Setting: Genesis 16:15-16
There can be no doubt that Ishmael is the child of the promise. He is the singular delight of his father Abram, and not without reason. Even as a young boy he excelled at the adding and subtracting of numbers, the prediction of weather, the interpretation of the hosts of heaven, and all manner of intelligent pursuits.
He is a brave hunter, and more capable than any other man his age.
He knows how to stand up for himself. He is proud and strong and will not accept injustice in the world without recompense.
Things have never been the same between myself and Sarai since Ishmael was born. She smiles when she sees me, and she tells me what a fine son I have given Abram; how handsome and how noble. She says, too, that surely he is the promised one.
But her words are merely polite, not really celebratory, and I see a tiredness in her eyes when she smiles. It is as if the core of her being were an incredibly tired heart of stone, and so she must spend her days softly smiling and doing odd chores instead of living from her heart.
Still, I see that she loves Abram and takes refuge in his bosom, and that she loves to play with the children and to care for them, even Ishmael. Maybe it is alright, to live out one’s days without ever really facing the darkest parts of our souls? Maybe there are wounds too deep to truly heal, which are better left alone than agitated by arguments or prayers?