“What is that, Abba?” The little girl was supposed to be getting ready for bed. Her ima had already shooed her from the kitchen, but her little feet did not carry her all the way to her room. Instead, they paused just outside the curtain of her Abba’s work space where, in the corner, she noticed something she hadn’t before.

“Hmm?” Her Abba looked up from his writing table.

“That box? What’s in it?”

Perhaps it was how tall she had grown since her fifth birthday, where the object had finally reached her eye level, that brought it to her attention. Or perhaps it was the curious nature that had begun to develop in her. Everywhere she turned she was seeing new things, asking new questions. So much so that her Abba did not even blink when she walked over to it for a better view.

“That is Gramma Shema’s box.”

“Is she your Gramma?”

“She was. She passed on right after you were born, so you did not get to meet her, but I know she would have loved you just the same.”

Aliyah smiled and wondered what the older woman must have been like. Turning back around, she moved to stand beside her Abba who had gone back to his writing. The scroll beneath his hand was filled with strokes and slashes, none of which she could understand. She waited as long as she could before more questions came tumbling out of her.

“But what’s in the box, Abba? Why do you have it here?”

Her Abba kept on writing, dunking the quill in its ink pot each time he started a new row of words. She tugged on his sleeve, “Would you tell me a story, Abba?”

“Alright, but then you must heed your ima and go to bed quietly.”

“Yes, I will.”

Abba set down his writing and pushed back from his table. When he stood, he towered over her making her feel like a tiny beetle before a large acacia tree. Her Abba reached down and scooped her up into his strong arms, tickling her tummy until she squealed with delight. He then moved them over to the carpet and sat down with her in his lap.

“Let me see now, where shall I begin.”

“From the beginning!”

“Oh, would you like that? Then that is where I shall start.”

Aliyah snuggled in close. She loved it when Abba told her stories.

“When our people first came to this land it was because of a great famine. Father Jacob had to leave the land that Elohim had promised to his father Abraham, because the crops had been laid to waste and the animals were dying. Our God had already made a way for them to find shelter here in Egypt through Jacob’s son Joseph. And so they came, and were given this portion of the land from Pharaoh to raise livestock.”

“Like Uncle Uri’s goats and sheep?”

“Yes, and the cows too. Jacob and all of his sons moved here together, and our God provided for them through the years of famine, just like He provides for us today. Now, the ninth son of Jacob was Isaachar…”

“That’s our tribe, isn’t it Abba?”

“It is, very good. And Isaachar believed just like his father Jacob that one day our people would return to the land of Canaan. That’s why when almost all of his belongings were unpacked into his new tent, he left this box unopened.”

“Aliyah, are you in here? I thought I had told you it was time for your rest?”

“Oh please, Ima, may I stay here just a little while longer? Abba is about to tell me about great grandfather Isaachar.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, my love. Why don’t you come and rest your feet while I finish the story?”

“Thank you, I think I will do just that.”

The little girl watched as Ima joined them on the carpet, and Abba moved the largest pillow for her to lean against. Ima lowered herself slowly, one hand one Abba’s shoulder, the other on her swollen belly.

“You have had a long day today. Perhaps I should ask your sister to come and help out?”

“You fret over me, Asher, but I am fine. Besides, we still have a few more weeks before the babe comes.”

Abba’s brow was pinched but then he relaxed and turned towards her, “I suppose you are right. You will help your ima with the chores, won’t you Aliyah?”

“Yes, Abba. I am growing stronger every day. Soon, I will be able to lift all the heavy things for Ima.”

“That’s my biti. Now, where was I?” Abba pulled her and Ima closer, tucking them both against the rough wool of his garment. His voice was low and smooth, stretching across time and leading them to a land not so long ago.

“Isaachar was Gramma Shema’s great grandfather, and he had told her the story of how our people had come to Egypt. But he also told her of how our people were meant for more. How we were destined to inherit a land of milk and honey. Everyone thought poor old Isaachar was crazy, but not Granma Shema. When Isaachar died, she asked to keep the box. She put it into one corner of her house, where there it sat, unopened, unpacked. A constant reminder that this place was not her home, and that she should not get too comfortable here. Instead, Gramma Shema told us we should always be ready to leave, for when the time is right, the Lord will deliver us from Egypt and take us to our real home.”

“But why did they say great grandfather Isaachar was crazy, Abba?”

“Hmm…perhaps it is because we have been here for many generations now, and the more time that passes the more we forget who we are.”

“That is why it is important for us to tell these stories of our people.”

“Ima is right. And in just the same way this box has been passed down from Gramma Shema to me. When she passed, she told me to it was her most valuable treasure, for just like Father Abraham who lived in a tent, never putting down roots, we too are to be sojourners, foreigners always on the move. Always ready to pack up and go at a moment’s notice.”

Aliya’s eyes drooped heavily, and soon she could no longer keep them open.

“It seems your story was just what she needed to find her rest. Here, let me take her to bed.”

“No, let me.” Abba stood, his little girl turning into his chest when he lifted her up. “You stay right here and when I come back I shall rub your sore muscles, hmm?”

“Alright, my love, but only because I do not think I could get myself back up again without some help.”

He threw his beloved wife a smile and swept through the wall of fabric. Carrying his precious bundle to her small cot right next to theirs, he gently lowered her childish frame. He then pulled the coverlet up to her chin and pressed a kiss to her soft brown curls.

“Abba?”

“Yes, Aliyah?”

“Do you think someday when I am grown, I shall get to keep Gramma Shema’s box?”

“I suppose so, but you must not think it belongs to any one of us, for it is a reminder to all of Father Abraham’s descendants.”

“Yes, Abba. And Abba?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I tell this story to the babe when he gets big like me?”

“I think that would be a wonderful idea. Sleep now, my biti.”