ISHMAEL Part 1

“An angel spoke to me! He spoke to me, an Egyptian woman, a mere slave!”

Hagar, totally exhausted, sank to her knees in the hot sand. There was so much to think about and she needed time to recover. She had just had an encounter with an angel. Yes, an angel had spoken to her. She tried to collect her confused thoughts and think back over the traumatic events of her life.

Her relationship with Abram had been for convenience, of that she was certain. He needed an heir. Sarai’s words to her husband were engraved in her memory: “Go, sleep with my maidservant; perhaps I can build a family through her.”

Hagar shuddered and placed a hand over the bulge that was her baby. Her baby? Or was he Sarai’s baby? She wasn’t sure. She felt used; unloved. Cheated; unappreciated. From the day she realized she was pregnant, things had gone from bad to worse. She despised her mistress. Terrible feelings had begun to twist themselves around her wounded heart: anger, hate, low self-esteem, resentment, rebelliousness. And without her realizing it, all these feelings had been transmitted to her unborn child.

Hagar tried to recall every detail of what the angel had said. The baby was to be named Ishmael which means ‘God hears’, because He had heard of her misery. This child would be against everyone and everyone would be against him, free and untamed as a wild donkey.

Hagar frowned. “He’s going to be a handful,” she mused.

But the most annoying part of the conversation was the angel’s instruction to go back to her mistress, back to the beatings and the insults. It wasn’t fair. Her eyes filled with tears she was too proud to let fall, and in that moment a seed was sown in her wounded, resentful heart: the seed of bitterness.

Dizzily Hagar she struggled to her feet. Thoughts swirled round in her aching head as the hot sand swirled round her tired feet. Reluctantly, she began to walk.

After walking for a long time, the slave woman arrived at the campsite that was the only home she remembered. She took a deep breath, bowed her head and stepped inside the tent of her mistress

.*** *** ***

And so, Ishmael was born. As Abram took his firstborn in his arms he felt a strange uneasiness. Looking down at the tiny face with distinctive Egyptian features, he asked himself: Is this the promised child? Is this my heir? Somehow he felt he had taken a wrong turn in his effort to help God keep His promise of an heir and numerous descendants. But in spite of the doubts that clouded what should have been a moment of intense joy, Abram felt a surge of deep love for his son. The old man sighed as he tenderly kissed the baby’s forehead.

*** *** ***

“Get out of my way. Get out of the tent.”  The old woman pushed the toddler towards the opening.

“Go and lie down. I told you not to get up from your mat.” shouted a tall dark woman and shoved him back from the tent opening.

Totally frustrated the child threw himself on the ground and screamed, his protests mingling with the angry voices of the two women as they insulted one another. 

The tent flap moved and an elderly man stepped inside. Immediately the tirade ceased. The two women lowered their heads and their voices.   The old man bent down and picked up his small son still kicking and screaming.

From the security of his father’s arms the child looked from one woman to the other and scowled.  Then leaning his head on his father’s shoulder, he stuck two chubby fingers in his mouth and closed his eyes to his hostile surroundings. In the dreadful confusion one thing stood out in his baby mind: for some reason he was to blame for the constant conflict.

 *** *** ***

Lying on the sand, Ishmael gazed up into the sky. That afternoon he had overheard his father talking to some friends, telling them what Ishmael called “the star story”. He didn’t like that story, but if someone had asked him why, he would not have been able to explain. He had heard it so many times that he could repeat it from memory. And each time he heard it an arrow pierced his heart.  

The little boy crossed his arms under his head and imitating his father’s voice began to recite. “What do you think of this my friends, the Lord took me outside and said ‘Look up into the heavens and count the stars if you can. Your descendants will be like that ─ too many to count!’

In the growing darkness tiny points of light began to appear, and to him each star represented one of his father’s descendants. Ishmael shivered. Suddenly he felt terribly alone and confused. If he was his father’s son why did he always feel he wasn’t the protagonist of the story? Stretching up his arms he lifted an imaginary bow and began to shoot arrows in a futile attempt to switch off the hundreds of tiny lights.

To be continued

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