another thought he went to sleep.
Mara heard footsteps, then muffled laughter as goodnights were said. She saw the light glowing through the qata, the brightly woven cloth that divided Lot’s section of the tent from hers. She called his name softly and he came around to stand by her fire. She quickly knelt and loosed his sandals, banked the cushions for him to sit, and motioned for him to relax. “Was there news? Has anyone heard just where we’re going?”
It was a subject they never tired of discussing, and Lot sank down on the cushions, ready to tell what he knew.
“Did he say where we are going?” she asked again eagerly.
“He never says. He’s always vague, but I have a feeling we’re almost there. Maybe a new moon or two, and we’ll see this land he’s to be given.”
“How do you know? What makes you think such a thing?”
“It’s just a feeling I have.”
“What feeling? What do you feel?”
“I guess it’s his own excitement. You can’t be around him without sensing something wonderful is about to happen.”
“So you think it’s all true? He’s really going to have all these promises come true?”
“He’s a sensible man … a very pragmatic man. And he believes and is even more excited than I am.”
“But the famine … what about the famine? I thought there was a famine in the land west of the Jordan.”
Lot jabbed at the fire. “Who knows? One can’t always believe traders. Anyway, can you imagine Abram’s God giving him some land blighted by famine? All his talk and excitement for nothing? It’s hard to imagine such a thing.”
Mara shrugged and looked out into the darkness. “He and Sarai would be so embarrassed. After all that talk about his God, convincing all of us to come along, even leaving the family gods behind, it would be quite devastating.”
“He didn’t ask any of us to come,” Lot said defensively. “It was something we chose to do.”
“However it was, it will be most embarrassing if there should be a famine,” Mara tried to speak calmly, but her voice held an edge of malicious enjoyment that Lot completely missed.
T hey heard only rumors of the famine until they came to ford the Jordan near the city of Hazor. Here they met a straggling band of men and their families fleeing Shechem in the valley of Mukhnah. With hollow eyes and distended bellies, they spoke of famine, dust storms, and heat.
When urged, they reported that most of the people had gone to Egypt or down the Wadi Far’ah to the land east of the Jordan. “The rains should have come a month ago,” one of them said. “It was just the same as last year, and the year before. Now it’s even the drinking water. The streams and cisterns are all going dry.”
The men in Abram’s band looked at him, thinking to see some hesitancy, some reaction. Though he listened, the depressing news seemed at first to have little effect on his enthusiasm. But when the sun beat down mercilessly and the nights grew hot and suffocating, Abram became silent and thoughtful, yet still insisting that they press on toward the valley.
Finally one little boy pointed out birds of prey that seemed to be following them, and Abram became disturbed. Great vultures and hawks would come flapping their wings and then light in the dusty branches of the tall carob trees where they could look down on his company with parted beaks and hungry eyes. “That’s ominous,” he muttered. “Birds don’t act like that without some awful carnage.”
The farther they went, the more they encountered bad omens, repeated warnings of hunger, lack of water, and a terrible, debilitating heat. All the people they met seemed almost speechless, unable to tell adequately of the horror they had experienced.
Finally the men and women in Abram’s company began to beg him, first gently and then insistently, to turn back or go another route. To their surprise, he pushed his headpiece back and wiped the sweat from his brow but insisted they
Mara heard footsteps, then muffled laughter as goodnights were said. She saw the light glowing through the qata, the brightly woven cloth that divided Lot’s section of the tent from hers. She called his name softly and he came around to stand by her fire. She quickly knelt and loosed his sandals, banked the cushions for him to sit, and motioned for him to relax. “Was there news? Has anyone heard just where we’re going?”
It was a subject they never tired of discussing, and Lot sank down on the cushions, ready to tell what he knew.
“Did he say where we are going?” she asked again eagerly.
“He never says. He’s always vague, but I have a feeling we’re almost there. Maybe a new moon or two, and we’ll see this land he’s to be given.”
“How do you know? What makes you think such a thing?”
“It’s just a feeling I have.”
“What feeling? What do you feel?”
“I guess it’s his own excitement. You can’t be around him without sensing something wonderful is about to happen.”
“So you think it’s all true? He’s really going to have all these promises come true?”
“He’s a sensible man … a very pragmatic man. And he believes and is even more excited than I am.”
“But the famine … what about the famine? I thought there was a famine in the land west of the Jordan.”
Lot jabbed at the fire. “Who knows? One can’t always believe traders. Anyway, can you imagine Abram’s God giving him some land blighted by famine? All his talk and excitement for nothing? It’s hard to imagine such a thing.”
Mara shrugged and looked out into the darkness. “He and Sarai would be so embarrassed. After all that talk about his God, convincing all of us to come along, even leaving the family gods behind, it would be quite devastating.”
“He didn’t ask any of us to come,” Lot said defensively. “It was something we chose to do.”
“However it was, it will be most embarrassing if there should be a famine,” Mara tried to speak calmly, but her voice held an edge of malicious enjoyment that Lot completely missed.
T hey heard only rumors of the famine until they came to ford the Jordan near the city of Hazor. Here they met a straggling band of men and their families fleeing Shechem in the valley of Mukhnah. With hollow eyes and distended bellies, they spoke of famine, dust storms, and heat.
When urged, they reported that most of the people had gone to Egypt or down the Wadi Far’ah to the land east of the Jordan. “The rains should have come a month ago,” one of them said. “It was just the same as last year, and the year before. Now it’s even the drinking water. The streams and cisterns are all going dry.”
The men in Abram’s band looked at him, thinking to see some hesitancy, some reaction. Though he listened, the depressing news seemed at first to have little effect on his enthusiasm. But when the sun beat down mercilessly and the nights grew hot and suffocating, Abram became silent and thoughtful, yet still insisting that they press on toward the valley.
Finally one little boy pointed out birds of prey that seemed to be following them, and Abram became disturbed. Great vultures and hawks would come flapping their wings and then light in the dusty branches of the tall carob trees where they could look down on his company with parted beaks and hungry eyes. “That’s ominous,” he muttered. “Birds don’t act like that without some awful carnage.”
The farther they went, the more they encountered bad omens, repeated warnings of hunger, lack of water, and a terrible, debilitating heat. All the people they met seemed almost speechless, unable to tell adequately of the horror they had experienced.
Finally the men and women in Abram’s company began to beg him, first gently and then insistently, to turn back or go another route. To their surprise, he pushed his headpiece back and wiped the sweat from his brow but insisted they
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