There was a party, a celebration. Not for him, but for that small boy that was Sara's. Ishmael knew that his mother was not the wife of his father. She was Sara's slavegirl. Sara was his father's wife. But she was very old, almost as old as Avraham. She was still very beautiful, but no-one had expected her to have a baby at her age. Ishmael wondered about it. Women should have babies when they were young, like his mother.
He remembered the times when Sara would scream and shout at his mother, sometimes even beating her. She hated his mother and he knew she hated him, too. Avraham loved his son Ishmael, and was very kind to Hagar and Sara was jealous. He would see her eyes on his mother, watching her, glittering with rage whenever Hagar went near Avraham. She would not allow Ishmael anywhere near her tent either. Many times he had heard her talking to Avraham, her voice sharp and angry.
"I wish you would send them away! I don't trust them. And that boy - I don't like his eyes. He's bad!"
Avraham would sigh deeply.
"My dear, I can't send them away. I have a responsibility to them. Ishmael is my son. You must remember that it was your own idea that Hagar should give me a child."
"Yes - because you kept on and on about that promise you were waiting for. The promise from God, you said. Well, there's no use thinking that I'll have a baby at MY age. It's not natural." The sharpness in her voice gave way to a husky laugh.
"Can you imagine - an old woman of ninety becoming pregnant! O, my dear husband, what a terrible situation we are in. All because of a promise that will never be kept." He heard the tears in her voice.
Then Avraham's voice, tender and loving, a voice he never used to Hagar: "My beloved wife. You are more precious to me than anything in the world. I should never have allowed this to happen. I should have waited for the LORD God to do things in His time."
Ishmael remembered his sick feeling of rejection when he heard that. To him it sounded as though his Abba didn't really want him.
And then, the unbelievable thing happened. Sara, at the age of ninety, became pregnant. When the baby arrived, a boy, Avraham named him Yitzchak - "laughter". "Because," he said, "this one has brought such joy to Sara and to me."
There was a party, a celebration. Not for him, but for that small boy that was Sara's. Ishmael knew that his mother was not the wife of his father. She was Sara's slavegirl. Sara was his father's wife. But she was very old, almost as old as Avraham. She was still very beautiful, but no-one had expected her to have a baby at her age. Ishmael wondered about it. Women should have babies when they were young, like his mother.
