They call me “the old woman” now, behind my back. To my face it’s still a respectful “grandmother.” And the little ones still come to hear the stories of the old days, the days of struggle and doubt. But there’s no one left who’s ever been to Egypt, or lived in a town. Sometimes even I forget that I was ever anyone other than the mother of Ishmael. But I had a name, once. Once, a long time ago, I was Hagar.
I was 14 when Pharaoh gave me to Abraham as part of Sarai’s bride price. And of course I was delighted. In the king’s house I was only one slave among many, but in a foreigner’s household, even a rich one, an Egyptian slave would have many opportunities to move into a position of power and influence. After all, what was I competing against, anyway? A bunch of rustics. They probably couldn’t even read, and they certainly didn’t know anything about real culture and civiliza-tion. This could only be a step up for me.
You do remember what happened, don’t you? How Abram pretended that Sarai wasn’t his wife but his sister, and so naturally Pharaoh’s men took Sarai for the king’s house. She was beautiful, after all, even I have to admit that, and Pharaoh ’d never had a Habiru woman before, so of course he would be interested. And he paid Abram well, too; only barbarians steal each other’s women. I can’t tell you how many cattle and sheep and donkeys she cost him, plus enough slaves to look after them, not to mention me. Pharaoh even gave away some camels. I think Abram was the first person ever to take camels into Canaan. But Abram’s God intervened, and scared Pharaoh so badly that he evicted the whole lot of them without even asking for his property back. Including me.
Well, I hadn’t expected that, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. There were still opportunities. I was assigned to be Sarai’s maidservant, which certainly was better than weaving or cooking, and it gave me a lot of chances to be noticed by Abram. But you know what? He never even glanced at me. You’d think the man was blind - or even a eunuch - for all the good my pretty Egyptian clothes and Egyptian eye-paint did.
In the whole time I lived with them, Abram never took another concubine but me. And the only reason he finally got around to paying me any attention was because Sarai told him to. But that didn’t matter, I thought, this was the chance I’d been waiting for, and Sarai was getting old even though she was still pretty so of course I’d be set for life as Abram’s second wife. Especially since I got pregnant right away. All the years they’d been married, and she never conceived even once! Any other man would have had a dozen more wives by this time. So I was sitting pretty, I thought, and even if Abram didn’t give me my own tent and maidservant right away the least he could do was get somebody else to tend to Sarai. I shouldn’t have to be waiting on her hand and foot in my condition, I was carrying his first-born, after all. And what was she, anyway, just another woman past her prime who hadn’t been able to perform the simplest, most basic duty of a wife - to bear children. I deserved better from her. I deserved better from Abram, too. I still think so. Sarai was spoiled, that’s all. He should have taken a second wife years before and gotten her used to the idea that she couldn’t be queen bee all the time. No Egyptian husband would have put up with the nonsense she put him through.
When I complained to Abram I found out that Sarai had gotten in before me. “This is between you and Sarai,” he said. “I never interfere in domestic matters.” Well, I knew that, hadn’t I been watching her wind him around her little finger for years? But this was to be HIS SON. He should have taken SOME responsibility. I wept and I pleaded but it didn’t do me any good. The tears were real, too, this time. I didn’t have to think sad thoughts and hold my breath to make them come.
So the next time she beat me (it was for spilling lamp oil on her rose-colored wool tunic) I ran away. I didn’t know where I was going to go, I just knew I couldn’t stay another day in the same house with that woman. So I just took off in the direction of Egypt. I suppose I wasn’t really thinking clearly, but I might have run across a caravan that would take me the rest of the way.
But I didn’t get very far. On the second day I was resting by a spring feeling sorry for myself and wondering if I’d done the right thing after all, I mean, she’d beaten me before and I survived, and what if I didn’t find a caravan going to Egypt, what if I ran into bandits, or wild animals? So there I was, imagining disaster after disaster when I heard a voice: “Hagar, slave girl of Sarai, where are you going?”
So of course I thought that one of Abram’s men had followed me until I looked up and I’d never seen him before in my life. And he said it again, “Hagar, slave girl of Sarai, where are you going?” So I told him I was running away and he told me to go back and put up with her, no matter how bad it got. So then I started to tell him how cruel Sarai had been and how Abram didn’t defend me at all even though I was pregnant and he interrupted me and said, “You are going to have a son.” And then he prophesied to me, saying that God had noticed how badly I’d been treated, and told me to name my son Ishmael, which means “God has heard me,” and I knew he wasn’t just an ordinary man but a messenger from God, maybe even God himself, and it’s true that when I bowed down and called him El-Ro’i, the God who sees, he didn’t correct me. But when I looked up he was gone.
