He was 137 years old. He'd been through two traumatic events involving the people most precious to him in the world.

The first involved the son, for whom he'd waited for a lifetime, Isaac.

He and Sarah had given up hope, yet God told them both that they would have a son together,

and it would be he who would continue the

covenant. The years passed. Sarah didn't conceive. She'd grown old, yet God still insisted that they

would have a child. Eventually it came. There was rejoicing. Sarah said, God has brought me laughter,

and everyone who hears about this will laugh with me.

Then came the terrifying moment when God said to Abraham, take your son, your only one, the one

you love, and offer him as a sacrifice. Abraham didn't dissent, protest, or delay.

Father and son traveled together, and only at the last

moment did the command come from heaven saying stop. How does a father, let alone a son, survive a trauma

like that? Then came grief. Sarah, Abraham's beloved wife, died. She'd been his constant companion, sharing the

journey with him as they left behind all they knew, their land, their birthplace and their families.

Twice she saved Abram's life by pretending to be his sister. What does a man of 137 do that Tora

calls him old and advanced in years after such a trauma and such a bereavement?

We wouldn't be surprised to find out that he spent the rest of his days in sadness and memory.

He'd done what God had asked of him, yet he could hardly say that God's promises had been

fulfilled.

Seven times he'd been promised the land of Canaan, yet when Sarah died he owned not one

square inch, not even a place in which to bury his wife.

God had promised him many children, a great nation, many nations, as many as the grains of sand in the seashore

and the stars in the sky. Yet he had only one son of the covenant, Isaac, whom he'd almost lost,

...