Genesis 30:22-24 Then God remembered Rachel; he listened to her and enabled her to conceive. She became pregnant and gave birth to a son and said, “God has taken away my disgrace.” She named him Joseph, and said, “May the Lord add to me another son.” (NIV)

Jacob and Esau were friends again. And that was wonderful. But there was still one other rivalry in the family.

Rivalry, a definition:

A rivalry is when you are always looking sideways at someone else. You look over to see how fast they run so you can run faster. You look over to see what food they make so the food you cook will be tastier. You look over to see what books they are reading so the books you read will be longer and have bigger words. And because you are always looking sideways, you miss what is right in front of you — the beautiful world and all the glorious things God has given you. And so it is impossible to win a rivalry. You can only step out of it or let it balloon. And if a rivalry continues for months and years and decades, it will rot the happiness right out of you until you are like a hollow log, empty all the way through.

Leah and Rachel were rivals. But that wasn’t always true. Before they were rivals, they were sisters. And when they were little, they played together as sisters, and braided each other’s hair, and sang and jumped rope together, and did chores together, and shared inside jokes. But everything changed when Jacob appeared at the well.

I have told you how much Jacob loved Rachel, and how sad he was when he was tricked into marrying Leah instead. But Leah was also sad to be married to someone who didn’t love her. And she was even sadder when Jacob married Rachel, too. And this is where the rivalry began.

Now, we need to pause here, because it probably seems very strange to you that Jacob was married to two people at the same time. And you’d be right to feel that way, because it is strange. It’s called polygamy, and polygamy has a very complicated history. But what is very clear in this family (like most families in the Bible who tried polygamy) is that polygamy created a lot of problems.

Because when Jacob married Rachel after already marrying Leah, it became hard for the sisters to be sisters while also being wives to the same person. So instead, they became rivals, looking sideways at each other. Leah looked over and saw how Jacob always wanted to sit with Rachel at the table, and how he liked her food best of all, and shared jokes with her. And Rachel looked over and saw how Leah was pregnant while Rachel’s stomach stayed perfectly flat and completely empty.

When Leah had her baby, she was excited, but not just because it was her own precious little child. She thought that by having a baby, she would become Jacob’s favorite wife. So she named her first baby Ruben, which means, “See, a son!” (which is pretty much like saying to Rachel, “nah nah, nah nah boo boo. I had a baby before you.”) Leah announced the baby’s name, then looked over and saw how Rachel turned all red in the face, and how her hand brushed over her own empty abdomen, then balled into a fist. And when Rachel ran out of the tent crying, Leah felt a little bad, but she was a little bit glad because she thought she had won the rivalry.

But then Jacob went running out of the tent after Rachel, leaving Leah all alone in her bloody sheets with the baby. Leah’s face turned red, too. She hadn’t won after all. So she made a plan. She would have as many babies as she could so that Jacob would like her the best, because who doesn’t like armfuls of babies?

And that’s exactly what she did. Leah had another baby, and she named him Simeon, which means “one who hears,” because, she said, “God heard that I am not loved, so he gave me this baby.” And she looked over at Rachel, but she saw that Jacob still liked Rachel’s food more, and sat by her at dinner, and held her hand during evening walks. So she had another baby, and she named him Levi, which means “attached,” because, she said, “Now my husband will be attached to me.” But when she looked over, she saw that Jacob still loved Rachel the most. So she decided to have another baby, and she named him Judah, which means something like “praise,” because, she said, “I will praise the Lord for giving me so many children.” But still, Jacob loved Rachel more. And Leah’s happiness was rotting right out of her.

But Rachel was just as miserable. She saw how Leah’s four boys’ cheeks pushed their eyes into the sweetest squints when they smiled at their mother, and how they played and wrestled and laughed, and how they loved their mother more than anyone else in the world. And she turned to Jacob and shouted, “My life isn’t worth anything unless I have a baby. Give me children or I will die!”

And then Rachel did something very sad. She gave Jacob her maid and said, “Make her have a baby, and I’ll say the baby is mine.” And Jacob, like his grandfather before him, said, “Okay.” And the maid did have a baby, and then another one. And Rachel took the babies and said, “These are mine now.” And she called them Dan, which means “God has ended my curse!” and Naphtali, which means something like “I struggled with my sister and now I won!” And she held the babies like trophies.

When Leah saw what Rachel had done, she decided to send her own maid and told Jacob to make her pregnant, too. And her maid had two babies also, which Leah counted as her own. And then, Leah had a few more babies herself, just for good measure. Which is exactly what Rachel couldn’t do.

And so you see how the rivalry made the two sisters forget that they were sisters. Leah only saw how Jacob loved Rachel the most. And Rachel only saw how Leah was surrounded by beautiful, big-eyed children. “If only I could have one baby of my very own,” she thought, “then at last I can be happy.”

And Rachel finally got what she’d wanted. She became pregnant. She pushed the baby out of her body, and he came with ten perfect fingers and ten beautiful toes and pink cheeks and chubby thighs, and he was the most beautiful thing Rachel had ever seen. She gazed deeply into his perfect eyes for a moment, but then she looked over at Leah, sitting on the other side of the fire, surrounded by children. And Rachel said, “I will name him Joseph,” which means, “God, please give me another baby.”

And she got what she wanted and became pregnant again. And after the child came, she kept bleeding and bleeding until there was nothing left. Her body hollowed. Her skin grew white and her voice weak. She was dying. Rachel looked all around her. Jacob was there, and Joseph and, to her surprise, so was Leah. She had always been there. And Rachel realized for the first time how much their rivalry had taken from her. Her marriage. Her children. Her sister. And now her life. She touched the baby’s face with frail fingers. “Call him Benoni,” she said, which means “son of sorrow.”

A tear appeared in her eye as she faded away, like she were falling asleep. But she was not asleep. She was gone. Rachel died. But the rivalry lived on, passed from mother to child like a disease. And the children of Rachel and Leah entered the world through the veil of their mothers’ sorrow. And when they were born, they were born already in tribes. And they would fight and feud and fall apart. And Rachel died feeling the weight of this tragedy.

But that was only part of the children’s inheritance. Read the stories that come before this one, and you will find love, and generosity, and sacrifice, and bravery, and determination, and reconciliation. And you will find God also. And you will see that he has big plans for this family. They were going to build his city. And he was not going to simply let them fail. No matter how far apart they drifted, no matter where their jealousy and selfishness carried them, no matter the distance they were scattered, God would find a way to gather them back together in a place they could all call home.

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Genesis 33:3-4 He himself went on ahead and bowed down to the ground seven times as he approached his brother. But Esau ran to meet Jacob and embraced him; he threw his arms around his neck and kissed him. And they wept. (NIV)

Jacob and Esau were twins. And like most twins, they became best friends and invented words and games together. But they also competed and wrestled and fought.

And whenever they fought, Esau always won. He was just too fast, and athletic, and graceful, and strong. And so their playing often ended with Jacob crying. He’d have a bruise here or a bump there. And a bloody cut was not uncommon. But still, Jacob fought and lost and cried. And no matter how hard he struggled, no matter how desperate he wrestled, he never seemed to win. Esau was better at just about everything. And he kept getting better and better at more and more things.

As Esau became a man, he grew a beard, and hair bloomed across his chest. His biceps ballooned and his shoulders broadened. His strength and athleticism made him an excellent hunter. Every week, he would come home with an antelope over his shoulder like a hero, and people would cheer for the victorious hunter. And he learned to smoke the meat like his father liked it, low and slow, and the smell would fill the farm, and everyone would know Esau had done it again.

Jacob, on the other hand, was slender and wiry and could not grow a beard. He had thin arms and a narrow chest. And while Esau was beautiful to watch riding a horse, or running, or shooting a bow, Jacob was more stiff, gangly, and awkward. Where there was strength and elegance in Esau’s movements, there was just plain determination in Jacob’s.

