Runaway
A Story of Hagar
The young boy ran into the tent. Breathlessly, he managed to say, “F-f-father!” He swallowed hard and continued. “Two riders…from the northwest…coming…” he managed to say as he waved his hands towards his face.
“Slow down, son,” the old man said as he sat on large cushions with his supper plate on the tent floor. He calmly reached for his wine cup has the boy worked to gather his breath. “If there are only two of them, then they are either travelers or messengers,” the old man said between sips of wine. “Either way, shouldn’t we make them welcome?” the old man asked with a smile.
The boy nodded and grinned. His breathing regulated, and he collected himself. “Now, tell me again,” he said to the boy.
“I was going to get the water for donkeys,” the boy said, “and I saw the shimmer of movement on the horizon to the northwest.” He paused and waited for the old man’s approval to continue.
“Good! Then what?”
“I shielded my eyes like you taught me, and saw that there were two riders coming this way. Then I ran to tell you.”
The old man was silent for a moment, seeming intent on his meal. “And what of our donkeys?” he said, stirring the gravy in the plate with the flat bread without looking up.
The boy gulped. “I…I left them. I will go get them the water now.”
“Wait,” the old man said, holding up his free hand. “There is time for the water later. First, go out and take care of our guests. Greet them warmly, Kedemah, when they arrive; give them water, then show them into the tent. And then be sure to take care of their animals, my son, and ours,” the old man looked up and added with a smile.
“Greetings in the name of El. Are you Ishmael, the son of Abraham?” the older-looking of the two men asked when at last the boy brought the strangers inside the tent.
A frown wrinkled the old man’s brow. “May El bless you. Yes, my name is Ishmael, but my father’s name used to be Abram.”
The two messengers looked at each other and nodded in agreement. “Yes,” the younger one agreed, “Abram.”
The older one continued. “I am Bethuel this is my brother, Nahor We bring you word that your father is dead, sir.”
Their words seemed to barely register in Ishmael’s face. He reached out to the plate and grabbed a hunk of goat meat and brought it to his lips. He smacked the savory meat and licked his brown, wrinkled fingers clean. The long pause as he ate caused the visitors to shift uncomfortably as they stood before him. Perhaps the news did not register in the older man’s mind, they thought.
He reached for his drink before he spoke.
Are you the sons of Bethuel, the son of Millcah? I knew of one such, once.”
The two men looked at each other with confusion. The younger one spoke. “Yes…we are…but did you understand that we bring news that your father is dead?”
“You must forgive me if I have no reaction to this information,” Ishmael said, looking down as he swirled the liquid in his wine cup. “I have had no contact with my father for over 70 years; why would it matter now to me if he were dead or alive? But won’t you join me for supper?” he asked, looking up at them.
The messengers again glanced at each other but this time they searched the other as if each did not know how to react to this. “We have our instructions from your brother and our relative, Isaac,” the older of the two men said.
“Isaac?” Ishmael repeated. “My brother? He sent you?” Ishmael asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he really looked at the messengers’ faces closely for the first time. “For what purpose?”
Finally, the older messenger felt he was on firmer ground. “Your brother desires that you come to home, to the land of your birth, and help him bury your father.”
Ishmael’s voice rose and his eyes grew wide, his gray, bushy eyebrows arching towards his brow. “My brother…my younger brother…desires? Who is he to desire anything of me?” the old man demanded loudly. “And I know what is my land and what is not!” he added with emphasis. A servant stuck his head inside the tent to see what caused Ishmael to speak like this. Ishmael waved him away with the back of his hand, and the young man ducked his head back outside.
The younger visitor cleared his throat and tried to calm Ishmael. “My brother misspoke,” he said, putting his hands up in supplication. “Actually, your brother humbly requests, with great respect, that you honor him by coming to Hebron as his guest and helping him bury your father.”
“And look!” the older one said, placing a wooden cask of jewelry and fine items down on the tent floor, “Your brother has sent you these gifts as well!”
“Ah!” Ishmael said smiling broadly, looking with laughing eyes over the little chest and its valuables. He wiped his mouth and beard with the back of his hand and stiffly rose to his feet. “If my little brother ‘humbly requests’, then who am I to refuse?” And with that, he held out his arms in a sign of welcome to the two visitors.
As Ishmael and his group approached the large collection of tents, he saw, among the throng of people milling around outside of them, a tall gray-bearded man with a long, pointed nose. It had to be Isaac, he thought. The man looked too much like the memories of the father he had not seen in such a long time.
