I slammed the book shut. “Stupid..” “Irrelevant.” I mumbled. Knowing, even as I spoke, that I was lying. I tried to blink the scene away, along with my tears.
I couldn’t. The truth is- the scene was more than relevant. It was my reality.
I hated it.
I was afraid. I was struggling to hold on and let go at the same time.
And here he was. Doing this.
“How could he do that?” “What’s wrong with him?”
He was Abraham. I clutched my pregnant belly as I read how he had clutched a knife and raised it to kill his son. His perfect, healthy, answer to prayer and miraculous -son.
“as an offering.”
What if this was my sacrifice? I couldn’t let him go. I held him tight, in my fear. As if I could make everything all right by worrying.
Prenatal testing had showed potential problems. Because of my history of threatening to miscarry, we opted out of more conclusive testing. We decided to wait and see what God had for us.
The closer we got to my due date, the more panic and fear welled up in my heart.
Abraham wasn’t helping.
When I could no longer blink away the tears or keep the fear swallowed down. It poured out in a flood: “Why did you do that to him? How could he put his son on that altar?”
“He put him on my lap.“ Was the quiet response.
I felt my fearful grip slowly loosen. In my heart, I lay him down.