So I went back. And I apologized to Sarai and she apologized to me and I did get my separate tent but Abram never came to visit me again, he only cared about getting me pregnant, not about me at all.
Abram was good to Ishmael, I have to give him credit for that. I think he really loved him. But Sarah certainly didn’t! The way she acted around him you’d never guess that it had all been her idea in the beginning, to give Abram a son through me. And I thought for sure – wouldn’t you? that with God appearing to me and all, telling me about my son, that it meant Ishmael would indeed be Abram’s heir, and that I would be safe and honored after all, as his mother, even though I hadn’t found any favor in Abram’s eyes.
But then Sarai got pregnant.
It was positively indecent, at her age. And Abram went prancing about like a ram in spring, practically beating his chest with pride. They kept talking about God and miracles, and something about “the promise” until I was just heartily sick of it all. What about MY son? What about MY place? What about MY inheritance?
I could see that I was going to have to take matters into my own hands. I made sure Ishmael was front and center all the time, making himself useful to Sarai and indispensable to Abram, you know, solidifying his position. He was fourteen when Isaac was born, and Abram began to rely on him for a lot of things. Ishmael got along well with little Isaac, too, who was a puny little thing if I ever saw one, not a candle to my fine, strong son. I was so sure Abram wouldn’t disinherit Ishmael for that little weed that I stopped being careful. But then at Isaac’s weaning ceremony Sarai saw Ishmael playing with Isaac and I don’t know what got into her, maybe she just saw for the first time how much stronger and taller Ishmael was than Isaac would ever be and she just couldn’t stand it. So she went to Abram and demanded that he send us away.
Well, to Abram’s credit he stood up to her for a while. The rest of the day, in fact. But the next morning early he came by my tent with a skin of water and a leather pouch with provisions and told us we had to leave. I looked at him, stunned, and asked, “Why? What have we done? Hasn’t Ishmael been a good son to you? Have I ever made trouble for you and Sarai?” He wouldn’t meet my eyes, and mumbled something about God telling him he had to do it and that we’d be all right. He had that tone in his voice that told me protesting wouldn’t be of any use. He stood at the tent flap and watched while I threw some things together for the journey. I didn’t cry this time. I was too sick at heart. Ishmael knelt at his father’s feet but I pulled him away and gave him the bag of provisions and the sleeping robes. Abram balanced the water skin on my shoulders. And without another word we set off into the wilderness. We were much farther north than I had been when I ran away 16 years before. Even if everything went well it would take weeks to walk all the way to Egypt.
“Where are you now, God” I raged silently as we walked. “I did what you told me and see what has happened! What good is your 16-year old promise now? Ishmael - God hears me - indeed!” We walked all morning and through the noon sun. Ishmael finally stopped asking me questions I couldn’t answer. It was cold when we stopped for the night. We only drank a little water and had a mouthful of bread each; it had to last a long time unless we got lucky and found some way to re-provision on the way. But we never came across a soul. I lost track of the days by the time we finally ran out of water. When we lay down to rest I knew we wouldn’t get up again. I dragged myself away so as not to see my son’s death, and began to weep. And the same voice that I had heard 16 years before said, “What is the matter, Hagar? Have you forgotten what I told you before? God has heard you. Lift up the boy, for I will make a great nation of him.” And I looked up and there was a spring. And so we drank.
And God continued to provide for us. We found game, and since Ishmael was skilled with a bow, we never went without meat, and we traded for the other things we needed. Soon other wanderers joined us at the spring. After a few years I sent for a wife from Egypt for my son, and she was fruitful. I can’t even count my grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
But I look back on things now and I think I made a mistake. I was very bitter for a long time against Abram and Sarai, for what they did was unjust. I saw only that God had rewarded them instead of punishing them. I didn’t see that it had been my ambition, as much as Sarai’s jealousy, that had brought the troubles. I didn’t see that God had arranged everything so that Isaac and Ishmael would each have their own place, their own line. And so I taught Ishmael to hate, and all of his children have learned to hate. I fear what will come in the future.
But they do not hear me when I tell them that God’s hand is on Isaac’s children, just as it is on us. Why do we covet what is not ours? Why do we seek revenge for long-healed wounds? Sarai is gone, and her sharp tongue and scheming ways with her; Abram is gone, who only wanted to live with peace in his household; and I will go soon, who wanted above all to see my son free and proud. God has given Isaac what he has, and God has given Ishmael what we have. Is it not enough?
