lost,” a granddaughter suggested, “and is flying around and around.”
It was the oldest grandchild who first called out, “Look, look, there she is!” In her beak the dove carried an olive branch.
That day Nochat and her family felt the rebirth of hope, so that even though they did not know when they would again step on firm ground, they were not despondent as they waited.
Once the waters had receded and puddles of every dimension dotted the earth, Nochat went from the ark, she and her children and grandchildren. And every pair of animals: the ferrets and gazelles, the ibex and asps, all left the ark.
When every animal had crept or leaped or flown to the north, the south, the east, the west, Nochat looked at the desolation around her and felt a great emptiness. Nothing she had known remained. She sat upon the ground and cried.
“What kind of mother are you,” she called out to God, “that you would strangle your own child because it is willful? What kind of God are you that you would create animals as lovely as gazelles, as clever as foxes, as playful as goats, then kill them? What kind of God creates beautiful trees and flowers then destroys them?”
From nearby came the faint sound of weeping. The weeping became loud sobs. Then a haunting keen pierced the stillness of the desolate landscape.
“What have I done?” Nochat heard God wail. “What have I done?” Nochat rose and approached the Creator. Put her arms around God. Let God cry against her breast. “In the beginning I had such hopes and dreams, imagining everything to stay as lovely as it was. But my children spurned my love, and when I gazed upon all I had created, I decided it no longer had any value. I convinced myself that my rebellious children deserved my wrath.”
She said nothing for a while, simply sat there nestled in Nochat’s arms, heaving sobs of an immenseness that only God can heave.
“It is as if I have cut off my own breast,” she cried out, “plunged a knife into my own heart. To destroy what I had created was to destroy part of myself.”
For days the two remained in that place, God speaking of her regrets over the devastation she had wrought, Nochat lamenting the loss of the people and animals she had loved.
One afternoon God hiccoughed and stood. “My mourning will never cease, but it is time for me to set about recreating. First, though, I will make a promise, Nochet. I promise you and your descendents and every living creature that has come to this place on the ark—I promise that I will never again release the waters to destroy the earth by flood.”
As God spoke, she spread an immense arc of colors across the sky. Lavender, red, blue, and yellow, it was, with a span so wide that its ends could not be seen. “This is a sign of my covenant. You will never again need to fear my wrath.”
With heavy heart Nochat went to get the family’s mildewed garments out of the ark so that she might spread them in the sun.
With heavy heart God set about rebuilding the earth.
Confused
Genesis 11:1–9
Humankind shares a common language—until a group decides to build a great city and a great tower, an action God views as arrogant. God decides to confuse their communication. The story of the Tower of Babel has sometimes been used to explain why the earth is inhabited by people who speak different languages.
Women, too, once spoke a common language.
There was a time when women understood each other, for sorrow was the language that connected them. Some held the hands of sisters and friends as they died at childbirth. Many wept at the graves of their children taken by disease or hunger. Those who did not lose sisters or friends or children still grasped the horror and mourned with women who did.
Wars claimed the lives of husbands, brothers, sons. Women’s homes were invaded, their bodies raped. Those who did not witness war still grasped its horror and mourned with women who did.
Yes, it used to be that women everywhere understood the language of sorrow.
Then some migrated, found a place to the west. There they said to one another, “Come, let us build ourselves a great city, and towers that extend to the heavens, and let us make a name for ourselves so that our wealth will be recognized over all the earth.”
When they had built the city and the towers, the women said among themselves, “See what great feats we are able to do.”
But God looked down upon the city and its towers and said, “Look, those women have built this grand city and think they have made a name for themselves. But they have forgotten the language of sorrow that used to connect them to others. They are too intent upon accumulating wealth to recognize the suffering of those in distant lands who lose sisters and friends at childbirth. They are too busy to pay attention to the agony of women in distant lands who weep at the graves of children who have died of disease or hunger. They no longer listen to the voices of women whose homes are invaded, their bodies raped when war spreads over their land.”
So God turned from the women who had built a city and towers that reached the heavens, choosing instead to accompany those who lived with sadness and oppression. God named the city with the tall towers Babel, which means confused. Because the women who lived there no longer understood what mattered in God’s sight.
Not All Who Wander are Lost
Genesis 12–22
“Leave your country,” God tells Abraham, “and go to the land I will show you.” God promises to bless Abraham and “make of you a great nation.” Accompanied by Sarah, his wife, and Lot, his nephew, Abraham heads for Canaan. Herdsmen, he and Lot move their flocks from place to place, even traveling as far as Egypt during a time of famine. Eventually, because the size of their herds has increased and their shepherds compete for grazing space, the two men part ways.
Female Abrahams, too, follow God’s call to leave the familiar and head for a far-away destination. The journey is not without hardship and loneliness, times when these daring women consider turning back. Yet God’s presence gives them courage.
Muslims, Jews, and Christians trace their ancestry back to Abraham.
Even as a child I was restless, often escaping the light around the evening fire to venture into the darkness. Farther and farther I wandered, during the day and after dark, until I was familiar with every knoll and dip in the surrounding landscape. With my eyes closed I could see what the sun looked like as it rose over the lands to the east and set behind the hills to the west.
What was on the other side of the river, I wondered. Beyond the distant hills? I also entertained questions about God Most High. Did she reside beyond the mountains? In the cities? I dreamed of exploring faraway places.
My father assured me that I would find nothing different or interesting beyond the river. Besides, it was not appropriate for a young woman to journey forth, he insisted. Or to search for God Most High. Whether God Most High could be found beyond the mountains or in the city was not important; what mattered was that she dwelt with us.
His simple answers made me even more impatient to journey afar. I became convinced that my homeland was no place for one like me. A curious woman. A woman who sought adventure.
For