And Rebekah never stopped worrying about her two children. She wanted them both to be successful and happy. And so she tried to teach Esau to be considerate of his slower, weaker brother. To look out for him and care for him. And she tried to teach Jacob that he could not rely on his muscles or stamina against Esau. Instead, he’d have to be clever. What he lacked in strength, he could make up for with intelligence. And so Rebekah taught Jacob how to plot, plan, and strategize.

She sent Esau out to hunt for antelope in the distant hills. And she packed him a lunch with only a single cracker, a tiny block of cheese, and a half-empty water bottle. She knew by the time he came back, he’d be starving. And she told Jacob what to do next.

When Esau came home, Jacob had a fresh batch of oatmeal stewing. Esau smelled the wet oats, brown sugar, and cinnamon, and his mouth began to water. “Can I have some of your oats?” he asked. “I’m so hungry!”

“Sure,” Jacob said. “As long as I get to inherit the farm.” This made Esau mad. Was his brother willing to take advantage of him like this? He’d spent the whole day hunting for the family. He’d worked for hours with almost no food or water, and now that he was almost ready to faint, his own brother would use that against him? It felt cruel.

“Fine,” Esau said. “You can have it. If the farm means that much to you, take it. What good is a farm if I starve to death?”

And so Rebekah’s plan had worked. And Jacob saw that a little manipulation could accomplish great things. And so Jacob and Rebekah hatched another scheme. They were going to steal Esau’s blessing.

Blessing, a definition:

A blessing is a gift from God to you. And it’s non-transferable. That means you can’t give it away. If God gives you kindness, or patience, or faith, or stubbornness, you can’t just decide to hold a garage sale and put your blessing on a rack for people to look through and purchase for themselves. You can’t trade it like trading cards. You can’t throw it in the trash. It’s just yours like a freckle on your face.

But Rebekah and Jacob didn’t know you can’t steal blessings. How could they? They were the first to try. This was their plan. The two boys were going to receive blessings from their father, Isaac. He was old and mostly blind and about to die. But before he went, he was going to place his hands on their heads one more time and bless them.

And when he did, Jacob would trick his father into thinking he was actually Esau. That way, his father would accidentally give Jacob Esau’s blessings. So Jacob put sheepskin on his arms so he was hairy, and tied rocks to his biceps so they felt strong, and put chunks of bark on his shoulders to make them seem broad and tough and manly. And Rebekah cooked some antelope and had Jacob bring it with him.

Before entering his father’s room, Jacob cleared his throat, lowered his voice and tried to imitate his brother’s tone. “Hello, nope, why hello there, yes, yes, better. Howdy, father of mine. No, too much,” He tried again. “I am Esau. Too weak. I AM ESAU. Better. I AM ESAU! Too much again.” It was now or never. He opened the door and went in. “Hi Dad. I brought you your favorite meat.” And it worked.

Isaac was fooled, so he put his hands on Jacob’s head and gave him all of Esau’s blessings. And Esau had a lot of blessings — strength, inheritance, and popularity. He was everyone’s favorite, he was next in line, and he was in charge.

As he left, Jacob jumped in the air and cheered. It worked. He could feel the blessing already pouring into his body. He threw off the rocks from his biceps and the bark from his shoulders. No need for those anymore. The blessing would make him just like his brother, only better. He watched. It was about to happen. Look there, at his arm. It’s…it’s…exactly the same as before. Wait, had it worked? Jacob felt his biceps. No difference. He measured his shoulders. Still narrow. But these things take time. He’d start growing his beard right away.

But the muscles and hair never came. Instead, the whole plan backfired. When Esau found out what Jacob had done, he was angry. “First the farm, and now this!” he yelled. How could his own brother betray him? Sure, they’d wrestled, sure they’d fought, but they’d also had fun. They’d shared socks and made up riddles and imagined saving the world together. They were twins. They were best friends. They spoke a language no one else knew. How had it come to this?

And so Esau asked his father to just give him the same blessing he’d given Jacob. But Issac wasn’t sure if he could. No one really knew how these things worked. And he thought he’d already given Esau’s blessing away. So Isaac gave Esau what he thought was Jacob’s blessing. And that made Esau furious.

Rebekah saw Esau returning to the kitchen, angrier than she’d ever seen him. “Run,” she shouted at Jacob. “Your brother is coming, and he’s going to kill you!” And so Jacob had to run from the farm. He hopped on a horse, took off into the wilderness, and found a new place to live hundreds of miles away.

And the twins that had been formed in the same belly, that had spent every day of their lives together, that had shared food and jokes and secrets, split apart. Rebekah cried. Isaac worried it had all been his fault. But Esau was glad that Jacob was gone — at least for a while.

But then twenty years passed. The boys grew into adults and married and had kids and jobs and responsibilities. And as Esau grew older, he became a little weaker but also a little wiser. And as Jacob labored in a distant land to survive, he grew stronger and learned what it was like to be tricked by a family member. And they both felt like something was missing in their lives. Like they’d left a part of themselves behind.

And they remembered now the times when they were just boys, crawling on the furniture, yelling nonsense words into the wind, and laughing. They remembered running over hills and pretending to fight bad guys. They were inseparable then. And when they remembered, they longed for the brother they’d lost.

And so Jacob decided to return to the family farm and face his brother. As he approached, he was very nervous. What would Esau do? Would he still be angry? But when Jacob arrived, Esau ran out to meet Jacob. “I have missed you,” he cried, picking Jacob up off the ground and pulling him into his chest. And Jacob hugged back with all his strength.

That night, Esau made his famous smoked antelope, and he waited the tables and even did the dishes while Jacob watched in tears. There was Esau, Jacob’s big, strong, beautiful, athletic, wonderful brother. The piece of himself that had been missing all these years. And for Esau to serve Jacob like this, after what Jacob had done, it didn’t make sense.

“I don’t deserve this,” Jacob said. “I should be serving you.”

“No, I am the one who chased you away. I will never forgive myself. We will never get back the years we lost. But I’m going to make the most of whatever is left.” And Esau served his brother Jacob for the rest of their lives.

And at some point, they must have realized that God was not tricked by Jacob’s costume. The blessings Isaac gave Jacob and Esau were exactly what God had promised Rebekah before they were even born: the strong would serve the weak.

It was not a curse. It was not an accident. It was a mission. A non-transferable blessing straight from God, unknowingly sealed upon their heads by their father. They had spent decades fighting and running away from each other. And when they ran away from each other, they were also running away from their blessings. But they were home now, and very blessed.

They were complete and happy together, and they had food, water, and wealth to spare. And they realized their biggest blessing wasn’t the farm, or speed, or strength, or money, or talents, or power, or anything like that. The blessing had been given to them at the very beginning by their mother. The blessing was a brother.

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Genesis 24:18-19 “Yes, my lord,” she answered, “have a drink.” And she quickly lowered her jug from her shoulder and gave him a drink. When she had given him a drink, she said, “I’ll draw water for your camels, too, until they have had enough to drink.” (NLT)

Abraham, Sarah, and Isaac grew older. Sarah’s hips grew wider, and her knees became weaker. Abraham’s face wrinkled, and his skin grew thin. He slept longer in the mornings and fell asleep earlier in the evenings. Then Sarah died. And Abraham, the old man, was lonely, for he had lost a wife. But Isaac was even sadder because he had lost his mother.

And Abraham saw the sorrow in his son’s eyes, which only multiplied his grief. What could he do for his son? How could he be a father, a mother, and an old man all at the same time? And he went to the river to think. He picked up smooth rocks and skipped them across the water, watching the ripples spread and be displaced by the current. And then he had an idea.

