He was a man with a promise. She was a slave with a son. His son. But the promise won, and she and her son had to go because Sarah let the hammer fall. “Drive out this slave with her son, for the son of this slave will not be a coheir with my son Isaac!”
And I wonder if Abraham’s heart broke that day. Did he cry? Did he wish there could be some other way? Did it leave a hole in him that nothing would ever fill?
Surely he loved his son the way we love ours.
And then the water was gone and a slave-turned-mother couldn’t keep her son alive. And I wonder if she was just undone with sadness and grief and resentment over a life she didn’t choose.
Maybe choices others made for her broke her, the way they break us.
“So as she sat nearby, she wept loudly”.
She couldn’t watch him die and I can’t blame her one bit, but I want to blame someone. Sarah. Abraham. God? Maybe. Because dying children is the big unfair and someone has to take the blame for a mother’s loud weeping.
But God heard. And in this dark story, light breaks in. When God hears our weeping and speaks to a heart that’s been split wide open, something lifts. Hope comes near again.
But none of that is the point. This is the reason I sat down here–
“Then God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water.”
She saw what she hadn’t seen before – what would change her mourning into dancing and make her weep loud with joy.
She saw hope and goodness and provision and life because He opened her eyes.
And I wonder.
What would I see if God opened my eyes?
What if my thirst has been seen and my well is already there? What if healing and hope and love and provision and comfort are all right there on the other side of the veil, waiting for my eyes to open? What if a well in the desert isn’t hard for God? What if my impossibles aren’t impossible at all? What if my longings are known and what if my search could be over?
What if He opened my eyes and I saw what’s been there all along.