Rachel (3 page)

Would he find Harran and Paddan-Aram? Was Laban still living, and would any of his daughters be yet unwed? Would his uncle welcome him once he heard the truth of why he had fled? He looked up into the blackened heavens and tried to count the stars.

Are You
really there, God of my fathers?

He closed his eyes against the nagging doubts, drifting into sleep.

His thoughts jumbled in his head as he slept, and the faraway sound of music filled his ears. Confusing visions moved in his mind’s eye, and in the distance, growing closer as sleep deepened, a large ziggurat loomed before him with steps reaching to the heavens. Bright light swirled over every step, curling into flowing white robes of glowing men . . . but no, not men, though their faces reflected the idea of a man. Their appearance was ethereal yet solid, beings moving up and down the ziggurat stairs.

The vision held him fast, and he knew in a moment he was awake yet not awake in a dream he could not escape, nor did he wish to. His gaze followed the angels’ gliding walk until it reached to the very top of the ziggurat where a Being stood in shining glory.

“I am Yahweh, the Elohim of your father Abraham and the Elohim of Isaac. I will give you and your descendants the land on which you are lying. Your descendants will be like the dust
of the earth, and you will spread out to the west and to the east, to the north and to the south. All peoples on earth will be blessed through you and your offspring. I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go, and I will bring you back to this land. I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.”

The words flowed through him like rushing wind, leaving him weak. He jerked awake, the vision gone. “Surely Yahweh is in this place, and I was not aware of it.” His heart thumped fast and loud in his ears. “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of Elohim. This is the gateway of the heavens.”

The knowledge that he had seen God in the dream shook him, the fear as fathomless as the depths of the nearby well. His father, Isaac, had feared Elohim after the encounter on His altar, and now Jacob knew that same fear and the raw dread of Yahweh in such dazzling glory. He tried to stand but could only manage to roll onto his stomach and splay his arms and hands in front of him.
I
am unworthy.
The thought hovered over him, piercing him, shaming him.

But as morning’s dawn burst like a bridegroom from his tent, flinging its pink and yellow arms toward the waiting sky above, Jacob at last had the strength to stand. The sun’s kiss on his damp cheeks felt like a gentle touch, carrying with it a sense of the glory of Elohim in the dream. He lifted the stone that had been his pillow and propped it upright, then gathered more stones to brace it.

He reached into the donkey’s saddlebag, retrieved a flask of oil, and poured it on top of the stone. “This place shall be called Bethel,” he said to the empty space around him, yet he sensed he was not as alone as he had once thought.

He glanced heavenward, longing once more for the dream, and more so for the Being who had captured his heart, his imagination. He raised one hand to the skies, his thoughts working to
form the words he needed to say, words he had crafted in the night in his awe, his fear.

“If Elohim will be with me and will watch over me on this journey I am taking,” he said, placing a hand over his heart, “and will give me food to eat and clothes to wear so that I return safely to my father’s house . . .” He paused once more, feeling that the weight of worry had somehow shifted, his faith strengthened. “Then Yahweh will be my Elohim and this stone that I have set up as a pillar will be Elohim’s house, and of all that You give me I will give You a tenth.”

The sun shifted, catching the pillar in its glowing rays. Jacob watched it but a moment, this “house of Elohim,” Bethel, then packed up his provisions and headed toward Harran.

The sun dipped past the midday point as Rachel led her flock toward the large well in the field between Harran and Paddan-Aram. Wind whipped the veil that covered her hair and face, her protection from the elements and, when she chose to use it, from the scrutiny of men. Especially from some of the younger shepherds who seemed too eager to gain her attention. She should be grateful for the interest, and more than one had hinted that he would soon speak to her father for her hand. Perhaps she had been too coy with them. She had cast the slanted looks their way innocently enough—to garner help with the well’s heavy stone. But she feared perhaps Leah was right. Perhaps her kohl-rimmed eyes made her seem more beguiling than she intended.

She released a deep sigh as she crested the ridge and looked down on the valley where the well stood. Three flocks of sheep, along with those eager shepherds, sat waiting for her. She squinted, raised a hand to her brow. A fourth man stood speaking to them. A foreigner, by the look of him. A donkey stood nearby with few bags hanging from its sides. A traveler, and likely a needy one.

She glanced behind her and called to the sheep to follow her down the ridge. They needed no coaxing, however, and hurried past her. She stood her ground and slowly approached, assessing the stranger as she walked. When she drew near enough to make out his features, she caught her breath. A handsome stranger at that!

He looked up and stilled. His dark, nearly black hair poked beneath a striped turban, and his colorful cloak bespoke the garments of a prince. His bearded face needed trimming, and his sandals were coated in dust, a sign that he had come a long distance. He stared at her, and she could not pull away from the deep curiosity and appreciation in his gaze.

A slow smile appeared around the edges of his beard that did not match the look of anticipation—relief, even—that filled his dark eyes. His gaze lingered in a suspended moment but at last pulled free of hers to examine the flock in her care.

