Sarai (Jill Eileen Smith) (3 page)

The young ewe followed him now, and he waited a moment before picking his way forward again. When she reached his side, he picked her up and placed her over his shoulders. Clouds blocked the sun as he approached the ridge, and a sudden breeze cooled the skin on his face. An unexpected shiver worked through him as he neared the brambles, and he slowed, a feeling of uncertainty prickling the hairs on his arms. He squinted, raising a hand to his eyes, his grip tightening on his staff.

He stopped and listened, shifting the lamb’s weight, then took several more cautious steps forward, at last spying the ram caught by its thick wool among the thorns, its pitiful cry touching Abram’s heart. The sky darkened further, and a chill wind brushed his face. He glanced heavenward, a sense of foreboding filling him. There had been no sign of a storm that morning, but if one was upon them now, he had best make quick work of releasing the ram and hurry back to the rest of the flock, which would not know where to go to find shelter without his leading.

Spurred by this sudden urgency, he set the ewe on the ground near a patch of grass and pushed aside the brambles with his staff to get closer to the ram. “And how did you expect to get yourself out once you got into these thorns?” he asked the animal, gentling his voice above its bleating. Thorns gripped his robe, but he ignored the ripping sound of the fabric as he worked to disentangle the animal’s wool. “There, there,” he soothed. But the ram kicked and fought Abram’s efforts, wedging himself in worse than before.

Sweat poured down Abram’s back as he worked the hook of his staff under the animal’s belly. The wind picked up, the air suddenly heavy and damp. His arms ached from the strain as he finally wrapped the hook of the staff around the animal’s body well enough to wrench it free, briars and all.

When they were a few paces away, Abram knelt beside the ram and picked the last of the briars from his wool, then took the horn strapped to his side and poured oil over the scratches, rubbing it into the animal’s skin. The ram stood still, apparently sufficiently chastised. Abram looked from the ram to the ewe. To mate the two would bring sturdy, unblemished offspring. No others in his flock could compare to these specimens of perfection, though he knew from experience that producing young would not change the ram’s behavior.

Then again, would producing an heir change him?

His jaw tightened at the thought. It wasn’t his fault Sarai had been barren all these years. They’d been the perfect couple from the start, though now, after years of her barrenness, his brother and nephew did not glance at Abram with the same hint of jealousy because of his beautiful wife. At least their wives had borne them sons, though Lot’s had not lived long enough to tell of it.

He glanced at the two animals beside him, noting their suddenly rigid stance, the wary looks in their eyes. He looked at the sky, wondering at the change, at the unexpected stillness. Light now seeped from beneath the gray clouds, sending shafts of blazing white in all directions. The wind picked up again, the breeze stiff yet warm. Strange.

Definitely time to head back.

He dug his staff into the earth and pushed to his feet, ready to call the animals to follow, when a loud rumble like thunder made him pause. The clouds drew together as he watched, dark and heavy again. Fear tingled his spine.

He darted a look in all directions. Nothing moved. Even the wind had stilled, and Lot’s flute no longer filled the silence. He glanced at the two animals, but they too had stilled, their heads bent to the grass but their mouths closed, unmoving.

“Abram!”

A chill worked through him. He glanced around again, but there was no one in sight. Was he hearing things?

“Abram!”

The voice, louder, more insistent, and powerful, reached into the pit of his soul, stirring deep fear inside of him. He sank to his knees and put his face to the dirt.

“Here I am,” he choked out, his own voice weak in comparison.

“Get out of your country, from your family and from your father’s house, to a land that I will show you. I will make you a great nation; I will bless you and make your name great; and you shall be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and I will curse him who curses you; and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.”

Abram shuddered at the words, unable to respond.
Who are you?
But he couldn’t utter the question. Deep down, he knew exactly who spoke to him. Only Adonai Elohim, the Lord, the Mighty God, Creator of heaven and earth, could make a man tremble in fear at His voice. Only a mighty Creator could cause the breeze to still and make the sky ominous and foreboding. Only a great Creator could speak such words and make a man know they were truth.

I will do as You ask
, he said in his heart, certain his voice would not hold the words steady. At his response, the breeze returned. Abram slowly lifted his head. The animals resumed nibbling the grasses as though nothing had happened. Abram pushed himself to his knees, shaking, but one glance around him told him nothing had changed. The threat of the storm had passed, and in its place an inviting landscape and sunny, cloudless skies greeted him.

Had he heard correctly? It had all happened so fast. But in his spirit, he knew. He must take Sarai and leave Ur and follow the Lord to wherever He might lead. Where would He lead them?

But Abram didn’t need to know that yet. He needed only to obey.

He looked back at the two animals, perfect in body but opposite in spirit. One obedient and loyal, the other rebellious and wayward. He would not be like the rebellious ram. He would obey his Creator.

Which meant he would sacrifice all he had to do so—his family inheritance, his home, his relatives, his friends . . . his best.

