Chayei Sarah: Ten Camels, Three Velcro Cats and a Criminal Bottle of Water

Home, sweet home. Theoretically. I have returned to Israel after a month in South Africa, and three furry members of the reception committee have decided that my passport should be confiscated, shredded and buried in the litter tray. My arrival rivalled the opening of a tin of tuna.

Purrcy, formerly the exclusive holder of the household Velcro licence, is furious to discover that Petunia and Sammi have entered the market. All three now accompany me from room to room, apparently terrified that I might disappear through a cupboard. Personal space has been abolished. I am no longer a woman living with cats; I am a mobile piece of furniture with catering responsibilities.

Their human, meanwhile, resembles the before photograph in an advertisement for urgent grooming. My hair has grown unrulylily, which is not technically a word but ought to be. My nails are approaching the point at which airport security might classify them as weapons. I need a haircut, a manicure and a lengthy lie-down.

Speaking of airport security, I would like to nominate OR Tambo International for an award in preventable irritation. I was obliged to surrender toiletries in 150 ml and 250 ml containers because, as civilisation knows, 100 ml is harmless, while 150 ml threatens an aircraft’s structural integrity. I understand the regulation. It still inspired a full-body eye roll.

Then there was the water. Water! The substance on which life depends. Apparently, once bottled in sufficient quantity, it becomes an international incident. Humanity has a gift for complicating simplicity.

And that brings us to this Shabbos’s parashah, Chayei Sarah, where water features prominently and nobody demands that Rivka pour it into approved miniature containers.

Sarah dies at 127. Abraham purchases the Cave of Machpelah as her burial place. His servant then travels to find a wife for Isaac and encounters Rivka at a well. She offers him a drink and, without being asked, draws water for his ten camels. Ten. Anyone who has ever attempted to persuade three cats to share one bowl will appreciate the logistical ambition of that sentence.

Imagine Rivka approaching modern airport security with a procession of thirsty camels. The officer would confiscate the vessel, explain that the contents exceeded the permitted allowance and direct the entire caravan towards a queue last seen moving under Pharaoh.

But the scene at the well is about far more than hydration. Rivka recognises a need beyond the one put to her. She doesn’t make a speech about kindness; she does the work. Chesed is compassion with its sleeves rolled up, which is rather less glamorous and considerably more useful.

And last night, I experienced precisely that.

I arrived at Ben Gurion Airport in a wheelchair, my injured back having rendered heavy lifting an activity best left to people whose spines still cooperate with management. A dear friend took a taxi to the airport specifically to meet me and help with my suitcases. She then accompanied me all the way back to Ra’anana, carried my luggage into my apartment and made sure I was safely home.

Think about that. She left the comfort of her own home for an airport, handled someone else’s luggage, and accompanied an exhausted traveller home. No fanfare, no expectation of applause, no invoice presented for services rendered. Simply recognising someone needed help and deciding to provide it.

That is chesed. Not an inspirational slogan embroidered onto a cushion, but the gloriously unglamorous business of showing up. Rivka had ten camels. My friend had several suitcases and one temporarily defective human. I suspect both women would have understood each other perfectly.

Back at home, the cats were delighted. They don’t care where I have been, what I accomplished or how impressive my luggage might look. Their welcome is demanding, occasionally painful and entirely free of ambiguity. The timing is not without comic difficulty, as my urinary tract has declared a small rebellion, making their insistence on supervising bathroom visits particularly unhelpful. Privacy has become a constitutional dispute.

After Shabbos, I intend to declutter. My cupboards contain objects I have not used, needed or recognised for years. There are drawers whose contents could support an archaeological dig, assuming the archaeologists were adequately vaccinated. The temptation is to start throwing things out indiscriminately, although experience suggests that the moment I discard something, I shall need it urgently.

Yet Chayei Sarah offers a better question than what to throw out: what deserves to remain? The portion is called “The Life of Sarah” although it begins with her death. Her legacy continues through the family she shaped, the values she embodied and the home in which Isaac eventually finds comfort with Rivka.

A home is not the sum of its cupboards. It is where care becomes action, absence is noticed and returning matters. Mine currently contains three Velcro cats, too much clutter and one woman whose hair requires immediate intervention. It also contains the extraordinary reassurance of knowing that when I cannot carry my own burdens, someone will cross a city to help me carry them.

The great clear-out can begin after Havdalah. For now, I shall enjoy Shabbos, recover from travelling and submit to the feline occupation.

Rivka managed ten camels. My friend managed my luggage. I shall attempt three cats.

Although nobody has yet explained how Rivka got to the bathroom alone.