No Woman So Fair (24 page)

****

Eliezer was disgusted when he passed by yet another of the small temples that were found all over Damascus. He had wandered all day long and seen many of them, feeling nothing but distaste for them. To him the worship of Astarte was an abomination, involving temple prostitutes. The use of these women attracted men who had no more interest in religion than a stone. He had seen the lust that pervaded the temple worship and shook his head. More than one of the priestesses, as the harlots were called, had attempted to draw him in.

As he scanned the crowd he was startled to see Gar being guided into one of the temples by a short woman with a painted face, who looked up into his eyes, laughing at him.

“Gar!” Eliezer shouted and went to him at once.

Gar turned around, and his face reddened. “Oh, hello, Eliezer.”

“Where do you think you're going?”

“He's going with me, and you can go too.” The prostitute smiled brazenly at him. “I'll get one of my sisters for you.”

“Never mind!” Eliezer snapped. “Come on, Gar. This sort of thing's not for you.”

Gar pulled free from the woman, whose eyes suddenly turned hard. She flashed the two a disgusted look, cursed, and then turned to catch at the robe of a man who was passing by.

“I wasn't really going with her,” Gar said weakly, his face filled with shame.

“Yes, you were. But you won't now, even if I have to tie you down out with the sheep and goats.”

Gar dropped his head. “Some of the others went,” he muttered.

“I'm sure they did! They'll probably pay a price for it too,” Eliezer said dryly. “You've got a good wife. Now, stay away from things like that.”

****

Abram was walking alongside the river after receiving a report from Eliezer that the shepherds were sneaking away from camp to visit Damascus. There was no doubt in his mind what they were doing there. Most of them were impoverishing themselves by giving gifts to Astarte, which meant visiting the prostitutes, or so-called priestesses. Abram had listened to Eliezer's report and said, “We must get away from here.”

“I agree—and as quickly as possible.”

Now Abram moved along the riverbank, enjoying the silence, his head filled with thoughts of the Eternal One. He began to speak aloud, a habit he had acquired when alone. It was a form of prayer, and he really expected no reply, but somehow it eased him to say his thoughts aloud.

“O Eternal One, you know all things, and you know the thoughts of my heart. Something is wrong about towns and cities. People are different there from those who live in the open. I think I've been blessed not being a city dweller, except for the years I spent in Haran. Something about a town pulls a man down—and a woman too, I suppose. What is that? Why is it when men gather together in crowds they do things and think things they wouldn't dream of when they are alone in the desert?”

For a long time Abram spoke his thoughts aloud, and finally he found himself by a bend in the river that was covered with papyrus reeds that grew so thickly a man could not see through them. He stood watching the reeds as they swayed in the breeze. He was enjoying the blueness of the sky overhead and the smell of the mud and the river itself, which was a pleasant aroma to him.

“If I become a dweller in a town, Eternal One, could I find you there?”

The answer came so sharply that Abram could not tell if the voice were spoken aloud so that anyone could have heard it or whether it was in his own mind.

It would be hard for you to find me there, Abram. It is always hard for people to find God when their lives are so busy. City people lead busy lives. They have no time for silence. You found me in the silence once, and you will always find me there
.

Abram spoke aloud without thinking. “But what about the people who live in those cities?”

But this time there was only a long silence, and Abram pleaded, “Speak to me, O God, the only living God, the Eternal God. I need to know where I'm going. I've left my home, I've buried my parents, and now I need to know what lies ahead.”

The voice was so still and faint that Abram was not certain at first that he'd actually heard it, but then he knew—as he had many years earlier—that he was standing in the very presence of the Eternal Creator!

“To your offspring I will give this land….”

Abram stood for a long time listening to the words of the Eternal One, which did not come to him in a strong voice but as a whisper. Nevertheless, he knew he was listening to the voice of the Creator of all things.

