would I find the place where I could flourish? How would a great nation come of me if I had no children? A blessing to all? Hardly.
At those times of hopelessness, I often glanced down and saw my sister’s bracelet on my wrist. I reminded myself that she would rejoice if she had legs strong enough to be making this journey. Her ongoing determination to survive sustained me. She, more than anyone, would be disappointed if I returned home.
It’s part of the journey, I discovered: enduring times of emptiness and discouragement as well as those of satisfaction.
“But you have brought us back to Bethel,” I complained to God Most High. We had traveled in a circle.
“This is the in-between place, not the final destination,” she assured me.
At Bethel my niece and I prospered, accumulating gold and silver, numerous flocks and herds, too. As we discussed our achievements one evening, arrogantly asserting as we often did that success comes to those who risk, I noticed that I was sliding my sister’s bracelet up and down my arm. It occurred to me that she did not have the freedom to risk. Her injured body and loyalty to our parents bound her to one place so that she would never have my wealth.
Until that moment I had simply accepted God Most High’s explanations for why I was chosen, her words about my intellect and adventuresome spirit pleasing to my ear. Yet my equally intelligent sister yearned for adventure and success too. How, I wondered, can a woman feel blessed if her sister has no similar opportunities?
I had been assuming that my wealth was the blessing God Most High had spoken of. That night in the tent, next to my husband, I lay awake considering the rest of God Most High’s promise: “So that you will be a blessing to all.” Instead of being a blessing to all, I was putting my energy into gaining wealth and guarding my possessions. I was using my riches to gain stature and power. I had ceased marveling over the earth’s glories and lost my curiosity.
In the days that followed, the restlessness returned. What was beyond the mountains? The prospect of newness again excited me. New people, new landscapes. New opportunities to become a blessing for others rather than a woman whose primary goal was to accumulate.
My husband whined that life was good in Bethel; it made no sense to leave. My niece said she was ready to move on too. We decided to go in separate directions, though. She chose the plain; my husband and I headed toward the mountains.
I awoke from a deep sleep, seized by terror. I had no idea what the source of my anxiety was, only a feeling of deep, deep dread.
I called out to God Most High.
An abyss of silence came back to me. Dark, empty silence.
I sensed her approach. Yet she said nothing.
“Speak to me,” I shouted. “Tell me, why do I feel this way?”
I was trembling by now. Though awake, I began to picture, as in a dream, a most wretched scene. Rows and rows of people, their heads lowered as they walked, walked, into a powerful wind. I could not see their faces, yet I recognized in the slump of their shoulders, the slow plodding, their sense of desolation, their lack of hope.
Overcome by sorrow, I began to weep. “What does it mean? What does it mean?” I begged to know.
In her answer I heard a sadness yet greater than my own, one that seemed to pierce the very being of God Most High. “You are looking into the future with me. These are your descendents. They will be sojourners in a land that is not theirs and will be slaves, oppressed for four hundred years.”
“Then this journey is in vain,” I cried out. “Why should I struggle to find a place that offers heartache?”
“Because I am always creating. Even when my desire for harmony is obstructed I will be their God. I will comfort them. Leave the future to me.”
I have lived my full span of years. I have buried my husband in the cave where I too will be laid to rest.
The journey was long and arduous, but eventually I arrived in this land, where I did indeed flourish. I have been blessed with children and grandchildren who admire the harmony of God Most High’s creation and praise her for it. They too are restless and full of questions. I have taught them that God Most High is a God of mystery and that while she delights in their efforts to understand her, she cannot be contained.
I remain a woman of wealth, but being blessed is less tangible than silver and gold. It is in seeing my heirs come to trust God Most High, in having my neighbors regard me as a woman of integrity and wisdom.
The journey itself was part of the blessing. I have been allowed to see what’s beyond the next mountain, on the other side of the river. The times that have been arid or fraught with dangers—they have been part of the blessing too, for I have survived them. A woman learns from such times. She learns that she is strong and capable. Such knowledge is certainly a blessing.
I have had the opportunity to be not just a wanderer over land but a wanderer in my mind as well. Since my youth I have explored the mysteries of God Most High. Sometimes I have been allowed to spend time in her shadow; at other times I have walked and walked but she has been beyond my reach. The times with her, those spent searching for her too, have been a blessing.
Has my name become great? That is for future generations to decide. If it is to be, the greatness will be the result of putting myself in new situations, facing the challenges, taking actions that will provide a better place for my neighbors and descendents.
I still think of my oldest sister. I do not know whether she still breathes. I assume she lived out her days as our mother and her mother and our grandmother’s mother lived theirs. Several times I have challenged God Most High’s intentions. Why should I have flourished while my sister had no similar opportunities?
If I could see her again, what would I tell her? Not how grateful I am that God Most High chose me. No, that would be wrong. I would hold my sister close and express gratitude for her hard work. Her sacrifice allowed me to leave our parents and venture forth. I would assure her that the blessings of God Most High were not mine alone. They were also for future generations, for our parents’ grandchildren and those who come after them.
* I am grateful to the work of Elie Wiesel in “The Sacrifice of Isaac: A Survivor’s Story,” in Messengers of God (New York: Simon and Shuster, 1976).
The Lamb that Was Slain
Genesis 22
“Take your son, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering,” God tells Abraham. Abraham follows God’s instructions until, at the last minute, an angel intervenes, telling Abraham not to lay his hand upon the boy.
Seeing Isaac as female reminds us of young girls who are victims of violence and abuse.
It is late at night, but I lie with my eyes wide open, too excited to sleep. As soon as day breaks I get to go with Father up to the mountains. To make a sacrifice. It is a long trip, he says, it will take several days. I’ve been such a good girl that I get to go with him. Mother will pack food for us to take along and two servants will go too, and we’ll see animals. Because I’ve been a good girl. I’ve been a good girl and Father loves me.
Everybody respects him. He tells them how to make sacrifices and how God wants to be worshipped. They call
