photo by Jane Bell Goldstein
Lot's Wife
by Laurie Taylor
Angels. Maybe. But if they’re really men, why are they eating like this? Hungry dogs tearing into the bread and soup I gave them. God’s army doesn’t need sustenance that depends on hard work and the clemency of the weather; God’s army is divine, that I am sure of. Still, they are beautiful men, unnaturally so. Even in the shadows of the flickering lamps and the smoke from the cooking fire, I can see the golden proportions of their faces, the radiance of their skin, how clean and lustrous is their hair, tied back with cord.
I am devoted to my husband’s kindness, but his devotion to God irritates me, frankly, irritates me. Sure, I believe in kindness to others and especially to strangers. I am worn down by the selfishness and meanness of the average person in today’s world, these supplicants to the twin idols of Pleasure and Greed. It seems like people are becoming sealed in the dark privacy of their bodies, and there is only this rough, blind contact as we push through the crowd of the marketplace, using our elbows to dig a way to a place in line at the next seller’s table. Yet, God created all this—if He created everything—and if so, then why is He playing this game with us, demanding we play by rules that are so difficult to sort from moment to moment in this darkness and this fear. God is the sweetness of a sudden summer rain, an exaltation of larks and the spring of the lion—but is he also an angry, punishing King of Kings?
Thinking all this, and more, I smile modestly and pour more wine and water into the glasses of the guests at our table, while observing the deference with which Lot speaks to the angels. My young daughters are curious about the visitors, but they hang back, watching from the doorway of the sleeping room. My husband’s conversation is making me nervous and I send the girls to bed early, so they will not hear or understand Lot’s complaints, his loathing of the evil that is practiced around us. I return to the men’s table, and just before I can lift the platter to replenish it, there is a loud knocking at the door. Lot gets up to answer and signals me to leave the room. The angels smile at me, as if to reassure me.
I sit behind the bedroom door, leaning against it, listening. There are many voices raised, shouting out at my husband from the street below. I hear my husband’s deep voice rising above the wave of noise and I know something terrible is happening. The crowd wants him to hand over our guests. I am so afraid that I can’t hear properly; it is as though my husband were speaking a foreign tongue. I can only distinguish a few words, inflected at the end of his sentences. Suddenly, the angels are in the room, standing over me.
“Wake your daughters and prepare yourself for a long journey. It is God’s reward and we are with you to guide you to a new life,” says the tallest one, and his voice slows my beating heart and dulls my senses. I want to lie down next to my daughters and go to sleep, but instead I simply do as I am told, hoping I can calm my children’s fears.
Behind our neighbor’s house, a rough trail winds up a steep hill to a meadow where goats and sheep graze in the daylight hours. We move silently, not daring to speak, even to ask where we are going. It is a dark moon and there is nothing to light our way, but we follow the angels, and Lot protects our backs. He gently places his hand on my shoulder as if to push me forward. I hear his voice instructing us, “God has saved my family and he has told me we must never look back. He will destroy all that we leave behind, and we must never turn our gaze backwards. We must move only in faith forward.”
Then, as soon as Lot has finished speaking, the black sky cracks open, hissing and spitting like a camel, glowing red like an ember. The air is hot and sour and burns our lungs. The children are moving quickly but whimpering in fear. My husband passes me on the trail, praying to God in a loud, confident voice; he reaches for my hand to pull me along. I am crying, silently, thinking of my cat Pamuk sleeping in my sewing basket. If all the shutters and doors are closed and the fires reach our house, can she escape? I forget. I forget if we closed the back door. I forget the simplest of things. I forget for a moment my husband’s words. I forget faith. I forget God.
I look back to see our yard, to see our home. I am crying and tasting the salt of my tears. I remember suddenly the summer I was younger, when I swam in the Salt Sea, and how the water tasted when my sister, playing with me, pushed my head under. I am choking, drowning, burning in tears.
I am devoted to my husband’s kindness, but his devotion to God irritates me, frankly, irritates me. Sure, I believe in kindness to others and especially to strangers. I am worn down by the selfishness and meanness of the average person in today’s world, these supplicants to the twin idols of Pleasure and Greed. It seems like people are becoming sealed in the dark privacy of their bodies, and there is only this rough, blind contact as we push through the crowd of the marketplace, using our elbows to dig a way to a place in line at the next seller’s table. Yet, God created all this—if He created everything—and if so, then why is He playing this game with us, demanding we play by rules that are so difficult to sort from moment to moment in this darkness and this fear. God is the sweetness of a sudden summer rain, an exaltation of larks and the spring of the lion—but is he also an angry, punishing King of Kings?
Thinking all this, and more, I smile modestly and pour more wine and water into the glasses of the guests at our table, while observing the deference with which Lot speaks to the angels. My young daughters are curious about the visitors, but they hang back, watching from the doorway of the sleeping room. My husband’s conversation is making me nervous and I send the girls to bed early, so they will not hear or understand Lot’s complaints, his loathing of the evil that is practiced around us. I return to the men’s table, and just before I can lift the platter to replenish it, there is a loud knocking at the door. Lot gets up to answer and signals me to leave the room. The angels smile at me, as if to reassure me.
I sit behind the bedroom door, leaning against it, listening. There are many voices raised, shouting out at my husband from the street below. I hear my husband’s deep voice rising above the wave of noise and I know something terrible is happening. The crowd wants him to hand over our guests. I am so afraid that I can’t hear properly; it is as though my husband were speaking a foreign tongue. I can only distinguish a few words, inflected at the end of his sentences. Suddenly, the angels are in the room, standing over me.
“Wake your daughters and prepare yourself for a long journey. It is God’s reward and we are with you to guide you to a new life,” says the tallest one, and his voice slows my beating heart and dulls my senses. I want to lie down next to my daughters and go to sleep, but instead I simply do as I am told, hoping I can calm my children’s fears.
Behind our neighbor’s house, a rough trail winds up a steep hill to a meadow where goats and sheep graze in the daylight hours. We move silently, not daring to speak, even to ask where we are going. It is a dark moon and there is nothing to light our way, but we follow the angels, and Lot protects our backs. He gently places his hand on my shoulder as if to push me forward. I hear his voice instructing us, “God has saved my family and he has told me we must never look back. He will destroy all that we leave behind, and we must never turn our gaze backwards. We must move only in faith forward.”
Then, as soon as Lot has finished speaking, the black sky cracks open, hissing and spitting like a camel, glowing red like an ember. The air is hot and sour and burns our lungs. The children are moving quickly but whimpering in fear. My husband passes me on the trail, praying to God in a loud, confident voice; he reaches for my hand to pull me along. I am crying, silently, thinking of my cat Pamuk sleeping in my sewing basket. If all the shutters and doors are closed and the fires reach our house, can she escape? I forget. I forget if we closed the back door. I forget the simplest of things. I forget for a moment my husband’s words. I forget faith. I forget God.
I look back to see our yard, to see our home. I am crying and tasting the salt of my tears. I remember suddenly the summer I was younger, when I swam in the Salt Sea, and how the water tasted when my sister, playing with me, pushed my head under. I am choking, drowning, burning in tears.