An impulse took him then, which he knew had not come from himself. Leaving the river at once, he made his way to the hills. It took him a long time to get there, but when he reached the point where he could see the desert stretching out beyond the river, he began to gather large stones. He piled them high to his waist, then fell on his knees before them. “This altar I build to you, O Eternal One. How I worship you! There is no other God. The rest are nothing but man's vain imaginings, but you are the true God. The One who makes all things….”

Abram did not know how long he stayed on his face before that altar. It was a precious and holy time to him, and when he left, darkness had begun to fall. He walked slowly back toward the camp, knowing that when he reached it, he would need to share all of this with Sarai. She was hungry for God too, a woman of prayer. It was his delight to have such a wife, and he eagerly made his way through the falling darkness.

****

Abram sat with his arm around Sarai in their tent. He had talked for a long time, and she had remained silent, watching his face constantly as he told her of his experience at the river and of building the altar. She drank in his words, and her heart cried out with joy that God had once again spoken to her husband.

Several times he tried to stop his recitation, but she pulled at him, saying, “No, don't stop. Tell me more about the Eternal One.”

Finally Abram shook his head. “I'm hoarse from speaking, Sarai, but my words are weak things. When I repeat what He told me, it doesn't come across the same way.”

Sarai took his hand and held it. “Do you think that God speaks to others besides you?”

“I'm sure He must. He made the whole world and all men. He spoke to my grandfather, and he spoke to Noah. He has always spoken to people.”

“But we never meet anyone else who knows Him. Why is that, husband?”

Abram had puzzled over this himself more than once. He struggled to answer, then said, “There are more people in this world than we can even dream of, yet the Creator of all things, the Eternal One, made them all. I have to believe He would not leave them without His voice.”

“But most men and women never hear it.”

“I can't explain it. He is God, and He does as He pleases.”

Sarai was silent, and finally she whispered, “Oh, Abram, I wish He would speak to me!”

Abram took her in his arms then and held her. “Perhaps someday He will,” he whispered. “Perhaps He will.”

****

Sarai slept little after their conversation. It had been late when Abram had finally stopped speaking and the two of them had lain down together. He had gone to sleep at once, while she had remained awake for hours. Then she had risen before dawn, leaving Abram still sleeping soundly, apparently exhausted by his meeting with the Eternal One.

Now she walked through the camp, met only by a few early risers. Some of the women were building fires to start the morning meal, and she could hear the sheep and cattle moving about, making the sounds they always made early in the morning.

Finally she reached the sheep, spoke to the herdsmen by name, and then moved on by. She came to stand at the edge of the herd and spotted a ewe that was down. She moved closer to it and saw that it was giving birth. Even as she watched, the lamb emerged and struggled feebly in the red light of dawn.

Sarai was moved by the birth, as she always was. She often saw this miracle take place among the goats, sheep, and cattle yet never ceased to be amazed by it. The birth of any child always left her speechless with wonder.

She moved on, finally reaching the river. The waters flowed quietly at her feet as she stood thinking about the birth and then of her own inability to enter into the miracle that God granted so freely to others but had denied to her. Perhaps the greatest blot on Sarai's life was the fact that she had never given Abram a son or even a daughter. Now any childbearing years she might have had were far behind her. Although she still felt herself to be attractive, she had long since given up any hope of having a child. She wondered how many hours she had cried out to God, begging for a baby, but nothing had ever come of it. And now it was too late.

She was startled to hear a sound and turned to see Abram striding quickly toward her. He put his arms around her and said, “You should have awakened me.”

“I wanted to let you sleep,” she replied, leaning against him and allowing him to stroke her hair. She knew her husband was rare among men. Any other man with a barren wife would have chosen another or would have taken one of the slave girls for a concubine. It was common among the people, even among Abram's own family, and certainly among other nations that surrounded them.

“You could have had a son with another woman.” The words tumbled out unintentionally. She had often thought of taking such a step—encouraging her husband to father a child with another woman—but she had never expressed that idea aloud.

