Call Me Ishmael

This is a story I wrote while studying Genesis:

“Ouch!” I grunted. My hand sliced the air for a kill. A plump deerfly fell off my arm, dead. “Too bad that wasn’t a real animal,” I observed. “Oh what I would give for a bow and arrow right now!” But then, a bow and arrow wouldn’t shoot me a drink from the sky, and a beast with hide softer than jerky would be hard to find without a stream nearby. Too bad such things are rare commodities in a desert.

My scalp itched, and I dug at it with my fingernails, scraping out the sand that had recently made its home there. I still didn’t quite understand how I had gotten where I was, sitting in the shade of a big scraggly bush in the middle of the wilderness, my tongue almost as dry as a block of sandalwood. My mind darted back through the past several days and beyond to when I was a little boy. What had gone wrong?

I had loved my father. I guess some would call him old, but I think that old men have young hearts. When I dug up the dirt on the floor of my father’s tent to build imagined houses, he would sit down with me and show me how to construct ziggurats like the best of them. When I had nightmares and ran into his tent, he would take me outside and show me the stars. When I got frustrated with throwing stones to “hunt” game, he got me a bow and arrows and showed me how to shoot them even though he had to learn first himself. Sometimes he told stories. Sometimes he laughed. Sometimes he just listened.

And he always prayed.

That pretty much sums up my first blissful thirteen years. Few ripples broke the stillness of the sweet pond of fellowship I shared with my father and everyone else in the camp. I was extremely fond of my mother Hagar, even if she was a little overbearing at times. Slender, strong, and beautiful, she spoke with an accent a little different from anyone else I knew. Her hair was jet black and her eyes dark and piercing, shooting lighting bolts to those she hated and sunbeams to those she loved. I suppose some would say she was haughty for a servant, but she always told me that if she seemed that way it was only because she was so proud of her boy and wanted to see that he got everything he deserved. For a long time I never understood what she meant.

One day when I was thirteen my father took me into his special tent to have a “man to man” talk. He sat me in front of him and gazed thoughtfully at me for awhile. When I think about it, he had been giving me a similar look for years now, only this time it seemed especially drawn out and almost . . . sad.

“I have some news to share with you, Ishmael,” he told me gravely, “joyous news.” Somehow I doubted him. “You are going to have a baby brother! As you may know, Sarah has wanted to have a child for a long time but has been unable to bear one. But nothing is too difficult for the LORD, and He is finally giving us what He promised us long ago. You will still always be my boy, but I thought you should know that some adjustments may need to be made.”

If my ears hadn’t been attached to my head I daresay they would have fallen off from the shock. Mother’s mistress was going to have a baby? Why, her hair was almost all white! I nearly laughed at the picture of her holding a newborn. I couldn’t understand the gravity in my father’s voice. This was excellent news! I was going to have a baby brother! I tried to picture what it would be like. I would show him how to make ziggurats, how to find Orion in the night sky, and how to shoot a bow and arrow. We would be best friends and do everything together.

An unnamed doubt wormed its way across my mind, but I shook it off. What thirteen-year-old needs to be worried about the arrival of a baby? I left my father’s tent with a light heart.

Three years later I left my father’s tent again, this time with my heart sinking into my sandals. My mother and I were being sent away. My father had a tear in is eye as he handed us some bread and a bulging water skin. His tear was cold and lusterless in the predawn light.

What had happened? During the past three years a shadow had repeatedly slipped its icy fingers around my heart. It groped for me when father first called me to visit Sarah and the baby. I saw the red gleam flash in Sarah’s eye as she caught sight of me. She greedily clutched closer to her the wrinkly bundle that was baby Isaac. After that day, the shadow probed and prodded me every time she turned me away from seeing Isaac until I finally gave up trying. It burrowed as I watched servants ignore my broken wrist for a child’s stubbed toe, and as my pet donkey disappeared for “the promised son’s use.” It stung every time my mother cried herself to sleep when she didn’t think I knew. What inflicted the most pain however was that my father seemed to have forgotten me.

I remember one night when I hadn’t been able to sleep I decided to go have a talk with my father. Maybe we would get a chance to gaze at the stars together. As I approached his tent, I spotted him with Isaac in his arms. I ducked behind a bush.

“You see all those stars?” he was saying to the gurgling little boy. “You’re going to have as many descendants as there are stars up there.”

