I see you, hoping against hope in something that does not yet exist. You tell me your God gives life to the dead, calls something out of nothing. I see you growing stronger, staggering less. Well I just feel like a drunkard, wandering around the desert on sour curds and milk. But the oaks are talking still, echoing words of glory I strain to hear:
Father Abraham, do you know your children have ipods? That we can look up your travels on Wikipedia? But we have oak trees too, that look something like the ones here at Mamre. Shade is a timeless treasure, and it’s nice to sit under the oaks on hot summer days like today.
When the tent flaps blow in the wind, slapping against the frame, I remember the day three strange men came. I remember the promises made, incredulous promises that seemed to mock dead wombs and old bones. The heat puts me in a contemplative mood – the sound of the branches rustling and goatskins flapping and flies buzzing makes it all seem like somewhat of a dream. The horizon looks hazy, as if a lake could appear in the distance at any moment. A trick of the eyes, of the heat… I hear whispers in the wind. Do you hear it too?
I think I might be crazy. It’s not just about the mirages and voices in my head. It’s about being here, following your steps. I’m a descendent, you know, though I look nothing like you or Sarah. I’m trying to figure out where I’m going by tracing family history. This detour into the past may give me clues to my own future. I heard the call too, but now it seems so distant. Ur was a long time ago. Who have I become along the way?
Is anything too difficult for Yahweh?