He called one of his servants over. And Abraham told his servant to find his son a wife. But not from anywhere around here. The servant was supposed to find Isaac a wife in the town where Abraham was born. This was no small request, and the servant felt overwhelmed. How would he find a girl willing to leave her home and move far away to marry a boy she’d never met? And agreeing to be married was just the beginning. Finding someone to marry was not like finding a skipping rock.

But while he didn’t know how to find a wife for another man, he had already found a wife for himself. And so he knew something about romance, aging, arguments, living together, sharing space, food, stories, names, children, and life. And so he knew that more important than good looks or good humor or good breath or anything else was kindness.

Because life was hard. People mess up and get tired, hungry, bored, and sad. And they need lots of second chances. Lots of “I’m sorry” and “thank you,” and “it’s alright” and “I understand.” And so a good partner must be kind. And the biggest giveaway of kindness is generosity. And so the servant came up with a kindness test.

This is how he’d find the right girl for Isaac. He would take some camels with him. And they’d travel to Abrahams’ birthplace and go to the local wells and ask the girls there for some water. And a girl who gave him water would be kind. But the girl who didn’t just give him water but also got water for the camels would be extra kind. And if the girl is extra kind to a stranger and some camels, she would probably be kind enough to partner with, and live with, and love with, and forgive with, and trust with, and build with, and risk with, and try with, and have kids with. And if she was kind enough for all that, then she was kind enough.

In the end, the servant decided to bring along 10 camels. He would arrive like an inconvenience and see who responded. He traveled over hills, through mountain passes, and along winding ridges, and traveled and traveled and traveled until he could finally see Abraham’s homeland in the distance.

As he approached the city, he wondered if his scheme would work. And he wondered how long it might take. And he worried that if he loitered too long at the wells talking to all the young women, people might get the wrong idea. So he prayed and asked for God’s help. And then he set off to perform his kindness test. And the first well he came to had a girl. And the very first girl he saw offered him water. And when he finished drinking, she took the bucket and drew more water for all his camels, too. And this took a lot of work, because camels drink a lot of water.

Was it possible? This was the first well, and the first girl. He watched as she drew bucket after bucket after bucket of cold, beautiful, sacred water from the well. Lowering the rope down and then raising it up again and again. Her arms were strong because they were practiced in kindness. Abraham’s servant was dumbstruck, surprised that his plan had worked so quickly. Amazed by a girl who showed kindness to a stranger — who even showed kindness to the stranger’s camels.

But why had it been so easy? Why such luck? Or was it not luck at all? Perhaps this is just how people are. Maybe most people want to help most of the time. You don’t always see it, like water under the earth, but it’s there anyway, rich and cold and pure. Maybe the world is actually overflowing with kindness and generosity. Maybe what was most remarkable was how unremarkable she was. And every time another bucket came up and another camel was fed, it felt like another baptism, like the world was being washed clean and made new. And with each bucket of water, the servant said, “Thank you,” “Thank you,” “Thank you.”

And while he said thank you, he imagined her future. She didn’t know what was about to happen. Because she was at this place at this moment and showed kindness, her life changed forever. She’d leave the land she knew and the parents she loved. She’d marry a lonely boy she’d never met. And she’d become as indispensable to his life as a mother. She would love and suffer and live for her family. And all this, simply because she was here. Simply because they bumped into each other. And that is how the world turns. People bumping into each other and choosing to be kind.

And after the camels were all watered, the man followed the girl home so he could talk to her parents. He told them all about Abraham and Isaac. And it turned out that the girl was not showing kindness to a stranger at all, but to a long-lost relative. She was the granddaughter of Abraham’s brother! And her name was Rebekah. And she agreed to marry Isaac. And off she went on one of the camels she’d helped to water. She was going to marry a man she didn’t know because he needed a wife, and she needed a husband, and he’d lost a mother, and she’d found a family.

And Abraham’s servant was amazed at the courage and craziness of it all. Of a girl who trusted a man she hardly knew and a man who’d leave his parents and take a wife. And all this only works because people, so often, are generous. And trust each other like the long-lost family they actually are. And because children are born and parents die and the world rolls on and on, like ripples across rivers or buckets and buckets and buckets of water, brimming full with hope, confidence, trust, and faith that mostly the world is good and people are kind.

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Genesis 19:12 And the men said unto Lot, Hast thou here any besides? son in law, and thy sons, and thy daughters, and whatsoever thou hast in the city, bring them out of this place:

Lot’s family built a wall. And they built a wall because they had moved into a city. The city. The big city. A city called Sodom. And while they liked the fireworks, parks, restaurants, and street performers, there were also things about the city they didn’t like. They didn’t like the crime or the drugs or some of the ideas people had or the ways some people acted. And Lot and his wife wanted to protect their family from negative influences.

But while walls can keep people and animals out, they can’t stop all the noise, smells, or bugs. And they are nothing against your imagination. It doesn’t matter how big or thick or strong a wall is; your imagination can walk right through to the other side. So Lot and his wife couldn’t keep their children completely safe behind even the thickest wall.

They had four daughters, and the daughters were growing. Before long, the two oldest were imagining adventure and life and love beyond the wall. And then they were sneaking out to parties, and going with friends to dances, or hanging out late at diners.

And their mother would see them missing and worry and worry and worry until they came home safe. Have you ever seen your mother worried? Maybe she paces the floor, or sits and fidgets. Maybe she scrubs the dishes extra hard or reads a book or maybe she cries. Well, the two youngest daughters saw their mother worry a lot.

And so they decided they were never going to sneak out or climb the wall like their older sisters had done. They never wanted their mother to have to worry. And so they were going to be obedient. And their commitment to obedience only became stronger when their older sisters announced they’d fallen in love. Soon enough, the oldest daughters were married, had children, and started their own lives in tiny apartments in Sodom City beyond the reach and safety of Lot’s walls.

They probably stayed in touch. Maybe they came over for Sunday dinners, and after their mother would have packed leftovers into Tupperware for them to take home. And Lot and his wife and their younger daughters would watch from the gate as the older sisters walked away with their families to their apartments. And then Lot and his wife and the younger daughters would retreat again behind their walls, where they could live safely. Or so they thought.

But one night, there was a knock at the door. It was two men. Only they weren’t men at all. Their skin shone and their faces beamed. They were beautiful. Were they angels?

“Make yourself at home,” Lot said. “Can I get you something to drink?” his wife asked. But the men had not come for pleasantries. They carried a message. A big, terrible, tragic, sad, horrible, unbelievable message. Sodom, the bustling city they lived in, was about to be destroyed. “Your walls will not protect you from this,” they explained. “Leave now and don’t look back.”

So Lot and his wife grabbed their two youngest daughters and a backpack with toothbrushes, water, and snacks, and headed out the door. But before they could go, they had to warn their oldest daughters, their son-in-laws, and their grandkids.

But the son-in-laws thought it was a joke, and the eldest daughters didn’t want to wake the children, and they didn’t even believe in angels anyway, and the whole story all felt a little ridiculous. It was probably just another trick to get them to come back inside the walls. But they were not going to be duped. They were not going to be scared. They were not going to leave. Yet Lot’s wife persisted. “If you’re not going to come with us now, promise us you’ll run at the first sign of danger. Don’t wait a second longer. Promise me, please. Promise me.”

And off Lot and his wife and their two youngest daughters went. They ran out beyond the city wall and down the road. They ran through the night and into the morning. As the sun was rising, Lot’s wife trailed behind the other three. Her run became a jog and then a walk. She looked ahead at her youngest daughters, who were moving swiftly away from danger. And then all at once, she looked back. She had to see if the rest of their family was following or if an army was coming or what terrible destruction might be approaching.

Maybe there was still something she could do for her eldest daughters. Maybe they’d see the danger in time. Maybe they’d still come running. Maybe she could help carry the children. But her youngest daughters also needed help. They weren’t safe yet. Plus, they were the ones who listened. But they were not in as much danger. And she didn’t know if she should help the people who needed it most or the people she was most able to help. And so she didn’t know if she should move forward or go back. She was stuck in paralysis.

