T he long train of ox-drawn wagons snaked from one horizon to the other as Yaakov, his sons, their wives, children and flocks moved toward Mizraim. Behind them lay a trampled bit of dry earth with empty pens for sheep and goats, a desolate land that no longer held a chance for life or happiness.
With so many, Shim’on knew the seventeen-day journey was certain to take twice its normal time. The women did not like to move quickly, and the children complained about the heat and the unusual routine. Many of the animals were weak from starvation and thirst; more than a few collapsed as the family moved forward. Re’uven commanded that the dead animals should be left where they lay and not skinned, an extravagant waste if Yosef had not promised to provide for all of them.
Shim’on made certain his sons handled his share of the family herds, then he fell into step beside his father’s wagon. Dina rode in the back under a canopy, her face hidden by a thick veil intended to keep out dust. Shim’on wondered if she wore it to keep out the world.
“Dina?”
“Yes, Shim’on?”
He squinted toward the horizon, then shifted his gaze to the back of his father’s head. Yaakov had not turned; he probably dozed in the heat.
“Before we left, I went to our family’s burial cave.”
She did not lift her veil, and he wondered if she had heard him. He could not see her eyes, only a slight movement of the veil as it fluttered with her breathing.
Finally, she answered. “What did you expect to find there?”
He let out a short laugh touched with embarrassment. He had hoped to find proof that her faith in God was useless. He had come home convinced that she spoke the truth.
“I didn’t find what I expected,” he answered, wiping sweat from his brow. “But I did find—something.”
She shifted under the veil as the wagon creaked and jounced. “Will you tell me?”
His pulse began to pound at the memory of his encounter. “I felt like a man who has spent his entire life gazing upon the world and thinks he sees with the strongest and keenest sight a creature can possess. But then a voice summoned me, and just as a man’s power of sight is dimmed and confused when he gazes at the sun’s brilliance, I was compelled to admit my sight is nothing. And every idea, every belief I have ever held must be reevaluated in the light of this new brightness, in the knowledge that God Shaddai cares—even about me.”
Dina did not answer, but Shim’on had not expected a reply. He walked in silence for several moments, knowing that she understood. Despair and grief had driven her to God Shaddai years ago.
“Were you frightened?” she asked, after a long silence.
“Yes, but yet not afraid. He told me…I was loved.”
He saw the gleam of a smile beneath her veil. “Yes, that is how He is,” she whispered, folding her hands at her waist. “To embrace Him is to know power, glory, agony, bewilderment and fear—but never to be afraid. He is unutterable love, Shim’on. Though the world burns around you, He is love.”
Shim’on did not understand everything she meant, but he nodded and slowed his pace until the wagon pulled ahead.
Of all his siblings, only Dina seemed to understand why his visit to the burial cave had left him shaken and unsteady. He had heard countless stories about how God spoke to Avraham and Yitzhak. Yaakov had often told the story of the night when he wrestled the angel of the Lord and earned the name Yisrael, or “he who strives with God.” But until the Cave of Machpelah, Shim’on had never heard the voice of God, had never imagined that he might personally strive with such an exalted being.
The experience had humbled him and broken his furious spirit. After encountering the mind of God, he had seen his anger as a madness that would bring nothing but shame. Un-checked, it would bring death. But God was merciful. He would forgive.
On the long walk from the cave back to the camp, Shim’on realized what Mandisa meant when she told him he was not a man who could love. Shim’on would yet prove to her that he had changed. But first, there were wrongs to right.
He quickened his pace until he again walked abreast of his father’s wagon. Yaakov sat at the front, his lined face turned toward the sun, his eyes closed.
Shim’on walked closer, matching the oxen’s plodding gait. “Father?”
“Yes, my son?” Yaakov’s eyes did not open, and Shim’on wondered if the old man even cared which son of Lea addressed him. For Binyamin those faded eyes would open, for Yosef they would even weep.
Enough. He had come to make peace, not to stir up old jealousies.
“Father, I have heard the voice of El Shaddai.”
Yaakov’s eyes did open then, and Yisrael turned toward him, astonishment lifting the lines on his face. “You, Shim’on?”
“Yes.” Shim’on ignored the insult in the question.
“And what,” Yisrael said, his tone filled with awe, “did God Almighty say to you?”
“The God of your fathers,” Shim’on answered, staring at the dusty path beneath his feet, “told me we should not fear to go into Egypt. He warned that we should not worship gods made of stone or wood.”
Yaakov turned his face back to the sun. “Anything else?”
Shim’on fingered his beard and stared forward. “The voice told me that El Shaddai would be found if I seek Him with all my heart and soul. ‘When you are in distress,’ He said, ‘return to the Lord your God and listen to His voice. For the Lord your God is a compassionate God. He will not fail you nor destroy you.’”
Yaakov seemed preoccupied for a moment, then he rested his hands on his knees and gave Shim’on a rare smile. “El Shaddai spoke to me, too, last night at Beersheba. He told me that He would not forsake us in Egypt. We will go down to Mizraim, but in time God will bring us up to Canaan again. And then,” his voice echoed with wonder, “El Shaddai promised that when I die, Yosef will close my eyes.”
Sunshine broke across the old man’s face at this last remark, and the twin adders of hate and jealousy rose in Shim’on’s breast. In an effort to beat down the emotions that threatened to choke his voice, he punched the sand with his staff. He had come to this wagon to make peace.
“Father, you must forgive me.”
“Forgive you, Shim’on?”
“For hating you.” Shim’on heard a trace of venom in his voice, but he could not erase it. “I hated you for not loving my mother. I hated you for favoring Yosef, then Binyamin. I hated you for placing my mother and my brothers before Rahel when we advanced to meet Esav. I hated you for not rising to defend Dina when Shekhem accosted her.” The bitterness and regret of a lifetime rose in his throat, shredding his voice. “And I hated you especially for not stopping me when I took Dina’s child into the wilderness.”
Shim’on waited for a response, and when none came, he dared to look up at his father. Yaakov sat motionless in the wagon, his chin set in a stubborn line, his expression pained.
“Father, will you forgive me?”
After a long, brittle silence, Yaakov spoke. “I am weary, Shim’on.”
Had he not heard a word? Or was he choosing to ignore Shim’on’s confession?
At that moment Shim’on understood the release that comes from asking forgiveness, and the sting of forgiveness withheld.
Was this how Mandisa had felt when he turned from her at the vizier’s house? Even though in his heart he knew she had not meant to insult him, he had enjoyed denying her forgiveness. And so he had wounded her again. Just as Yaakov’s silence hurt him now.
For a long interval Yaakov sat in the cart, staring mindlessly over the heads of the oxen. Finally he drew a deep breath. “I have lived a long life,” he said, his voice dull and troubled. “I have done a few things to honor God, but many times, in my weakness and deception, I have dishonored His name. In a bit of trickery, I pretended to be my brother to steal his birthright. In a similar bit of trickery, Lea pretended to be Rahel to steal my love. God has not let me escape unscathed from my wanton deeds, and I fear I have paid the price for my mistakes with you, Shim’on.”
“Father, I—”
Yaakov cut him off with a gesture. “I fell short as a son, and I have fallen short as a father. I am not a perfect man.”
He turned, eyeing Shim’on with a calculating expression. “I had to keep peace between two wives, Shim’on, and you have none. I had to keep peace between twelve sons, and you have only six. Can you be a better father and husband than I with no wives and half as many sons?”
A muscle clenched along his jaw as he turned again to the horizon. “Judge your own house before you judge mine, Shim’on. Set your affairs in order. When you are a perfect man, come to me again.”