Call it historical fiction, I guess. Had a writing class a couple of years back and decided to share some of what came out of it with you.
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Sacrifices
His chest heaved with each breath, the air escaping his lungs in short gasps. This journey up the ridge would have been challenging for a younger man, but for Abraham, now over a hundred, each step seemed a mountain in itself. Between the physical exertion and the turmoil raging in his heart, it was all he could do to keep moving.
As the two climbed, Abraham and his young son Isaac, the elder mused over the events of the past twenty-four hours. He heard the Lord’s voice as if it were still ringing in his ears – a sound distinguishable from all else, commanding respect.
“Take your son, your only son, Isaac, whom you love, and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains I will tell you about.”
Immense grief seized Abraham at those words – grief and panic. My son? My beloved? My heart! How can I possibly part with him? A tear slipped from the corner of his eye, rolling down his cheek; it left a path as it streamed through the dust caked on his wrinkled face. He stifled a sob as he set about making preparations for the fateful trip on the morrow.
And now, here they were. Carrying the fire for the sacrifice and the knife, Abraham glanced at Isaac, further up the trail, trying to discern if the boy had a clue what was about to happen. Isaac himself was burdened with the wood, but he was youthful and strong, and bore the load as though it were nothing. He even hummed quietly to himself a song of praise to the Lord. No … he’s blissfully unaware. That’s good. No need for him to suffer more than he has to.
Isaac kicked a rock with the tip of his sandal, causing it to skip from the path after bouncing off a few other stones. He leaned on his walking stick and gave his father time to catch up. While he waited, his eyes took in the beauty of the mountain range. You can see forever up here! I wonder if Heaven is anything like this…
“Dad! Check out the view!” Isaac was filled with wonder over the splendor of God’s creation. He cupped his hand and brought it to his brow to shield his eyes. The midday sun was brilliant. It cast a golden glow over the countryside, bathing the trees in its warm embrace.
Abraham looked at his son – his most cherished gift on the earth – and emotion surged through his heart. How blessed he was that the Lord had given him this boy. He never would have dreamed that he and Sarah would have been granted a son at their age. Sarah didn’t even believe it when they were told. She had laughed so hard!
God was true to his word, though, and Isaac was born. Through him, the Lord would make Abraham the father of many nations. He believed this promise, yet how could it be if Isaac were dead, offered as a sacrifice? Abraham couldn’t make sense of it.
As his mind considered what he was about to do, bile began to rise in his throat. He kept swallowing, trying to fight back the nausea, but it was as futile as trying to hold back the waters of the Jordan. All of the fear, disappointment, and anguish inside his soul bubbled to the surface; he choked and vomited on the ground. His eyes watered as he watched the foul liquid snake its way through the dust.
“Father … are you alright? Papa!” Isaac rushed to where Abraham knelt retching and put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. Abraham reached up and covered his son’s hand with his own, the fingers of leather a sharp contrast to the soft silkiness of the lad’s.
“I’m alright, boy. It’ll be alright. Everything will be alright.” With a heavy sigh, Abraham pulled himself up from the ground. He wiped under his eyes and mopped the sweat from his temple with his tunic sleeve. There was a seriousness in his weathered face. Isaac longed to question Abraham further, but took note of the solemn glint in his father’s eyes and decided, after some hesitation, to let the moment pass. Whatever was troubling the old man, Isaac knew not to push.
They continued on, keeping each other company without words. The silence between them was filled with the sound of the gravel crunching beneath their feet, the lively twittering of the birds, and Abraham’s labored breathing. It was not unusual for them to have lapses in conversation; father and son were so comfortable in one another’s company that they often enjoyed their time together communicating without words. Yet this was different. Isaac could sense that his father was wrestling with something – an inner struggle that was so intense Abraham seemed locked inside himself.
In an effort to lighten things up, Isaac tried to draw his father into conversation. “Father?”
“Yes, my son?”
“The fire and wood are here, but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?”
Abraham’s breath caught in his throat as he held back a sob. Twisting his walking stick in his gnarled hand, he frantically searched for a way to answer. What could he say?
“God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son.”
Isaac seemed satisfied with this explanation and relief swept over Abraham like a giant wave. He didn’t know that he could have said anything more.