Paralysis, a definition:

So often in life, we are stuck. Not between a rock and a hard place or in the mud or from a headlock. More often, we are stuck between two good choices. Do you want licorice or gummy bears? This toy or that one? To clean or to play? These are all good things, and sometimes you will get stuck picking between them. You won’t be able to decide whether to go north or south, left or right, up or down. You will want to pick the best option, but you won’t know how. And so you will be stuck trying to figure out what to do. This is paralysis.

Lot’s wife was in paralysis. She couldn’t decide to go forward or backwards. She stood frozen like a pillar halfway between them, her eyes looking back but her feet facing forward, not moving an inch either direction. But Lot and his daughters never turned back. On they went. They ran until their legs gave out, and they fell to the ground, exhausted, and slept on the naked earth. And when Lot woke in the heat of the day, his wife was missing. There was smoke in the air. Destruction had come, just like the angels predicted. And Lot cried, and he would continue to cry for weeks and months to come. He would never see his wife or home or city again.

And Lot decided that they would never go to another city or even a small town. He didn’t want his daughters to leave or marry or be exposed to all the cruelness and randomness and dangers of the world. So he took his children to the mountain where they lived like hermits. If walls hadn’t kept them safe, maybe a cave would.

But in a cave, there are no friends or schools. No one to play with or get in trouble with. No one to joke with or flirt with. And in the cave, the youngest daughters learned what it really meant to be alone. They had lost their mother, sisters, nieces, nephews, and friends, and even their father, who retreated further and further into his own mind.

But these were strong women. Women who would not give up. Women who would find hope and a way to continue. They would make a future and live on. They would leave the cave, and descend the mountain, and make a family. They knew the world was messy, complicated, gross, exhausting, impossible, unpredictable, terrifying, incomprehensible, and still they were going back to try again.

And they would raise their own families. They would build their own walls, have their own rules, teach their own beliefs, and do everything they could to protect their children. And some of their children would still choose Sodom. And some would still choose the cave. And sometimes these strong women would get stuck looking back, wondering what they could have done differently.

But then they’d move forward again as they had done before. They would find a way to continue, to push on, to trust that one way or another, their children would make it out of Sodom, down from the cave, through paralysis, and home again.

To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com

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Genesis 21:6 And Sarah said, God hath made me to laugh. (KJV)

Hagar had her baby boy, and Sarai watched as the child drew its first breath, then cried, nursed, calmed, and fell asleep. And Hagar also cried for joy and for tiredness, and then she fell asleep too. And while Hagar slept, Sarai took the child, and held him against her chest, and wished it had been hers. She ran her hand over his belly. She straightened his curled fingers and put her thumb against his jaw. The body was too perfect. She couldn’t look into his eyes. Because in the eyes she knew she’d see God’s promise fulfilled. Fulfilled without her.

And so she shook her head and closed her eyes and set the baby back into the arms of his sleeping mother. This was not her boy. It was silly to pretend. He was Hagar’s to love, Hagar’s to raise. Sarai’s own servant had replaced her. God had cut her out of the family. She was the tiniest, most insignificant footnote in God’s big, beautiful story. Worse than a footnote. Sarai was a speed bump. One of the people who got in the way.

Sarai didn’t want to be in the way any longer. So she stepped aside and watched that night as the family continued without her. She watched as Abram snuggled, held, and kissed the baby. The promised child, at last. Abram looked into his eyes and sure enough, he saw what Sarai had feared. He called the boy Ishmael, and Ishmael grew tall and strong. And Abram was content, believing God’s promise was fulfilled.

But there were more prayers and plans and purposes than Abram’s. When Sarai turned 90 years old, God spoke again and said, “Abram, you have misunderstood. This prophecy, it was never just about you. It was always about Sarai, too. You will be a father to nations, but Sarai will be the mother.”

Abram laughed. “Sarai is so old. It’s way, way, way too late for her to have a baby.” When Sarai found out, she laughed, too. But her laugh was not just in disbelief. It was a harsh, bitter laugh, full of so many years of hurt and sorrow and disappointment because Abram was right. It was too late. God’s promise was made decades ago. And if her womb was dried up then, it was desolate now, drier than the driest desert.

“She is not too old,” God said, “and neither are you.” And right then and there, God gave Abram and Sarai new names. Even though they were almost a hundred years old, God was treating them like brand-new babies. “I will call you Abraham and Sarah,” said God. “You are not old. You are not old at all. You are newborns, my little children, my newlyweds, my growing family.”

And sure enough, even though Sarah was 90 years old, she became pregnant. She couldn’t believe it. But then she felt the quickening, the holy moving and hiccuping and living happening inside of her, and she laughed again, a shocked, delighted laugh. And the laugh was not without some tears — of hope, of relief. She laughed in her old age. She laughed as she grew older and rounder. She laughed all the way into her ninth month. And her laughter drew from the well of her sorrows — a hole that was deep, so very deep, but reached a source that was cold and pure as spring water. And each laugh drew from deeper places until when she laughed her stomach contracted, and the birth began.

It hurt as her old body strained. But as the child was pushed out, the feeling deepened in pain and in sacredness. It was purifying her soul, like the deepest laughter of all. And then she screamed and gasped. And there was the baby. And Abraham stared in astonishment at his tiny, chubby fists that bent tightly around his papery, wrinkled fingers.

The boy was named Isaac, which means son of laughter. And the laughter continued. Sarah laughed watching her boy nurse, and then sleep, and wake with fluttering eyes. She laughed softly as he cuddled into her. She laughed as he grew fat and toddled across the floor, stumbling and tripping. He was her joy of joys. And laughter filled his childhood. It was as primitive to his life as breath itself.

And the laughter remains in the air today, a sound like an angel’s music that fills all of eternity. It is the sound your mother made when you were born. It is the sound your father made the first time you smiled. It is the sound of hopes realized, promises fulfilled, and joy overflowing. We laugh, we laugh, we laugh.

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Genesis 15:5 And he brought him outside and said, “Look toward heaven, and number the stars, if you are able to number them.” Then he said to him, “So shall your offspring be.” (ESV)

Abram and Sarai were the family God chose to build his city. But they were just learning what that meant. It didn’t mean they got all the best stuff. Quite the opposite. They’d given all the good stuff away. Abram and Sarai did not get the best farmland or grazing pastures. They did not get the newest toys or the biggest homes. Instead, they lived on a scrubby little farm growing scrubby little crops. And God promised to preserve this land for them and their descendants forever.

Now, it might not seem all that great to be promised mediocre land forever and ever and ever. But Abram and Sarai were going to make the most of what they had. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all terrible. There were even some really nice trees in one spot. So that’s where they decided to live and work. And they did work. And work. And work and work and work. They worked so hard because they had to. Or else they’d starve.

And while Abram and Sarai had to carefully plow the earth and place seeds in the dirt and water the land to get even small sprouts to appear, Lot’s family could throw seeds into the wind, and wherever they landed, they grew tall and bright. And the family of Lot looked at the green growth and the streams of water and praised God. “Thank you for giving us this practically perfect land!” they said. And they thought, “We are the lucky ones.”

But good land is easy to covet. And before long, several armies had arrived to take the land from Lot and his family. And Lot and his wife and his daughters were captured and carried away as prisoners, and they would have been sold into slavery if Abram hadn’t run to rescue them.

And after Abram’s daring rescue, Lot’s family returned to their beautifully fertile land, and Abram returned to his scorched, brown world. But he didn’t feel even a little sorry for himself. On the contrary, he thought he was the lucky one. God had given them this land forever because bad land is safe land. Armies don’t fight over wasteland. So while it was harder to grow food, God was protecting them and their future children from other people, armies, and jealousies. This way, they would never be captured, or carried away as prisoners, or sold into slavery.