When Ishmael and his company came closer, the milling crowd stopped moving and grew hushed. They parted as waves before him as Ismael was helped down from his animal, and they allowed a path directly to the tall bearded man.
Ishmael saw that the old man was crying. He hadn’t expected this. He thought he might meet suspicion, or hatred, or treachery, or resentment, possibly. Tears, he did not foresee.
The man started moving towards him with his arms outstretched. Overcome by his own emotion, Ishmael was surprised to find his own cheeks wet with tears as well. The two old men met in the middle and embraced. The group shouted appreciation for the gesture.
“My brother!” Isaac said into Ismael’s ear, closing his eyes in the hug.
“Yes,” Ishmael answered. “My brother,” he repeated, resting his head on his taller brother’s shoulder.
The crowd murmured appreciatively. Some younger men started moving towards the pair, joining them in the embrace. Soon it was as if the entire crowd, both men and women, were crying and hugging in a circle around the two brothers.
Finally, Isaac pulled away and wiped his face with his hands. “Who is this you have brought?” he said, pointing over the heads of the crowd to the small group behind Ishmael.
“Ah! These are my children!” Ishmael said, his face brightening through his tears. He introduced his two older sons and the three grandchildren who had accompanied him. “There are ten more back at home,” Ishmael explained, “but they had to stay to look after the animals.”
Isaac bowed slightly in respectful deference to the sons and grandsons as Ishmael introduced each of them. “You say you have more children besides these? Twelve sons?” Isaac asked. “Praise be to El! For He has blessed you, then.”
“And He you,” Ishmael said, motioning with his arm to the assembled crowd.
Isaac smiled broadly, revealing that even in his old age he had kept most of his teeth. “Yes and no, brother. These children are not all mine. Some of these are cousins and relatives from other families. But,” and he paused, searching the group behind him, “These, here,” he said, motioning for two of the young men to come forward. “These two are my twins!”
A muscular, heavy set and hairy young man strode through the edge of the group and stiffly bowed low before Ishmael. “This is my oldest, Esau,” Isaac explained.
“A fine man!” Ishmael exclaimed as Esau rose and smiled at his uncle. Indeed, the young man’s muscles shone through the thick layer of hair on his arms and about his neck. Clearly, this son of Isaac’s was not one to cross, Ishmael thought.
“Jacob,” Isaac said, motioning for the another one to come forward, “he is my youngest.” A slight, almost delicate young man came and bent gracefully at Ishmael’s feet and rose.
“Twins?!” Ishmael repeated, his eyes smiling at the differences between the two young men “May El’s blessings be on your sons,” Ishmael said to his brother. He placed a hand on each of the boys’ heads. “May you each know and find El as your father and grandfather have known and found him.”
As the boys stood, Ishmael look questioningly at the rest of the group. Isaac saw his brother’s puzzled look and explained. “Our father—he has other sons.”
Ishmael furrowed his brow in thought, but Isaac scanned the heads of the crowd and continued. “After my mother died, our father took another wife—there she is, Keturah.” Isaac pointed in the crowd to a small, middle aged woman with eyes that sat widely on her head but who seemed unremarkable to Ishmael otherwise. He bent his head slightly towards the woman who returned his bow with one of her own. Isaac continued. “By her, he had sons and even had children by other women as well. So, you have other brothers besides me,” Isaac smiled at Ishmael.
Ishmael said nothing for a moment, and he bit his lip in thought. Finally, nodding, he said, “This is good. They can help us bury our father.”
The cool of the cave at Machpelah was in sharp contrast to the shimmering heat outside. Abraham’s body, wrapped in white linen and filled with spices, was stiff but not heavy at all. The old man had lived to be over 170 years old, but Isaac reported that when he died he was still sinewy with musculature. It seemed he was active up until the end.
When the sons of Abraham carried their father into the cave, they spoke very little. Isaac nodded to the place that had been prepared in the cave for her to receive Abrahams body. Kneeling in unison, the sons gently laid the old man’s remains in the shallow depression. As was the custom, each son placed a stone around their dead father’s body. It was Isaac who said, after the last stone was placed, “He was a prince of El.”
When they were finished with the ritual and standing around the pile of stones, Ishmael noticed that Isaac had moved to the back of the cave by himself and now stood looking over another mound of stones. He realized that this other body must be that of Isaac’s mother, Sarah. Wanting to allow his brother some time alone, Ishmael motioned for the other sons to go outside, and they all moved out into the warm daylight. Isaac joined them after a few minutes alone inside the cave. He ordered some of his servants to secure the entrance with large stones.