I couldn’t remember him saying anything like that to me. I returned to my tent, purposing never to trouble my father again. The shadow was at home inside of me now, and my heart was heavy under a crushing weight.

Then the celebration day arrived. My little brother was now three, and my father decided to hold a big feast for him. Much fuss was made over Isaac, and I was awed by the magnitude of the festivities–my father had never done anything so elaborate for me. I guess I was a little jealous. All right, very jealous. The pent up frustrations of three years were loaded under a mountain of stones on my heart. And that night the stones split to reveal a volcano.

I don’t remember exactly what I said or did, only that it was stupid. But then the whole situation seemed stupid, so I guess it’s no wonder that I laughed. Yes, I laughed. I laughed at all the servants who were going milky eyed and fawning over Isaac. I laughed at the big commotion made over a toddler who didn’t even know what was going on. And I laughed at Isaac, “the chosen one.”

We left the next morning.

And now I sat under a bush, the final glimpse of my father’s sagging shoulders as we left burning in my memory. My mother had tried to bear it well. She had grasped the water skin tightly as we set out, her back straight and her head held high. Only I saw the tremble in her lip and the glistening of her eyes.

We started off toward Egypt, my mother’s homeland, but we took a wrong shortcut and ended up wandering in the wilderness for five days. The bread and water gone, my mother told me to sit in the shade of a bush as she went off somewhere. She claimed she was going to look for water, but I’m pretty sure she left me just so she could go cry without my seeing her.

I sighed and gingerly tried lying down on the rocky ground in what little shade the scraggly bush could offer. The sun was scorching and my temples throbbed. It seemed as though every throb served as a reminder of something I had lost. Throb: I had no food or water. Throb: I had no home. Throb: I had no inheritance. Throb: I had no mother here with me. Throb: I seemed to no longer have a father.

I knew now that I was wrong to mock my brother the way I did—he couldn’t help it if everyone saw him as a gift from God. Maybe I hadn’t been fairly dealt with, but it wasn’t really my brother or my father’s fault. Life isn’t always fair. My father of all people had discovered that, and yet he had never complained. He had set out from his home having no idea exactly where he was going. God hadn’t given him a map, only a compass. And that compass was God Himself.

And here I was, having left my home and having no idea where I was going, or if I’d even live out the day. Did I have a compass? My mind tossed about fruitlessly for some natural ability that I might have to help me out, but I came up with nothing. The only thing I had was the unconditional love of my father (somehow I knew he still loved me despite everything). Was that enough?

“God,” I prayed. “I know I haven’t really prayed much to you before this. I’m sorry about that. I know after everything that’s happened I don’t deserve to have you listen to me, but I thought I’d try anyway. I’m thirsty, God. I’m thirsty for water but even more than that I’m thirsty for the same kind of purpose and direction that my father had. He’s gone through tough times too but all along he’s had you to hold his hand.” I paused, afraid to continue. “Would you hold my hand, God? I realize that’s a lot to ask and I can’t think of any good reason why you would, but you love my father—maybe, just maybe, you could love me too if only for that reason.” Oh, what am I thinking? I grabbed a rock and hurled it, trying fiercely not to cry. God is too busy to hear my voice of all people! I’m just a youth, the son of a servant, and a worthless maggot. Why even bother to pray at all?

With that, I slumped into timeless existence, drifting off into feverish unconsciousness.

“Ishmael,” a voice echoed. “Ishmael!” A hand shook me until my mother’s face came into focus. For the first time in months, she was smiling. Next thing I knew, cool water trickled through my cracked lips. It could have been the ambrosia of angels.

Gradually I realized I was lying in my mother’s lap, beams of joy shooting from her face. “God has heard your voice, my son,” she said. “It is with good reason that you are called Ishmael. Come, let’s go from here. I found a well, and we now have plenty of water to travel.” She eased me to a sitting position before springing to her feet. She held out her hand. I suppose young men my age usually don’t take hold of their mothers’ hands, but I didn’t care. It was more than a hand I saw stretching out to me. It was a promise of hope. I grasped it firmly as I rose to my feet. The hand felt bigger and stronger than my mother’s, and I checked to be sure that it was really hers. More life pulsated in my grasp than any my mother could possibly possess. Then I remembered my prayer. And I remembered that I’m called Ishmael. God hears.