“This is exactly why it pays to follow God,” Abram thought. “Because God is smart and wise and far-sighted. He will always keep us safe, thank goodness.”

But that night, God visited Abram in his dreams. “Abram,” said God, “I have something to show you.” And God showed Abram that even though he had bad land, that still wasn’t going to keep his family safe. In fact, his descendants would be forced into slavery. And they’d remain slaves for 400 years. His family would suffer injustice and inhumanity, hunger and humiliation.

This wasn’t a dream, it was a nightmare! And a very confusing nightmare at that. What was the point of following God if it didn’t make life safer or simpler? “God,” thought Abram, “you don’t make this easy.”

God just smiled. “I haven’t finished,” he said. “After 400 years, they will escape and be free again. And they will be wealthy but not just with money. They will be rich with things like knowledge and experience. They will remember their slavery. And they will invent new ways for how to treat people. They will write new laws that encourage honesty, fairness, kindness, and charity. Laws that challenge the powerful and give resources to the poor. Laws that treat everyone with dignity, because they will believe that all people deserve freedom, even the poorest and most insignificant. And they will build societies that try to live by these laws. And they will have to work hard, very hard. And they will fail a lot. But eventually, they will create a new nation. My nation. And this family, community, city, nation — they will change the world.”

Abram woke from his dream with a gasp. And he realized two things that were definitely, absolutely true. First, with or without God, life was always going to be full of pain and sorrow and unfairness. There was no getting around it. Following God wasn’t going to solve all his problems or his children’s problems. It wouldn’t make him lucky or unlucky.

Second, being lucky or unlucky wasn’t the point. You don’t follow God because it makes your life easy or protects you from hurt or unfairness or blisters or burns. It doesn’t. God wasn’t trying to make some people rich and others poor. God was building a family. A city. A city that was like a family where people would take care of each other. And they’d help the poor, comfort the sad, and make sure everyone had food to eat and friends to play with. And living this way would make bad luck less scary and good luck less necessary. Because people would always be there to help, no matter what.

And God explained that Abram was going to be the father of this family. And soon he’d have tons and tons of children. Abram could see them now. This family would grow and grow with babies becoming children becoming adults becoming parents having more babies and more babies and more babies, no end in sight. There would be more people than there is sand on the beach. And they would grow bigger, and kinder, and better. Each person sharing their light with each other until they lit up the night sky, like a canopy of a million, billion, trillion stars.

This was going to be one large, forever-growing family. There was just one problem. Abram and Sarai couldn’t get pregnant.

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Genesis 11:4 they said, “Come, let us build ourselves a city, with a tower that reaches to the heavens. (NIV)

If you’ve been reading this book, you’ve probably noticed that ever since Adam and Eve left the garden, the world has not seemed like a very safe place. First, there were thorns and predators. Then one person was killed. Then people started growing old and dying. Then wars started, and tons of people died. And then, out of nowhere, the world filled with water, and the huge flood killed pretty much everything. The only survivors were the animals and plants on Noah’s boat.

And so the family of Noah started all over. And they grew and grew into a town, then a city, then a nation, which is when they decided to build a tower. A tall tower that was more of a ladder. It was a tall, tall ladder that they could use to climb right out of the world and into heaven. “Because in heaven,” they thought, “there are no wars, or tornadoes, or murder, or death or dying. Because God is there. And God will keep everyone safe.” In heaven, the people would be protected from thorns, predators, bad ideas, other people, and, of course, floods. The people really didn’t want to drown in any more floods.

And so they started building, floor by floor. And the higher they got, the more excited they became. “Look how tiny the trees are from here!” they said. “We can almost touch the clouds.” How much further will they have to build? They must nearly be there. Maybe God was on top of the next cloud. But soon enough, they were through the clouds and still no heaven and no God. And so they kept building. And building. And building.

Soon, they thought, we will be in heaven and we will knock on God’s door and say, ‘Hello there! Can we stay with you?’” And they imagined seeing God and how he would respond. He would certainly be proud of them for finding their way back home and maybe even a little impressed.

But God was not proud of them, though he was a little impressed. Working together, they managed to build a most remarkable skyscraper. It was an architectural triumph. There was something so right about what they were doing. They were looking for heaven. And they were doing it by working together. But there was something very wrong about why they were doing it.

The whole grand endeavor was being motivated by fear. Fear of the world. And fear of death. And while they thought they were running towards God, they were running away from him as well.

Because God did not live in the sky. He was not hiding behind a cloud. Heaven was not up there at all. It was going to be built here, on the beautiful earth God had created. And so God wanted his children to stop building a ladder to climb to heaven, and to start building heaven, on the very world they were trying to escape.

God didn’t want them to fear the world, or to run away. He needed his children to face their fears. To love the world so they could help fix it. They didn’t need to run back to God, because he was coming for them.

Because heaven was not a destination in the sky, but a project. It was a community built not with bricks but with people. This big tower was getting in the way of what they ought to be building. And what they ought to be building was a community. And this community would grow sideways, not upwards.

It would stretch wider and wider, spreading across the entire world. It would include all kinds of people with all kinds of different ideas and experiences. And together, they would build not one thing, but millions. They would produce food and purify water. They would build schools for children and universities for adults. They’d build cities and write books and discover planets and molecules and equations. They’d overcome famine and war and disease. They’d save plants and animals and each other from floods, hurricanes, and extinction. They’d bless the world in thousands of different ways, with millions of different people using their billions of different talents. They’d do so much, learn so much, and accomplish so much more than building a tall tower.

But to do this, they needed to understand not just the power of unity but also the blessing of differences. They didn’t need just one goal, or a master architect, or a king, or a CEO. They needed to learn how to fit together, and be together, and disagree together, and forgive together, and love together so they could keep living together forever.

Then God had an idea. He would help the family of Noah remember their differences. So God performed a miracle. While everyone was sleeping, he changed their languages. When people woke up and went to work in the morning, they found that some of them spoke English, while others spoke Mandarin, Russian, Malaise, French, Vietnamese, and Zulu.

And just like that, the people stopped building the tower because they could not understand each other. The brick makers were using centimeters while the bricklayers were using inches. The mortar mixers didn’t make enough mortar. People no longer fit so nicely into owners and workers, supervisors and laborers, bricklayers and brick makers.

Because the bricklayer was no longer just a bricklayer. They all spoke different languages, and some of them were also mothers, aunts, knitters, and runners as well. The mortar mixers were no longer just mortar mixers. They all had different dialects and different hobbies. Some played chess, others checkers, and others were soccer enthusiasts. And the architects were not just architects. They communicated differently, and some were also grandparents, painters, and cheese connoisseurs. They were all so incredibly different.

But instead of learning to deal with each other as the full, complex individuals they all were, they just gave up. How could they talk together with so many different languages? How could they solve problems with so many different opinions? How could they achieve new heights with so many different perspectives? And so, instead of learning to work together, instead of harnessing the power of their different skills, backgrounds, and perspectives, they split apart. And instead of building heaven on earth, they created armies and walls and fences. And they split up into different groups and ran away from each other.

And over the next thousand years, the tower decayed and crumbled, and then all at once it fell, collapsed, and pounded the earth with so much fury that it almost seemed angry to have been left unfinished. And in its place, the people began to build new cities and new empires. They fought over land and killed each other for water. And they divided into countries and continents. And it seemed like the earth had never been further from heaven.

And God decided that if he was ever going to help his children build heaven on earth, he’d have to start with a single family. And he would teach that family to care for each other, and to not turn away or be afraid when people were different or confusing or inconvenient. And that family would grow and fill the whole earth. And as they grew wider and wider, heart by heart, generation upon generation, they would stretch nearer and nearer to heaven. Until at last they would realize that they were themselves the tower. God’s tower. And he was already there with them, welcoming them home.