“I would not do that, Sarai. You alone are my wife.”

The words brought unspeakable joy to Sarai. She nestled closer in his embrace, feeling the strength that was still in his body, though he was by now getting quite old. “Do you think,” she whispered, “that the Eternal One will ever speak to me?”

“No one can ever know a thing like that.”

“But He speaks to you. Why not to me?”

Abram's arms tightened, and his voice became a mere whisper. “He's spoken to me so few times. You forget, Sarai, the long years that went by when I heard absolutely nothing from Him.”

“But you
have
heard from Him! I have heard nothing!” She began to weep gently, her face buried in his chest.

Abram knew the deep longing Sarai had always harbored for a child of her own, and now he saw her equally strong desire to hear the voice of the Lord for herself. He stroked her back gently and said, “The Eternal One has all power. He cannot be forced to do the will of any man or any woman.”

The two stood quietly embracing, and finally Sarai drew back, blinking away her tears. “How long shall we stay here?”

“We must move on. I don't want to stay in Damascus. The men—”

“I know. They're causing great trouble.”

Abram looked around at the cattle and said, “The drought is getting worse.”

“But there's water here.”

“Haven't you seen? The rivers here are drying up too. If the rains don't come soon, I don't know what we'll do.”

“What will become of us, then?”

“I cannot say, but the Eternal One has brought us this far. He will not let us perish.”

Abundant water and fresh-growing green grass were only a dim memory now. The thought of fields covered with the soft emerald vegetation taunted Abram as the days, weeks, and months dragged on. After leaving Damascus they had returned to Canaan, heading south in hopes of finding more life.

But everything spoke of death. The trees reached their bare branches skyward, and the only sound when one threw a stone into a well was the hollow echo of rock striking dry earth. What streams they found had become mere soupy waters, often no more than sludge.

For months Abram and Eliezer and Lot had worked tirelessly, searching out water and forage, but wherever they moved their flocks, they saw that the drought was strangling life out of the land. They passed through abandoned villages, one after the other, where scenes of activity and laughter had once flourished. Somehow they found enough water to survive, but each day they lost an animal, or sometimes a dozen.

Finally Abram could bear it no more. He had mostly kept to himself, but early one morning he called a brief meeting with Lot, Eliezer, and Sarai. As they gathered together he saw how the heat and pressure of their travels had worn them all down. “I've made up my mind,” he announced. “We're going to have to find a better place to stay.”

Lot was weary to the bone. He had a family now to think about, and fatigue was etched into his features. “Where can we go?” he said. “Back to Haran? We shouldn't have left there in the first place.” His tone was bitter, and he stared at Abram with a hard light in his eyes.

“No, we're going farther south—to Egypt.”

“To Egypt!” Sarai gasped. “Why, we can't go there!”

“I think we must,” Abram said as gently as he could.

Sarai had listened for years to the tales of what was often called “Ham's Country” or sometimes the “Monkey Land of Egypt.” Now she protested vigorously. “You know what we've heard of that place, husband. Those people have black souls. They're cursed with the curse of Ham. Why, they wear linen as thin as spider webs, which covers their nakedness without hiding it. And they pride themselves on their nakedness!”

“We don't know that that's all true,” Abram said patiently. Actually he was quite certain it
was
true, for like Sarai, he had listened to the tales of the travelers who had visited Egypt, and the claims of the textile vendor in Damascus, who had described the Egyptians' proud displays of nakedness.

Sarai was horrified. “They have no shame, and they stuff the bellies of their dead with spices. And then they put an image of a dung beetle on their dead. They are rich and lustful like the people of Sodom.” She was carried away now, feeling an extreme reluctance to go to Egypt. She raised her voice and looked around at the small gathering. “You all know what they say. They exchange wives with one another, and if a woman sees a young man in the street, she lies with him. They are like beasts, husband, and they bow down to the most awful forms of gods!”