He stood, still unsteady, his gaze resting on the animals now looking at him with wide, trusting eyes. He must build an altar and make a burnt offering to the Lord. His heart constricted with his decision. One of them must die in the sacrifice.

Sarai shivered at the sudden shift in the breeze. Red dust coated the tanned leather of her sandals as she crossed further into the courtyard toward the imposing doors of the goddess’s temple. Melah moved ahead of her to approach the guards who stood blocking the way. Sarai waited, motionless, as Melah dropped her coins into a wooden tithing box inlaid with shells and lapis lazuli set in crescent designs.

Behind Melah, her five serving girls bowed low, facing the temple but not moving to enter. Melah would not have paid their way, and few slaves could afford such a luxury as to enter the chambers of the gods. To Sarai’s left, the sonorous chant of the Ningal singers’ tuneless melody and the heady incense coming from the tall cones on either side of the ornate door nearly turned her stomach.

The gods of our people are idols, Sarai. There is only one Maker.

She whirled about, Abram’s voice loud in her ear. But no. His words were a memory. She had heard them often enough to know better than to be here. She caught sight of her slaves still standing guard at her back, their faces somber, dark as flint. Abram’s One God, El Echad, would not dwell in such temples built with human hands. Hadn’t she watched the construction of the many projects the king had undertaken since her early childhood? Hundreds of men had slaved to build Nannar-Sin’s giant ziggurat, and more besides to add palaces and temples to shadow its sprawling court. Would the One God need such a temple?

The breeze swirled about her in a sudden gust, lifting the filmy gauze and jewels from her headdress. She must not do this.

The carved image pressed heavily against her hip, and the precious coins from her dowry seemed suddenly too important to waste on such uncertainty. She closed her eyes, seeing Abram’s disapproval, wanting desperately to please him. Would he take another wife as Melah had suggested?

Oh, but why could she not bear a child?

The familiar ache settled in her middle, and she wavered, staring up at the imposing temple to Ningal, wondering if the goddess truly had the power Melah had worked so hard to convince her of. If Sarai did not do this, if she did not ask, would she be throwing away her last chance? She’d been barren for so long. Did this goddess have the power to undo her past and make her whole before it was too late?

The chants grew louder as Melah disappeared behind the yawning doors into the mouth of the goddess. Dark clouds blotted the sun. Was Ningal’s son Utu hiding his warmth, displeased with her uncertainty? Or had El Echad sent the clouds and the wind to drive her away?

“Oh, Abram, what should I do?” The words vanished in the thump of the chanters’ drum, but the act of speaking them spurred her to move.

She must flee.

Her feet suddenly loosed from their immobility, Sarai spun about, picked up her skirts, and rushed through the streets of Ur, fear making her legs spring with the gait of youth long forgotten. She would run home to Abram and his God and forget this day had ever happened. She would renounce all devotion to Nannar-Sin and Ningal and their offspring of gods.

But as she slowed at the outskirts of Ur’s redbrick walls, waiting for Lila to catch up to her, a new thought struck hard. What if her visit today had already offended Abram’s God? Was El Echad greater than the mother goddess that He could grant a child? If she had offended him, what would Abram say? What could she do?

She walked with weighted steps the rest of the way home.

2

Abram laid his staff on the ground and walked nearer the edge of the cliff, picked up a heavy rock, and carted it back to the grassy knoll. His heart ached with each footfall, as each rock placed on top of the other brought him one step closer to killing the animal and lighting the sacrifice. Which animal should he offer? His favorite or Sarai’s? The good ewe or the rebellious ram?

The thoughts tormented him as he put the last rock in place and found kindling to lay on top of the stones. Sacrifices were not new to him. His father, Terah, had sacrificed animals, among other things, to the gods of Ur. And his brother Haran had lost a bet and been forced by the king to sacrifice a son as a substitute for the king’s life—a yearly sacrifice required by the gods to ensure the land’s fertility. Surely Haran’s death soon after came from his grief over such an act.

Abram shuddered at the thought. The idea that a man could be killed and brought back to life was pure myth, a story the people believed the gods required and could do. But not once had a sacrificed man returned to walk the earth again.

The sun or moon held no such power. And Adonai Elohim had not required such sacrifice of men. An animal’s blood, not a son’s, must be shed.

The thought strengthened his resolve, and Abram knew he could not put off what he planned to do, what he needed to do. He walked away from the altar, back to the two animals. He could go to his flock still visible in the distance and choose another, one less perfect. He could almost hear Lot’s voice making the suggestion. His practical nephew would find a way out of such a difficult choice. And it would surely make Abram feel less torn—and make telling Sarai less painful.

But the memory of that other voice still resonated in his soul. Adonai had not asked him to do this, but how could he start a journey without showing his willingness to obey his God, or take one step forward without repentance for his own rebellious ways?