This started as an experiment: Cindy, my best friend and the most writerly individual I know, suggested that I begin my attempt at "serious writing" by building short stories off of something I know. Her example was fairy tale retellings. That isn't really my thing though; my first (and just about only) exposure to the classic fairy tales was Disney, and that doth not a writer make -- at least not this writer. However, I have been fascinated by the Old Testament class I'm taking this semester, and thus this thing was born. I would love to add to it, I would love to write about the other Old Testament patriarchs, but I'm trying not to over-structure myself.

Another thing Cindy said I should do was give myself permission to write something terrible. And, well, I did -- this is melodramatic crap. You've been warned.

The Patriarchs

Genesis 15-22: Abraham

“But Lord – how could I kill my own son?”

It was the only thought in my mind, the echo of it pounding my heart into smaller and smaller shards. I remembered that very morning, when I looked into his eyes as he joked over breakfast, seeing for the hundred-millionth time his mother’s laughter in the large, brown eyes I bequeathed him. I remembered the day he was born, remembered loving my wife more than I knew was possible when I took him from her soft, wrinkled hands – a baby of our very own. I remembered the day that I saw those three holy messengers, who blessed our home and Sarah’s womb, promising us that she would, in fact, bear a son to carry on the family name. Every day I lived since then, I had in my heart of hearts praised God for His mercy and miracles, and loved my son more dearly.

We waited decades for the man-child who had finally completed our home, suffered and struggled to have patience and accept our God’s will. We asked all of the agonizing questions of fruitless loins – were we unworthy? Had we sinned against God? We made it our highest priority to serve Him, as perfectly as mortals could. Sometimes we thought we were resigned to childlessness, but mostly we were only accustomed to the grief. Other times, we did recognize it, and felt it so keenly that we stayed up nights and wept in longing. We knew that God had a plan for our family, but the persistent ache taught us equal parts faith and endurance.

I squeezed my eyes shut against the sudden tears. Surely we – surely I – had learned enough about suffering already! My own father had tried to kill me once, but I had been rescued by the Lord from the wickedness that permeated the environment of my youth. But who would rescue my son, if the Lord was the one ordering his death? Why would God command such a thing, after all that He had promised to us?

The question hunted me as I stumbled in a daze down the mountain, where I had gone to pray. From a long way off, I could see the firelight and Sara and Isaac’s silhouettes against the flicker. I had fought my whole life to protect them from pain and lead my family toward God, yet God was asking me to cause them the greatest pain yet.

“Father! Come sit, dinner is almost ready. You took longer than usual tonight. – Father – are you alright?” I hadn’t let go of the hand he held out to help lower me into my usual place at the fireside.

“Oh – yes, my son, I’m just tired. It was a very, very long prayer.”

Isaac laughed – his trademark. “God was particularly demanding tonight?”

He had no idea.