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Sarah's Laughter

By Rebecca D. Bruner

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Vultures circled over the desert. One, two, three, four, five black carrion birds wheeling in formation against the harsh, blue glare of a cloudless sky. For me, it was a sight that had become far too familiar.

My husband, Abram, arose from his seat in the shade of the tent door and headed out to see what remained of the carcass they preyed upon. He carried a large, flint knife in his belt. Though the meat of the animal would be useless, it might still be possible to salvage a part of the unfortunate creature’s hide. And with this drought showing no signs of abating, he knew we needed to preserve anything we could.

Later, he returned with a sheep’s skin slung across his shoulder and a bleating ewe lamb cradled in his arms. Handing me the fleece, he drew the sharp, stone blade from his belt. Without a word, he cut the little lamb’s throat, silencing her plaintive cries forever. He hung the poor creature head downward from the brittle branches of a nearby tree to drain the blood from its body.

I didn’t pester my husband with questions about what had happened. It was all too clear. The suckling’s mother must have died from lack of water and food. Without her milk, Abram knew the baby would perish in a day or two anyway. Better for our hungry people to receive the nourishment from its meat than for it to fall dead in the desert along with its mother, only to fatten more jackals and vultures.

I gathered enough brushwood to roast the creature. It was a shame to destroy such a fine ewe lamb. She ought to have been allowed to grow up, to give us wool and baby lambs of her own. A good shepherd like my husband would never have killed her under normal circumstances. But nothing was normal any longer.

The rainy season had come and gone, with hardly a cloud to shade us. The wild grasses on which our flocks depended had shriveled and died. Even the wells were running dry. Dust blew in on every breeze.

I had long since given up my daily chore of grinding barley and making bread. The remnants of our grain had to be measured out sparingly and given by the handful to our donkeys and camels. In order to save their lives, we had to supplement what little they could forage from the desert sands.

We could eat meat, so that’s what we did, slaughtering the animals on which our livelihood depended. But we knew full well that with every mouthful, we were taking a bite out of our own future.

Once the lamb was roasted, Abram served it to all of our servants and shepherds and their families. It was food, and for that everyone was grateful, though no one went to bed with a full stomach.

After we had eaten, Abram sat down beside the fire. “Sarai, I have come to a decision.”

“What is it, my lord?”

“We must move from this place.”

“But the famine is severe throughout this land. Where can we go to find better pasture when there is no rain?”

“To Egypt,” he explained.

And so it was settled. While we still could, we would gather our people, load our donkeys and camels, and drive our flocks and herds down to the land of the Pharaoh, where the Nile still provided food and water for both man and beast.

The night before we left, I lay awake beside my husband in the darkness of our tent, trying to think through all that would have to be done in the morning. We would need to break camp swiftly and load our pack animals in preparation for the long caravan journey south.

Abram shifted about on the rug beside me. At last he spoke, “Sarai, you are a very beautiful woman.”

With a smile, I rolled closer, reaching out to him. At my touch, he pulled away.

“Once we get to Egypt, please tell everyone that you are my sister.”

“But I am your wife…”

It was true that Abram and I had grown up together in Father Terah’s large household. Terah had several wives; Abram was the child of one, and I of another. But long ago, when Abram had determined to take a wife for himself who served Elohim, our father’s God, and not the gods of Ur, our homeland, he had asked for my hand. Terah had gladly given me to him in marriage. It had been many, many years since anyone could have honestly considered me nothing more than his half-sister.

Abram took a deep breath. “I fear that godless men who see how beautiful you are will kill me in order to get you.”

I lay silent, lacking the words to express the pain that tore through my heart like a dagger. My husband might consider me highly attractive, but he didn’t care for me enough to fight for my virtue. Instead he would disown me. If I had been the mother of many sons, perhaps he would have valued me more highly, but I had given him none.

In my youth, the women of Ur had always hated me for my beauty. After our marriage, once it became obvious that I was barren, they had offered their considered opinion regarding my ill fortune. This was the penalty I must pay for being too beautiful. The gods, in their envy, would never bless me with children.

I tried not to believe them. Elohim, the God of our fathers, whom Shem and his father Noah had worshiped, did not seem so vindictive to me as their local fertility gods. Yet, I had no evidence that what the other women said was not true. I was too beautiful and I was barren, and somehow those two facts were connected.

“Sarai,” Abram said gently, “if you love me, you will do as I have asked.”

How could I say no? I did love him, dearly. And if those women were right, my dreaded beauty might have already cost him the children he so desired. Could I really ask him to lay down his life in my defense?

“I will obey you in this, as in all things,” I replied at last, stifling my tears.

Abram gave a deep, relieved sigh. He kissed my cheek, then turned over and went to sleep, leaving me alone with the darkness.

The next morning, we packed up the tents, collected all our belongings and animals, and began the long trek south to Egypt. Amidst the caravan, bouncing along astride my donkey, I had many days in which to ponder the grave implications of my promise to Abram.

My heart ached at the thought of how little my husband must love me. The man who ought to have been my shield and defender knew full well that strange men might covet me, and he refused to protect me from them.

I wondered, too, how God would view such a deception. Elohim, the great Creator, was the One who had called my husband to leave the city of Ur to follow Him, promising to bless him, make his name great, and multiply him.

Though I would never presume to know God so well as Abram did, it seemed obvious to me that He was a God of truth. If it were not so, why would my husband waste his time following a deity who might not keep His word? God always spoke the truth, and He expected those who claimed to worship him to do the same. But Abram was asking me to lie.

All these feelings, these fears, churned in my breast. Yet, I did not dare to naysay my husband. To my own shame or credit, I needed him more than anything. I could only hope that I would never be called upon to keep my vow.

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