“Let us go back to the tents,” Isaac announced. “We will offer sacrifice to El to thank Him for our father. Then, let us sit, eat, drink, and speak of our father.” The group murmured agreement.
As they made their way back to the tents, Isaac and Ishmael walked at the rear of the mourners. “Thank you, my brother,” Isaac said to Ishmael, grabbing his older brother affectionately by the arm.
Ishmael turned to Isaac in surprise. “Thank me? For what?”
“For coming.”
Ishmael turned back towards the group, leaned on his stick, and nodded. The event stirred emotions in Ishmael he didn’t know he carried. Touching Isaac’s shoulder in affectionate response, he said, “Thank you for asking.”
That evening, the fire burned lower, but its flames still licked skyward towards the star-filled heavens. By this time, most made their ways to their beds after the feast.
And Ishmael and Isaac remained reclined out in the open air on cushions that lay on an expensive carpet at the opening of the tent, each one with a cup of wine before him. Servants in the tent behind them moved around almost wordlessly, picking up the remains of the feast. Talk between a few other relatives who had only met each punctuated the night as pleasantries such as, “May you rest well,” and “See you in the morning,” could be heard in front of tents around them as the camp settled down for the night.
That left the brothers alone for the moment. Both old men, their stomachs full and their hearts heavy, stared out at the fire and the stars and beyond and talked of the father they lost.
“You know that I have no clear memory of you,” Isaac said after a moment of silence, propping himself up on one elbow and turning to face Ishmael. “Most of what I remember I cannot separate from what I have dreamed about you in the past years.”
“You dream…of me?”
“Yes…of course I do. For years I have done so. Perhaps I remember more the idea of having an older brother that I missed rather than having you in my heart as a true memory,” Isaac explained.
“I understand. I was much the same in a way,” Ishmael nodded, looking at the fire intently. He chose his words haltingly. “We…we never completely understood why…why our father made us leave.”
“‘We’?” Isaac repeated. Then, he understood. “Ah, you and your mother. Of you and your mother we never spoke,” Isaac said, tossing back the last of the wine in his cup. “And I never asked.” He reached for the ewer and filled his cup again.
“Hagar,” Isaac said, and he left the name hanging in the air, and his voice trailed off as if the name itself was the fabric of legend “What I know of that I learned from my father’s…our father’s…servants in bits and pieces. And you know how unreliable servants’ tales can be.” Isaac chuckled softly.
Ishmael’s face, by contrast, remained serious, and followed a shooting star as it fell to earth on the horizon. “Her name was Ramla,” he said after a moment, gently correcting Isaac. “Hagar is only what your mother called her.” He stopped himself there, because he had promised himself on the journey that he would try to avoid uncomfortable talk.
“Yes, of course; ‘Runaway’…” Isaac said, nodding and understanding suddenly. Isaac, too, wanted to avoid any controversial subjects.
The brothers remained quiet for some time, looking at the countless stars above them. Isaac took the silent moment to point up and say, “Your descendants will be more numerous than the stars in the sky.” He took his eyes off the stars and looked at his brother to see if he understood the reference.
Ishmael nodded and said, “Yes, that’s what I’ve been told El has promised. To our father. To both of us. Sons of the promise we are.” Yet, he continued to look upward. He started to speak, but he so wanted to make sure that he did not insult this brother that he had found after so many years.
Isaac tried to come to his rescue. “You were going to say something?”
“No,” Ishmael said. He quickly corrected himself. “Yes.”
“You say your family never spoke of us. That was not true for us. Of you and your mother, Sarai, and our father we always spoke,” he said quietly. His eyes began to moisten, and he lowered them from the whiteness of the stars above to the fire’s yellow flames below.
“Here, brother, here,” Isaac said, holding the wine ewer, “fill your cup and tell me the story. Please.”
Ishmael, turned on his side and faced his brother, propping his head with one bent arm. Isaac could see him thinking as he poured the wine into Ishmael’s cup.
“Please?” Isaac repeated.
“Yes,” Ishmael said, finally, drying his glistening eyes with the back of an old, weathered hand. “Why not?”
And with that, Ishmael sat up, stiffly crossed his aging legs, and took a long drink of his wine before the fire.
When he had drained it, he set the cup beside him on the carpet and said, “My mother, Ramla, was born in Egypt…”
Did you enjoy the first chapter of author Charles Millson‘s new book “Runaway: A Story of Hagar“?
DON’T STOP NOW! GET IT TODAY ON AMAZON! CLICK HERE!
The post Runaway appeared first on Lay Me Down Ministries.
