Restlessness draws me from slumber, as I carefully move a small pudgy arm
from my chest and roll out of bed. No use waking the children when there are
chores that command my full attention. A new dawn breaks, spreading streaky
pinks and oranges across the sky. So bright, I can see the colors peeking in
through the gap where the tent flap was left open. Ever so slowly, the hills,
trees, and craggy outposts sharpen into view. This barren wasteland, our home. Shivering,
I pull my shawl tighter around my shoulders to ward off some of the retreating
night’s chill.
Pushing open the
flap of our tent, I am thankful for my restlessness, as I see that I am one of
the first to arise and draw water. With this crowd, even such a simple task can
take much longer than it should. When I was a girl, back in Egypt, it was far
more civilized. We were able to drink and bathe, and there were certainly no
lines. Sure, we were forced to labor for the Egyptians, but it’s no different
than the laboring we do here. Besides, at least then we had food to eat, real
food.
All we ever get to
eat here is that Manna. Blech! I am so sick and tired of gathering manna,
cooking with manna, and especially eating manna! What I wouldn’t give for some
meat. As it stands, I’m sure I’ll never taste garlic or leeks or melon (my
favorite) again. Speaking of manna, as
the sun continues to rise, I look upon the light dew blanketing the ground. As
the dew evaporates, a flaky white substance becomes visible. This is our food.
While we are thankful to the Lord for his provision, a little variety would be
nice. We did get some quail a while back, but then immediately, another plague
befell some of the people in camp. Luckily, my family was not exposed to that.
After fetching the
water that we’ll need, I work quickly to gather the manna for that day’s meals.
Bringing it back to our tent area, I grind it into a flour-like substance. As I
do, my thoughts drift, each day blending into the ones before it. We wake, we
gather, we eat, we sleep. Sometimes we move. Sometimes we stay. There is no
plan, no reason. Often, we feel trapped, as if we have no say about our own
lives.
As the children wake and clamor to my side for
breakfast, my thoughts return to the task at hand. Ground manna, a touch of
olive oil, some water, and there you have it, flat cakes again. I spoon the
batter onto the oiled pan I heated over the fire, turning each cake as they
finish cooking. Mindfully, I reserve the best looking cakes for my husband.
He’s been in such a foul mood lately, I’m very careful not to set him off
further. Men and their tempers. Ever since it was decided that we were to
continue wandering, no one is quite sure what to think anymore.
It’s not like that scouting report even came back
favorably. Moses continues to assure the people that the land God promised our
father Abraham awaits. Sure, it awaits, but it’s filled with giants and
powerful warlords. Not quite a fair match for a band of wanderers, especially
one that doesn’t get good nourishment. As I finish serving breakfast and begin
cleaning up, I see my sisters and sister-in-laws heading to my tent with their
little ones. Perhaps the only good thing about our days here is that they are filled
with the joys of family.
Together, we share the burden of life in this desert.
The endless dust, the complaints of our husband and children about the food,
the heat, everything; it’s not as if we have the power to change it! My middle
sister sits beside me as I wipe the last traces of manna cakes from the pan,
and I know she has something good to tell me. She always gets this glint in her
eye when the gossip is especially provocative. She asks if I know of Korah, the
Levite. When I confirm that I do, she goes into great detail about how her
husband, who is one of the leaders of our tribe, was asked to participate in a
rebellion against Moses. While she assures me that he did not participate, we
both share a knowing look. We all feel as the rebels do. Enough is enough.
As the little ones play in the dust around our tents, we
women set to work in cleaning the interiors, beating out our bedding, and
washing soiled garments. This ever-present battle against the dust is waged
daily, and of which, I’m sure I’m on the losing end. By the time the wash is
finally drying on the lines we’ve strung up between our tents, the children are
ready for their mid-day meal. The thought of manna physically turns my stomach,
especially as the sun is now fully resting in the center of the sky, baking the
ground into sea of gold. Sweat rolls across my temples and travels down the
midpoint of my back, as I reach up to cover the top of my head. I fill a pot with
what little remains of the water gathered that morning and order my very-flushed
cheeked children to gather round.
As the pot of water takes its time coming to a boil over
the fire, I take more of the ground manna and work a small amount of oil into
the mixture, until it’s wet and holds together. Then, I form this mixture into small
fist-sized balls and drop them into the now boiling water. When the balls rise
to the top and float, I scoop them out onto a tray. My children, who know no
other food, look upon their meal with the delight of hungry little wild
animals. Urging them to finish quickly, I am anxiously awaiting my favorite
part of the day. Once full, I wash their hot little cheeks and dirty little
hands before ushering them back into our tent.
