever, with its wrinkles and ravages and this searing pain, with its aging and heartbreak. That is what this is: heartbreak. It is the last sadness, the last failure—no, the last joy—that bursts the vessel in the end. I lie upon the ground, thinking,
Yes, it is right that I should be buried here, where the crickets will make their same song, as they did after Hevel’s death, and Kayin’s, and as they do now. And the wind, which knows no other song, will rustle the trees with my name.

Havah.

The name is a breath before speaking and a fiery exhale.

I am the daughter of God and of man. God has not forgotten me. The One that Is has never been wrong. I have been naive, grabbing up with human hands what I could not trust the One to do. How I see it all now!

Sleep—I can see the earth as it was, the green without the fire, the lightning, the river flooding it. See? The waters have receded and meander along the valley floor, east to the plain. And my spirit runs along the river, knowing that place—and there is the island, and it is lovely, and there are gazelle, running along the bank. I feel the speed of them with me, the herd around me. Warmth on my face—faster, faster—did I ever run so fast before?

My legs are strong and tireless. I wear the stars, I am clothed in light. Watch me run. Watch me run!

There is laughter, and it is mine. My song rises to heaven. For I know tonight I will lie in Adam’s arms.

The voice comes, as it always has.

Wake!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

If you ever want to feel humbled and grateful at once, I tell you: write a book.

You will find yourself the recipient of the kindness of strangers willing to help you for no other reason than they like what you write. Or they like you. Or maybe they feel a little bit sorry for you even. But mostly you will be overwhelmed by the generosity of faceless new friends, industry veterans, new fans, and helpful others willing to invest in your mission and in you.

You will also find yourself the object of much criticism and occasional attack. That’s why these people are so important.

Thank you to my incredible agent, Steve Laube, and hero editor, Karen Ball. Julie Gwinn, thank you for your amazing ideation. B&H, it is a privilege to know and work with you. Thank you also, Joyce Hart, Jeff Gerke, and Reagen Reed for making this book possible.

During the course of my research, I have managed to stymie pastors, frustrate academics, and incite head-scratching in general with my questions of literal and elaborate speculation. I owe thanks and apologies to: Amy-Jill Levine of Vanderbilt University Divinity School, Joel Kaminsky of Smith College, Vern Steiner of the MIQRA Institute, Tim Johnson of New Covenant Church in Lincoln, and Warren Wiersbe. Thank you also to Luann Finke for sharing your love of horticulture with me.

Meredith Efken, you are a gift to me. I am so grateful for you, Brandilyn Collins, Eric Wilson, Anne Rice, Randy Ingermanson, John Olson, Stephen Parolini, Angie Breidenbach, Kacy Barnett-Gramckow, and Steph Whitson for your support through this project. A multitude of other names belong here—writer friends and others who encourage me.

Thank you to my sister, Dr. Amy Lee, my parents (all of them), long-suffering friends, Tim Hodges, the “Demon Dames,” the Beckenbachs, Chad Bring, Katie Weaver, and Kristin Nelson.

Reviewers and bloggers, and readers who take the time to write to me, I am grateful for you (yes, even if you hate my book, though I like the ones who like it just a little bit better).

Rick, I love our three-ring circus. Thank you for showing me the stars.

Most of all, first and last of all, great thanks to the One that Is, who says to me every day, “Wake!” and shows me what it is to truly live.

I’m sure I have forgotten many I should have mentioned. And so thank you to you, too—for your understanding on top of everything else.

NAME/MEANING LIST

Abarja:
Most strenuous
(Persian)

Adah:
Adorned, beautiful

Adam:
Man, human being

Adina:
Noble, delicate, gentle

Adonai:
Lord

Ari:
Lion

Asa:
To heal, or healer

Ashira:
I will sing

Atalya:
God is exalted

Besek:
Lightning

Chalil:
Flute

Dedan:
Low ground

Dvash:
Honey

Elied:
My God is witness

Enosh:
Man, human being, mankind

Gada:
Bank of a river, shore

Goral:
Fate, destiny

Hanokh:
Initiated, dedicated, disciplined

Havah:
Life

Hevel:
Breath, vapor

Irad:
Descent, descending

Ish:
Man, male

Isha:
Woman, female

Kanit:
Songbird, reed warbler

Kayin:
Begotten or acquired; some say Spear

Lahat:
To burn, glow, blaze up, flame

Levia:
Lioness, lioness of God

Lila:
You are mine

Matnan:
Present, gift

Mazor:
Bandage, medicine

Naarit:
Maiden, young woman

Nave:
Dwelling place, pasture

Renana:
Song, exultation, prayer, chant

Reut:
Friendship, compansionship

Shet:
Appointed

Sivan:
Season, time

Sufa:
Storm

Tuval-Kayin:
Metalsmith

Tzukit:
Singing bird, thrush

Yedod:
Spark

Zeeva:
Wolf

The majority of these came from
The Complete Book of Hebrew Baby Names
by Smadar Shir Sidi, HarperOne, 1989.

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Like
Demon: A Memoir,
I wrote
Havah
to revisit ideas so ingrained in our pop and religious cultures as to be cliché.

The problem, though, was that I simply had no idea the scope of the project I had undertaken or what I was getting myself into. In planning this book’s writing, I found myself confronted by a growing list of questions. Among them:

• Where was Eden?

• What’s that about a talking snake? (Did other animals talk?)

• Was Adam tempted to eat the fruit before Eve’s creation?

• Where was Adam when Eve ate it?

• After eating it, did they know immediately that something had changed?

• How long were they there before the fateful fruit-eating day?

• When they fled, did they ever look back or attempt to return?

• How did they learn basic skills such as growing, harvesting, storing food, fire-making, and tool-making?

• What guidelines would they have for living in the absence of role models or law?

• Why did God not favor Cain’s sacrifice?

• Did Cain know he was killing Abel?

• What was Cain’s mark?

• Where was Nod?

• How many children did Adam and Eve have?

• Were Adam and Eve faithful to one another?

• What was the population of the earth at the time of Adam’s death?

• Did they ever see Cain again?

• What secrets remained to them alone, that they might not have passed on?

I think I single-handedly drove at least one pastor, two scholars, and one theologian crazy.

Three resources I found to be invaluable: Amy-Jill Levine’s
Lectures on the Old Testament
(The Teaching Company, 2001);
Genesis,
Robert Alter, ed. (Norton, 1996); and
The Bible as It Was,
James L. Kugel (Belknap, 1997).

Other sources that never left my desk:
The Jewish Study Bible
(Tanakh translation, Oxford University Press, 1999);
Word Biblical Commentary: Vol. 1, Genesis 1–15,
Gordon Wenham (Word, 1987);
The Pentateuch as Narrative,
John Sailhamer (Zondervan, 1992);
The New International Commentary on the Old Testament: The Book of Genesis, Chapters 1–17,
Victor Hamilton (Eerdmans, 1990).

References of additional interest:
Biography: Adam and Eve
(A&E Home Video, 2005); The Learning Channel’s
In Search of Eden
(2002); A&E’s
Mysteries of the Bible: Cain and Abel
(1996);
A Biblical Case for an Old Earth
by David Snoke (Baker, 2006); Apocryphal and Pseudepigraphic texts, including
The Apocalypse of Moses, The Book of Jubilees, The Books of Adam,
and the Midrash.