The two went on together until they reached the top of the mount and the clearing where the sacrifice would be offered to the Lord. Abraham sat down on a flat rock and brought a flask to his parched lips. The water was cool and tasted a little of tin. He felt the smooth rawhide on the outside of the container beneath his fingertips and realized that his hands were shaking. He quickly handed the flask to Isaac, hoping the boy hadn’t noticed his trembling.
As Isaac took his turn sipping the water, Abraham busied himself collecting rocks for the altar. He piled them together, smaller stones on top of larger ones, until the heap grew to the size of a small table. Satisfied with the altar, he took the wood and arranged it on top of the rocks, piece by piece.
Abraham stared at the altar for a long while. Love for his son prompted him to take Isaac and flee this place. Perhaps they could hide…go get Sarah and settle in a remote village far from here.
Yet Abraham knew that there was no hiding from the Lord, and love for his God compelled him to move ahead and face this – the most difficult thing he’d ever had to do.
“Isaac. Come here, boy.” Isaac looked up at his father and noted the tears in his ancient eyes. He obeyed.
Abraham drew a length of rope from his tunic and wrapped it tightly around the boy’s wrists.
“Papa? What are you doing?” Isaac didn’t understand.
Abraham said not a word as he bound his son’s ankles. Grasping Isaac by the shoulders, he leaned forward and planted a kiss on the boy’s forehead. He was sobbing now, violent gut wrenching sobs that consumed him. He hefted the boy over his shoulder and carried him to the altar, laying him on top of the wood.
“My beloved son… whyyyyy?” The last word of the question began as a shriek and ended with a guttural moan. His mind was reeling, his heart shattered in pieces, like a mirror smashed on the rocks.
Isaac’s eyes were wide with horror as he watched his father unsheathe the knife; the tip of its blade caught the sun and cast a sinister flash of light, momentarily blinding Isaac.
Isaac quaked with fear on the altar. His father seemed possessed. For a fleeting second he wondered if the man had gone mad. The rope, cinched tightly around his wrists and ankles, had now cut off the circulation to his hands and feet. He struggled in vain to free himself.
The old man threw back his head – his eyes closed, his mouth open, his face contorted with pain. He raised the knife high over his head with both hands, the blade poised to slay his son. “Aaaaaaaaaaargh!”
“Papa… No!”
Suddenly a voice thundered through the air. Deep and commanding, it echoed through the trees, its timber full of warmth, like the glowing embers of a hearth fire. “Abraham! Abraham!”
Abraham froze – arms raised – the knife still gripped so tightly in his hands the knuckles were white, the skin stretched so taut it appeared bone might break through at any moment. In a voice not much louder than a whisper, Abraham addressed his creator. “Here I am.”
“Do not lay a hand on the boy. Don’t do anything to him. Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld from me your son, your only son.”
The knife dropped from his hands and clattered to the stones at his feet; Abraham collapsed on top of the boy in relief. He sobbed as he smothered his son in a wild embrace. “My son, my son!”
“Papa… untie me!” Isaac’s heart pounded in his chest, fear still pulsing through every vein in his body.
Abraham worked at the knotted ropes as quickly as his arthritic hands would allow. Helping Isaac off the altar, he looked up and gasped. There in the thicket was a ram, it’s horns entangled in the mess of branches. He moved so quickly he stumbled over the ragged hem of his cloak. He lay on the ground, his tear stained cheek in the dust; his mouth was dry with the taste of salt and earth. Thank you, Lord… Oh God!
Isaac helped the old man to his feet and watched with tears blurring his own vision as his father carried the ram to the altar and killed it. Setting the torch to the wood, Abraham sacrificed the animal in his son’s place.
It took only a moment for Isaac to realize the broad scope of all that had happened. Through Abraham’s obedience he saw the incredible depth of his devotion to the Lord. Isaac had heard many times the promise God had made to his father, that he would bless his offspring and make them numerous as the stars. How his father must have questioned that when told to sacrifice his son! When it had seemed that the promise was an empty one, Isaac knew the Lord had placed the lamb in the thicket to serve as a substitution for his own life. This had been a test of his father’s faith, and he had passed. It all served to build Isaac’s faith that what the Lord says he will do, he will do – now and forever.
With one hand on the boy’s shoulder, Abraham gave thanks to the Lord. “This place,” he told Isaac soberly, “will forever be called ‘The Lord Will Provide.’”