To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com

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Genesis 4:7 If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? (NIV)

Life after Eden was even harder than Eve or Adam could have imagined. Eve got pregnant and gave birth to one boy and then another. And they named them Cain and Abel. And while childbirth was so, so, so hard, it still wasn’t as hard as raising children. Because although children are adorable and snuggly and delightful, they are also a lot of work.

For example, when their baby Abel got a stomachache, he stayed up all night crying. So in the morning, Eve and Adam were very tired and a little grumpy. And because they were tired and grumpy, they quarreled over whose turn it was to change his diaper. And they spent the whole day feeling tired and grumpy and angry at each other until finally they apologized during dinner. And though apologizing seems easy enough, it wasn’t. Like everything about living in this world, it was surprisingly difficult.

In the Garden, Adam and Eve never had to cook a meal. They simply plucked berries from thornless bushes, fruits from short trees, and honey from stingless bees. But in the world, the bushes all had thorns, and the trees were tall and rough, and the bees had stingers. Getting food was not so simple anymore.

But even after bloodying their hands plucking berries, and skinning their knees climbing trees, and getting stung on their face trying to retrieve honey, they were still hungry. The harder they worked to gather food, the more food they needed. The sweet berries, fruit, and honey were not enough.

Have you ever seen a lamb? It’s white, and fluffy, and oh so cuddly. Well, it’s something else as well. It’s tasty. And Adam and Eve were getting hungrier and hungrier. They needed fats, proteins, and meat to feed their hard-working bodies. And looking at the sheep, they started to salivate. Pretty soon, they were meat eaters.

And God taught them a ritual, so they would never forget the preciousness of life and the cost of survival. They had to give some of their sheep back to God. It was called a sacrifice. Abel would put a lamb on a rock, and God would send fire down to take the lamb back to heaven. It was a way to thank the animals for giving their lives. And also thank God for creating all the animals.

As Cain grew, he watched his parents mess up and make mistakes, and have to kill and eat innocent animals. They were always having to say “thank you” and “I’m sorry.” And Cain decided that he was going to do something different. “Maybe the world has fallen,” he said, “but I don’t have to fall with it. I don’t have to get tired or angry or grumpy. Nothing has to die in order for me to survive. I will be self-reliant. And I will never have to say thank you or I’m sorry because I will live perfectly perfect all the time, all by myself.” And so Cain became the first perfectionist.

Perfectionist, a definition:

A perfectionist is someone who is terrified of imperfection. They are scared of being late, or dirty, or wrong, or smelly, or rude, or any other kind of imperfect. When they do make a mistake, instead of looking at God and saying “oops,” they look at themselves and say “yikes!” Being a perfectionist is not easy. Because whenever you try to be perfect, you fail. Because you are not perfect. No one is. And if you are scared of failing all the time, you will find that it is very difficult to be happy or pleasant or nice or good. Which only makes you more imperfect. And so perfectionism is a burden that multiplies itself. The longer you carry it, the heavier it becomes until at last it crushes you.

Cain was a perfectionist. While Abel cared for a big herd of sheep in the field, Cain tried to sustain himself with a garden. He picked every weed, cut thorns, relocated briars. And Cain wanted his parents to see what a good job he was doing. When they complimented Abel’s newborn lambs, Cain would say, “Taste these fresh strawberries.” And when Abel cooked mutton, Cain would say, “How about another slice of tomato?”

Cain competed for his parents’ attention because he was filled with doubts. He was trying so hard to be good, but then he would feel flashes of anger, or sadness, or smell a whiff of lamb and want a bite. And he’d hate himself for these feelings and worry that he wasn’t good enough. And because of his doubts, he desperately wanted to show everyone his good works, and for people to say, “Good job, Cain!” and pat him on the back. Only then would he feel like he was succeeding. Only then would he feel good. But he never felt good enough.

And so he tried harder and harder. He tried to pray more, fast longer, memorize complicated scriptures, and sit perfectly still in church. Because the person he was trying to impress more than his parents or his brother was God himself. And so Cain decided he would get God’s approval in front of everyone so they would all know that he was really, actually a very good guy.

And so when Abel sacrificed another lamb and thanked the lamb for its life and thanked God for the lamb, Cain brought his own offering. But instead of an animal, Cain left out a large cornucopia of fruits, nuts, and vegetables. Their family would soon see that Cain’s offering was so much better, purer, cleaner than Abel’s. So everyone watched as the leaves rustled, the sun dimmed, and a fire came down from heaven, consuming the lamb. But all of Cain’s fruits and vegetables were left untouched.

“It’s okay,” Eve told Cain. “We like your fruits and vegetables.” And she tried to give Cain a hug. But Cain would not let her. Instead, he ran to his room, closed the door, and screamed.

And God came to Cain and told him not to worry so much. “You are trying so hard to be perfect. But all I have asked is for you to be good. And that is hard enough. Because the world is very messy. It is full of hurt and sin and suffering. It is all around you, all the time, and it is powerful. If you face it alone, it will eat you right up like a fire or a hungry lion. And you will become worse and worse. You must let go of perfection. Let go of the world you want and accept the world that is given to you. It is good, and you are good enough.”

But Cain was angry and yelled at God. “If we’re only ‘good enough,’ that’s your fault. You made us this way! It’s not my fault I get tired, or sad, or angry. It’s not my fault I need attention. It’s not my fault I get embarrassed and blush. You made me this way — broken and stupid like your world. It’s all your fault!”

And Cain ran from God. And he grew angrier and angrier and angrier. Angry at God. Angry at his family. Angry at his brother. And angry with himself. Angry at the fallen world. Angry that he couldn’t fix it. And the anger consumed him, eating away at his heart until at last Cain did something worse than he ever could have imagined. He invited his brother into his garden where the vines were overgrown so that no one would see what was about to happen. Then Cain turned and killed Abel and watched his brother’s blood seep into the earth like another slaughtered sheep.

And the blood poisoned the earth so that not even weeds could grow from it. And Cain ran and gagged and cried. And God came to him. “Cain,” God said. “What have you done? This is the worst thing a person can do. You were supposed to care for your brother, not kill him.”

When the family of Adam and Eve found Abel, they gasped. It was the first death and the first murder all in one. And Cain wept and waited for the inevitable. They would come for him. They would seek justice. And they would kill him. He was sure of it. And so he waited. And waited. And wandered and waited. But no one came to kill him. Not his family. Not God. They let him live. And who knows why. But maybe it was because there is already too much hurt and death and brokenness in this world. It is everywhere around us and inside us. There is no avoiding it. You cannot walk without stepping on it, you cannot outrun it or get around it. It is in the air we breathe and the food we eat. So much life has been given so that you and I can live.

That is our reality. But don’t hate yourself for being who you are. Don’t be scared to say “thank you” or “I’m sorry.” Ask for help when you need it. Try to do good, even when you want to do bad. See beauty in the world, even when there is ugliness. And when someone is cruel or mean or worse than you can imagine, try to forgive them and let them live.

You will fail sometimes — often, probably. But be brave, and try again. Do not let your failures consume you. Know that you are crammed, stuffed, bursting with goodness and badness. Know that you are broken and imperfect like the world you live in, and it will take more than a lamb to save you and more than a thousand lambs to fix this world. God himself would have to die. And because he died, you don’t have to be perfect. And because you don’t have to be perfect, you can just try to be good.

To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com

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Genesis 1:31 And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good. (KJV)

In the very beginning, there was Nothing. No trees or flowers or rocks or waterfalls or dirt or grass or land or ocean. There weren’t even stars or lights or days or nights or moons or months or years or anything. And God decided to take this Nothing and make . . . well, everything.