Once all of the children are laid down for their
afternoon rest, I move quickly to clean up the remainder of the meal, leaving
out a plate for my husband should he return early from assembly and decide he’s
hungry. Just before retiring back into the tent myself, I check to ensure the
things I hung out to dry aren’t bunching or blowing away. Then, finally, peace
and quiet. I lie on my mat, close my eyes and listen to the effortless breath
of my children as they sleep. No sooner had I fallen asleep when my
mother-in-law barges into the tent.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?,” she hisses. “No
wonder my son can’t catch a break. His lazy wife sleeps the day away!”
Sitting up, I respond, “I’m so sorry, mother. The sun’s
heat overwhelmed me today. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I thought you might want to know that while my son was
diligently presenting his case before the assembly, that equally lazy servant
of yours let our best calf wander away while she was watering the stock. What
kind of servant can’t even water the animals?! Now, we have to pay compensation
to the neighbors for what he ate! What do you plan to do about that?”
“I’ll deal with her immediately,” I assure her, as I
offer her a large portion of the fresh goat’s milk cheese I had made yesterday
as a peace offering. “Please, mother, bring father and come to dinner tonight.
We’ll make this right by you.”
She nods her head begrudgingly as she leaves the tent.
“Great,” I think to myself. Now that I have to prepare a
feast this evening, I certainly won’t be able to mend the holes the children
have worn into their clothes. Just as I am preparing to make a second trip to
fetch water, I see my husband heading down the row of tents toward our own, a
prominent scowl firmly affixed to his face. For a split second, I debate
slipping down to the well to fetch the water before he notices my presence.
Barking my name out harshly, escape is no longer an
option. “Yes, my husband?” I respond.
“Did you hear about the calf?” he asks.
“Yes, and I am just waiting for the girl to make her way
back, so I may speak to her myself about it,” I reply.
“Don’t bother,” he grunts, as he informs me that he sold
her to his uncle after a stern reprimand. When I don’t immediately respond, he
pushes past me to his plate of boiled manna that I set out under a cloth for
him and begins eating noisily.
Fixing my eyes on a point in the distance, I answer, “As
you have commanded it, let it be so, husband,” knowing that he was waiting for
me to disagree. Without my afternoon rest, I was in no mood to give him the
satisfaction of an argument. Picking up my water containers, I set off once
again for the well. On my way, I run into my sister, who wants to talk about
the calf, and tut-tuts her sympathies to me. She offers to send two of her
servants by to help this evening, one for help with the animals and one to help
with dinner. I express my sincerest gratitude for such a kind gesture.
No sooner had I arrived back, but the two servant girls
were standing outside my tent, awaiting further instruction. I sent the
livestock girl to water and feed our animals, and asked the second girl to help
me with dinner preparations. I hated to use what little we had left, but to
have honey and not use it, would be insulting. For the evenings’ feast, I
planned to sweeten the manna cakes with honey, and fry them in additional oil
to leave the edge crisp and more flavorful. I would serve the cakes with sliced
goat’s milk cheese, nuts I traded for, and wine.
The meal was officially underway thanks to the
additional hands in the kitchen, and some of my anxiety began to subside. The
older children, now awake, helped finish the dinner preparations and gather the
dishes we would need for the additional mouths. The littlest one, due in part
to the heat of the day, was still out cold. Just as the oil in the pan was hot
enough to pour the first cake, my in-laws arrived. The children milled about
their grandparents, holding out their hands for the special trinkets and
things, my husband’s father was sure to have brought with him.
My mother-in-law was thankfully satisfied by my
husband’s handling of the servant girl, her neighbors peaceably requiring no
recompense. After that, the rest of the meal went well. Bellies full, the children
got up to dance and sing an old song that told of our people’s exodus from the
land of Egypt. The adults clapped and sang along. All-in-all, it wasn’t a bad
evening. When no one could possibly eat, drink, or sing another thing, my
husband walked his parents back to their tent, as I asked the children to ready
themselves for bed. The servant girl, who had finished cleaning the meal, was
sent home to my sister. The night was already turning quite cool, especially
because of its contrast with the heat of the day.
Once I had gotten all of the children cleaned and ready
for bed, my husband returned home. As we did every night before sleep overtook
us, we raised a prayer of thanksgiving to the God of our fathers, of Abraham,
of Isaac, of Jacob. “For the deliverance from the bondage of our captors. While
we slaved in Egypt, you plotted our rescue.”
“Amen,” we agreed with the little ones.
Then, lying down once again on my mat, I listen. To the
soft, baby breaths of my children. To the nasally twang of my husband’s pre-snores.
To the last bits of movement of those in the tents around us. Collectively, our
people settle in for the night. Animals softly bleating and stamping their
hoofs as they work to get comfortable. A new day will dawn, just like those
preceding it, the sun will rise. But for now, this is all, and I rest.
