Write a passage in which a character receives a request to do something from another character, which poses an ethical or moral dilemma.
(note: my piece is based on the story of Abraham's almost-sacrifice of Isaac in Genesis 22. I don't include the part where the angel intervenes, because I'm not much of a happy-endings person.)
isaac: יִצְחָק: 'he laughs'
Every morning, my father takes me by the hand, and we go to greet the horses and the cows. I am his little helper, bringing out the hay, sweeping the barns. In the evenings, he lets me sit on his lap as he teaches me a new song. My father likes to talk about the stars. “And you’re the brightest one of all,” he would say, and I believe him when I look into his eyes and I see the stars reflected.
My father laughs with a warm, hearty chortle, and it makes
my mother smile. My father’s laughter is a river, an endless supply of jewels.
Joy is a gift and a command, he says; it is the all-healing elixir. I brought
laughter to the family even before I was conceived, and so my father inscribed
it in my identity that I would laugh all the days of my life, and that the
world would share in this gift with me.
But one day, my father returns from the fields with a
different air. He stands in the doorway, the face of a ghost. A lost stranger.
The chickens cluck at his feet but he seems not to notice. I look up and I fall
silent in confusion. A pause. He shuts the door slowly, mechanically, and makes
his way to the rocking chair without seeming to see. I climb onto his lap and
put my hands on his stone-cold cheeks: Abba? What’s wrong? A lifeless shell. I
begin to cry. After a while he begins to wrap his arms around me, tighter and
tighter until I squirm for air, but still his eyes are blank, his ears
unhearing.
The next morning he tells me we must go. “Wash yourself,” he
says, “and say your prayers; we must make a sacrifice to the Lord.” I make
myself clean, and I call upon the God of my father, the All-Benevolent, the
All-Righteous, for mercy. I bring out the donkey, and my father prepares the
firewood. My mother runs out to embrace me. She cups my face and kisses my
forehead, and tells me I am deeply loved.
All along the way my father grips my hand tight, but doesn’t
say a word. We cross to Moriah, the land of God’s ordinance, and still he walks
on, emotionless. God has ordained good things for those He loves. But my father
seems a ghost now, possessed by emptiness, as he trudges on. Where is the
blessed joy? The river of laughter?
I cannot take his strange silence any longer: “Abba, you say
we are going to make a sacrifice, but where is the lamb?” My father stops,
takes both my hands, kisses my forehead. “God will provide, my love.” He looks
at me for a long time, as if searching for something deeper within. When he
breaks his gaze he becomes a stranger again.
One nightfall, he sits down and takes me into his arms. He
runs his hands through my hair and takes a good look at me, his eyes starless
but desperate, and then he starts to cry. I have never seen my father cry.
Small sobs at first, but they grow to become heaving gasps, his shoulders
trembling; and he holds me tight again. I decide not to ask.
As the sun reaches its peak my father’s steps begin to slow
down, and I know we have arrived. He comes to a stop, and stands motionless for
a long time, his eyes fixed on the grass, his grip still tight. And then he
slowly awakes from his stupor, turns to look at me quietly: “come, let’s set
the firewood down.” My head swims with questions: where is the lamb the Father has prepared? What has been going through
your mind, papa, and why have you stopped smiling? He takes the wood off my
back, and as he sets it on the ground he starts to mumble incessantly, chanting
up a storm under his breath: you have
made me a father of many nations you have established your everlasting covenant
you shall be their god your goodness is enduring you are almighty god i shall
walk before you blameless my father has tears running down his face but he
seems not to notice. In this teary trance he picks me up, lays me down on the
firewood. What? Abba? I kick, I shout in his face. Abba, it’s me you’re
carrying! Abba, why?
He crouches down to kiss my face, choking on his tears. “No,
no, love, it’s okay, don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid, love.” We both struggle
with ourselves, force the sobs to die. “My love, there is a greater Father
above, an Abba of never-ending joy. There’s no need to feel afraid. I love you,
my greatest gift, I love you, all the stars of heaven are in your God-given
soul. It’s time, my love, you will meet my good Abba and yours.”
This good God, this life-giving Father, has taken the smile
off my abba’s face and wants me to die. Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani? My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Where is this goodness? Where is His
love? How can a Father of love command death? He gives love only to kill it, He
give joy only to steal it; yet my daddy calls Him good.
I let him put the ropes on me. I realise I don’t know him
anymore: which man would kill his own son? The stranger raises his axe. I look
at him, look at heaven, two fathers and none.
2 comments:
WOW this is so amazing Karen. I love how you end it. Hope you're having a great time at the writer's festival :)
Aw Payal! Thank you so much :) I'm having a great time! Hope you're enjoying Tokyo too! :)
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