God started with an enormous breath. And then he spoke. And his words were deep and sharp and strong like a knife. And they separated one thing from another. He said, “Let there be light,” and the light separated from the darkness. Dark over here. Light over there. And the light and dark grew bigger and fuller and brighter and darker. From the light and the dark, God spoke the sun, the moon, and the stars into being. And God looked at his creations and saw that they were good. And they were.

God spoke again and separated out land, water, and sky. God breathed in, and the land grew, steady, firm and dry. And the water rushed down the land, running and leaping and swirling into rivers and lakes and oceans. And the sky stretched wide like she was just waking up, filling the space with oxygen, wrapping the land and the water with a blanket of air. And God looked at his creations and saw that they were good. And they were.

God breathed in again and spoke. And his voice was like a deep breath, breathing life into the world. And soon there were octopuses and whales and manatees in the ocean. And on land, plants began to grow. And soon animals were crawling, and walking, and running across the earth. Frogs, beetles, bears, tigers, and monkeys. God looked at his creations and saw that they were good. And they were.

On the plains were deer, buffalo, and lions. In the mountains were marmots and pikas and sheep. Trees grew from the ground into forests, and squirrels played in their branches. Soon, the animals leapt into the sky. Owls, bats, and eagles flew over branches and cliffs. Life was spreading and dividing and separating further and further.

God looked at all his creations and saw that they were good. And they were. So good, in fact, that God was ready to put his own children on the earth. And so he took dust from the ground, and he spat on it to make clay. And he formed that clay into a human. And then God took another breath, in and out. And as he breathed out, the human breathed in.

And God called his child Adam. And Adam was happy. Because how could he not be happy amongst all of God’s beautiful, good, lovely creations? He was living in a garden with flowers and enough fruit hanging from the trees to have a picnic every single meal.

Adam woke in the mornings with the sun on his face, and he’d eat grapes and apples and nuts and berries and then swim all day with alligators that didn’t bite or play with lions that didn’t growl, and then he would watch the most marvelous sunsets as he fell asleep.

But then one evening, as the sun was setting, it was even more magnificent than normal. Shafts of yellow and red and even purple dashed across the clouds, and Adam said, “Isn’t that beautiful?” But there was no reply. And that made Adam feel hungry. No, not hungry. It was like hunger but even deeper and sadder. It was not a hunger for food, but for a person. For the first time in the history of the world, a man felt lonely.

And the beauty all around Adam only made his loneliness worse. He wanted to share it with someone. He wanted someone to talk to. Someone to laugh with. Someone to watch sunsets and have picnics with. So that when he said, “Isn’t it beautiful,” they’d respond, “Oh yes, isn’t it!”

And God was watching Adam and knew just what to do. Separating everything was just the beginning of creation. The world he’d made with all its difference and diversity would continue to separate, and splinter, and fall further and further apart into a million-billion-gazillion shattered, lonely, desperate pieces unless it was held together by something.

And so God created another human. This one was a woman named Eve. And God introduced Adam and Eve and explained that they would help hold the universe together. And he taught them what they had to do. “Cling to each other,” he said.

Cling, a definition:

To hold onto something so tightly that you don’t float apart.

And that’s what Adam and Eve did. They clung to each other. They watched sunsets together, they prepared picnics, and when they woke in the morning, they held hands before getting out of bed. It was easy now. They were a new couple. They hadn’t had their first argument, or had babies, or lost jobs, or lived with in-laws, or had anything but perfect days and pleasant weather. They were new to love. They didn’t know how far it could stretch without breaking, how deep it could go without dissolving, how long it could last without expiring.

Some day, they would have to learn all of this. They would learn to love like God loves and to cling like God clings. But while their love was young and inexperienced, it was also precious. And God saw the way they looked at each other and knew that it was good. No, not just good. Very good.

Because the world needed love. And Adam and Eve would have to hold onto each other no matter what happened next. Even if the garden died away and the fruits turned bitter. Even if they got hurt, sad, or injured. Even if they felt scared or alone or confused or didn’t know if they could go on. Even if they fought, or their children died. Even if their world shattered. Even in the face of war and famine and tornado and fire. Even if they grew bored or angry or tired. No matter what, they had to cling to each other and to the world with everything they had. They must love. Their world depended on it.

And someday, Adam and Eve would raise children. And they would teach their children to be clingers, too. To cling to each other and to the world God created. You are one of their children. They have passed this most important job down to you.

You are a clinger. And so when you feel lost or scared or sad, or if it seems like the world is splintering and falling apart, or if you see someone who’s lonely or cast out, do what Adam and Eve learned to do: love. Love each other. Love the world. Love your mother. Love your father. Love your sister and brother. Love your neighbor. Love the refugee. Love the animals and the plants. Love the oceans. Love the sunsets.

Because while the universe was separated by the power of God’s lungs, it is bound together by the gravity of his love. And you are a lover. You are a clinger. And so love on. Cling to each other. And cling to the God who already clings to you. And we will hold the world together.

To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com

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This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.faithmatters.org/subscribe

You do not have to believe in God to acknowledge how much the Bible has done for this world. From a historical perspective, it shows a group of people who were trying to be good. They were crafting laws to foster morality, aid the poor, and safeguard human dignity even in the most extreme situations. From a literary perspective, it is a masterful collection of poetry, personal essays, sermons, and songs. From a philosophical perspective, it asks all the hard questions about life and about God and comes to various, brilliant, and surprising conclusions. From a religious perspective, it has captured the hearts of billions of people.

And so it is no small thing to decide to retell Bible stories. And even more daunting when we are writing these stories for children, who are both vulnerable and impressionable. And so we want to be clear that our mission was never to produce a work of scholarship. Reading our stories will not teach your children Hebrew or Aramaic. We will not pontificate about the meaning or origins of Elohim. In fact, we mostly avoid dabbling in etymologies or exegesis. We were not even particularly careful to be historically accurate. In fact, we intentionally use playful anachronisms, like Abraham and Sarah packing their things into moving boxes. We do this to help make the ancient world feel familiar to children. In short, we are not attempting to give an authoritative, scientific, or historical gloss to these stories.

Instead of explaining the stories, we have tried to tell them, and to tell them beautifully. We hope it will help bring them to life in new ways for both you and your child. Of course, we couldn’t tell every story in the Bible. It’s a big book, and every history is layered with histories. But the stories we do tell aren’t just the simple ones with easy, happy endings. Instead, what you will find in these pages are moments of tenderness, injustice, triumph, failure, deep sorrow, radical hope, and God’s enduring love — much like what you will find across the pages of your own life.

And while people have argued over biblical interpretations for thousands of years, we are not entering that arena. We are not trying to indoctrinate or convert children to a particular faith beyond general Christianity. And while we do practice a specific form of Christianity ourselves, we see these stories as a shared treasure. And we hope to contribute to the millions of artists before us who have praised God with their words and chords and colors. Artists whose work is shared by Catholics and Protestants, Copts and Mormons, Baptists and Evangelicals alike.

There is a chance that some of these stories will surprise you. But the Bible is full of surprises. And you might see new sides of old characters and find fresh possibilities in familiar readings. However, if you think we got something wrong or took too much liberty, go ahead and tell your children the story as you understand it. You won’t hurt our feelings. This is about you and them. These stories are successful when they create a moment of grace, where both parents and children feel that tickling, that warmth, that whispering of the spirit at the very same time. And you can tell them what it is. Or, more accurately, who.

To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com

To access the complete audiobook of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, become a Friend of Faith Matters by subscribing at FaithMatters.org/subscribe.

Because the stories are written in chronological order and the Bible is not, we will release some stories before they come up in Come, Follow Me. Below is a schedule of which episodes to listen to each week, if you’d like to use this along with Come, Follow Me.