He moved closer to one of her ewes and touched its head as though he knew well the care of sheep, then without a word he walked over to the large stone covering the well, braced himself, bent low to shift his weight, and rolled the stone. The familiar grating sounds of stone on stone made her cringe, but the discomfort passed quickly as the large rock rested at an angle against the raised lip of the well. He grasped the sturdy rope that hung nearby and lowered the stone water jar to the stream below ground, lifted it with practiced ease, and carried it to the trough.

She glanced at the men, her fellow shepherds, behind the man, reluctant to allow this stranger to water her sheep before theirs. But the look of censure she expected from the shepherds toward the newcomer did not come. She stepped closer to the troughs as the man worked, admiring the sheer strength he possessed. Moving the stone without help was a feat no other had managed.

He paused for breath as he lowered the jar once more to the depths, watching her. Shyness swept over her. Surely she had
had her share of admirers, but this man looked at her like he knew her. The thought was disconcerting.

“You are Rachel, daughter of Laban, son of Bethuel?”

She nodded, certain her fellow shepherds had pointed her out to him the moment she crested the ridge. Warmth heated her cheeks beneath the veil. Her affirmation seemed to strip him of his confidence, and his strength faltered slightly as he finished watering the last of the sheep.

He set the jar aside and walked toward her, then leaned close and kissed first her right cheek, then her left. His dark brows drew down and his mouth twitched as he struggled to keep his composure. “I am Jacob,” he said. “Son of your father’s sister, Rebekah. I am come from Beersheba where my father, Isaac, son of Abraham, resides. I am your own flesh and blood. Your cousin.” The words came out choppy, mingled with tears, until at last the man broke down. Covering his face with both hands, he wept. “Forgive me.” But the tears continued.

Stunned, Rachel could only watch, her mind whirling. Her cousin? He had come from so far! Questions filled her mind, aligning with memories of stories her father had told of a cousin Isaac whose father Abraham had sent his servant to find a bride for his son. Had Jacob come to Paddan-Aram for the same purpose? To find a wife from among his mother’s brother’s daughters?

A little thrill passed through her at the thought. This man could be the answer to her prayers, her dreams. If his father lived in Beersheba, surely Jacob would want to return there to live with his family. He was simply a traveler looking for a bride to return home.

She must tell her father.

As Jacob’s tears subsided, Rachel stepped closer and gently touched his arm. “I must go home and tell my father you have come. He will welcome you and you will stay with us.” She glanced at the sky, knowing it would be dark soon. She should
take the sheep first to the pen, but she couldn’t leave the man waiting. And it would not be proper for her to lead a strange man into town alone.

“I will tend the sheep until you come,” he said as if reading her mind. “Do not worry. I will wait.” He swiped at his tears, his look embarrassed.

Rachel nodded. “I know you will.” She turned, picked up her skirts, and ran home.

3

Jacob sank onto a large stone opposite one of the water troughs, his thoughts muddled. One of the other shepherds took his turn lowering the jar into the well to water his flock while Jacob waited for his uncle Laban to come from the city. Would his uncle embrace him and accept him as Rachel had indicated? Doubts nagged him, but he was too spent from the release of emotion to give thought to them.

As the moments ticked past, he rose on shaky legs and retrieved the goatskin from where it hung at the donkey’s side. He drank deeply, refreshed, then walked to the well to refill it. As he lifted the sack from the well’s mouth, he glanced in the distance toward the city gates. Still no sign of Laban. Anxious now, he walked among the sheep, giving quick inspection to Laban’s flock. Most were sturdy and strong, though some appeared feeble. Did his uncle keep the feeble from breeding with the strong?

Shadows hid the sun for several moments, and he glanced once more toward the city gates. There, a lone figure, a man in billowing robes, ran toward him. Had he not even bothered to gird himself? Yet that he would run to meet his nephew meant that he must have accepted Rachel’s word. Jacob stepped away
from the lamb he was inspecting and walked toward the man to greet him.

Laban approached him, looking him over as though he were one of the sheep. “You are Jacob, Rebekah’s son?”

Jacob nodded. “Yes, my lord. I have come from Beersheba, a great distance from here. It is where my mother and father live to this day.”

Laban leaned forward and kissed Jacob’s cheeks, then motioned to the stones near the water troughs, where they sat facing each other. The other shepherds had finished watering their sheep and were some distance from them now, leaving Laban and Jacob blessedly alone.

“Tell me everything,” Laban said. “Why have you come?” He flicked a glance at the donkey and Jacob’s meager possessions, then met Jacob’s gaze.

Jacob held Laban’s assessing look, not wanting to appear desperate. “My father bid me come, to seek a wife from the daughters of Laban. He did not wish for me to take a wife from among the daughters of the Canaanites among whom we lived, as my brother has done. They do not worship our God and are displeasing to my parents. My father blessed me and sent me here.”