January 12-18 (Genesis 1-2; Moses 2-3; Abraham 4-5)

1. The beginning of everything (Genesis 1)

2. The Bitter, Tasty, Forbidden Fruit (Genesis 2-3)

January 19-25 (Genesis 3-4; Moses 4-5)

2. The Bitter, Tasty, Forbidden Fruit (Genesis 2-3)

3. Cain, who was a perfectionist (Genesis 4)

February 9-15 (Genesis 6-11; Moses 8)

4. Noah, the man who saved things (Genesis 6-9)

5. The people who tried to climb to heaven (Genesis 11)

February 16-22 (Genesis 12-17; Abraham 1-2)

6. The man who learned to be generous (Genesis 12)

7. The followers and their promise (Genesis 12-15)

8. The God who sees (Genesis 16)

9. Son of laughter (Genesis 17-21)

February 23-March 1 (Genesis 18-23)

9. Son of laughter (Genesis 17-21)

10. The boy who lived (Genesis 21)

11. Lot and his wife and their daughters (Genesis 18-19)

12. The sacrifice (Genesis 18-22)

13. Finding a wife (Genesis 23-24)

March 2-8 (Genesis 24-33)

13. Finding a wife (Genesis 23-24)

14. The world in Rebekah’s belly (Genesis 25)

15. The amazing, goodlooking, athletic brother (Genesis 25-33)

16. Jacob, who traveled through time and wrestled an angel (Genesis 28-35)

17. Two sisters, a lot of babies, and their strange names (Genesis 29-30)

March 9-15 (Genesis 37-41)

18. Band of brothers (Genesis 35-45)

March 16-22 (Genesis 42-50)

18. Band of brothers (Genesis 35-45)

19. Giving food and taking dignity (Genesis 46 - Exodus 1)

March 23-29 (Exodus 1-6)

19. Giving food and taking dignity (Genesis 46 - Exodus 1)

20. A conspiracy of women to save the boys (Exodus 1-2)

21. Moses, who learned he had power (Exodus 2-4)

22. The freedom plan (Exodus 5-15)

April 6-12 (Exodus 7-13)

22. The freedom plan (Exodus 5-15)

April 13-19 (Exodus 14-18)

22. The freedom plan (Exodus 5-15)

23. A new law and a new king (Exodus 16-40)

April 20-26 (Exodus 19-20; 24; 31-34)

23. A new law and a new king (Exodus 16-40)

April 27-May 3 (Exodus 35-40; Leviticus 1; 4; 16; 19)

23. A new law and a new king (Exodus 16-40)

24. The sin eaters (Leviticus)

May 4-10 (Numbers 11-14; 20-24; 27)

25. Moses’ 70 helpers (Numbers 9-11)

26. All of God’s children are prophets (Numbers 11-20)

May 11-17 (Deuteronomy 6-8; 15; 18; 29-30; 34)

27: Moses gives advice and says goodbye (Deuteronomy)

May 18-24 (Joshua 1-8; 23-24)

28: The conquest (Joshua-Judges 16)

May 25-31 (Judges 2-4; 6-8; 13-16)

28: The conquest (Joshua-Judges 16)

June 1-7 (Ruth; 1 Samuel 1-7)

29: Ruth, who lost a husband and gained a family (Ruth)

June 8-14 (1 Samuel 8-10; 13; 15-16)

30: The first king (Judges 19 - 1 Samuel 10)

31: The king who trusted a shepherd (1 Samuel 10-17)

June 15-21 (1 Samuel 17-18; 24-26; 2 Samuel 5-7)

32. Two boys who decided to be brothers (1 Samuel 18-20)

33. David faces another giant (1 Samuel 22 - 2 Samuel, Psalms)

June 22-28 (2 Samuel 11-12; 1 Kings 3; 6-9; 11)

33. David faces another giant (1 Samuel 22 - 2 Samuel, Psalms)

34. Solomon who was less remarkable than a lily (1 Kings 2-11; Proverbs; Ecclesiastes)

June 29-July 5 (1 Kings 12-13; 17-22)

35. A man and a woman whose miracles ran out (1 Kings 12-17)

36: Elisha, who was nobody (1 Kings 19 - 2 Kings 2)

July 6-12 (2 Kings 2-7)

36: Elisha, who was nobody (1 Kings 19 - 2 Kings 2)

37. A little girl without a name (2 Kings 5)

38. More with us (2 Kings 6)

July 13-19 (2 Kings 16-25)

42. Hezekiah, the man who fought for today (2 Kings 18-20; Isaiah 36-39)

July 27-August 2 (Ezra 1; 3-7; Nehemiah 2; 4-6; 8)

49. The Rebuilders and The Remained (Ezra; Nehemiah)

August 3-9 (Esther)

48. The queen of Persia (Esther)

August 10-16 (Job 1-3; 12-14; 19; 21-24; 38-40; 42)

46. A story about a man called Job (Job)

August 17-23 (Psalms 1-2; 8; 19-33; 40; 46)

33. David faces another giant (1 Samuel 22 - 2 Samuel, Psalms)

August 24-30 (Psalms 49-51; 61-66; 69-72; 77-78; 85-86)

33. David faces another giant (1 Samuel 22 - 2 Samuel, Psalms)

August 31-September 6 (Psalms 102-3; 110; 116-19; 127-28; 135-39; 146-50)

33. David faces another giant (1 Samuel 22 - 2 Samuel, Psalms)

September 7-13 (Proverbs 1-4; 15-16; 22; 31; Ecclesiastes 1-3; 11-12)

34. Solomon who was less remarkable than a lily (1 Kings 2-11; Proverbs; Ecclesiastes)

September 14-20 (Isaiah 1-12)

40. What the prophets said (Isaiah; Amos; Micah; Joel)

43. Isaiah and the new city called Zion (Isaiah)

September 21-27 (Isaiah 13-14; 22; 24-30; 35)

40. What the prophets said (Isaiah; Amos; Micah; Joel)

42. Hezekiah, the man who fought for today (2 Kings 18-20; Isaiah 36-39)

43. Isaiah and the new city called Zion (Isaiah)

September 28-October 4 (Isaiah 40-49)

40. What the prophets said (Isaiah; Amos; Micah; Joel)

43. Isaiah and the new city called Zion (Isaiah)

October 5-11 (Isaiah 50-57)

40. What the prophets said (Isaiah; Amos; Micah; Joel)

43. Isaiah and the new city called Zion (Isaiah)

October 12-18 (Isaiah 58-66)

40. What the prophets said (Isaiah; Amos; Micah; Joel)

43. Isaiah and the new city called Zion (Isaiah)

October 19-25 (Jeremiah 1-3; 7; 16-18; 20)

44. Jeremiah and the rich who became poor and the poor who became rich (Jeremiah)

October 26-November 1 (Jeremiah 31-33; 36-38; Lamentations 1; 3)

44. Jeremiah and the rich who became poor and the poor who became rich (Jeremiah)

November 2-8 (Ezekiel 1-3; 33-34; 36-37; 47)

45. The dreamer, playwright, poet, artist, Ezekiel (Ezekiel)

November 9-15 (Daniel 1-7)

47. The memory keepers (Daniel)

November 16-22 (Hosea 1-6; 10-14; Joel)

40. What the prophets said (Isaiah; Amos; Micah; Joel)

41. Hosea and his strange marriage advice (Hosea)

November 23-29 (Amos; Obadiah; Jonah)

39. Jonah and the whale and the bush (Jonah)

40. What the prophets said (Isaiah; Amos; Micah; Joel)

November 30-December 6 (Micah; Nahum; Habakkuk; Zephaniah)

40. What the prophets said (Isaiah; Amos; Micah; Joel)

December 7-13 (Haggai 1-2; Zechariah 1-4; 7-14)

50. Healing in his wings (Zachariah; Malachi)

December 14-20 (Malachi)

50. Healing in his wings (Zachariah; Malachi)

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.faithmatters.org/subscribe