A Sacrifice

For "Flash Fiction Friday"
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I’m having a problem with God. No, not one of those theoretical problems, like, “How do we know He exists?” or “How can He be everywhere at the same time?” I’m having a Real Problem with God. Call it a Crisis.

See, God just told me to kill my son. Yeah. Now, that’s a problem.

I had the kid at a pretty late age. I mean, the old lady had the kid, not me. God still hasn’t pulled that off—the final trick—a man having a baby. I’m pretty sure there’s a movie out there about it, though.

See, the old lady and I have been pretty decent people for a long, long time. We’re really quite old. And we asked God repeatedly for a kid, but He just wouldn’t get back to us on that. I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t empty His voicemail, or some angel forgot to deliver the messages. In any case, it was a long time before we heard back from Him.

I distinctly remember the conversation, though.

Me: “God? Hey, you there? Pick up if you’re there!”
God: “What now?”
Me: “Yeah, we put in a request like, I don’t know, fifty years ago for a kid, and we still haven’t heard anything back.”
(Shuffling of papers in the background).
God: “Oh, yeah, here it is. It got lost in a stack.”
Me: “Well, you know…can I get a response?”
God: “You still listening to my broadcasts?”
Me: “Weekly.”
God: “Good. I like it. Sure, kiddo, knock yourself out!”
Click. The phone went dead and then, from the bathroom, my wife started crying.

“You won’t believe what just happened to me in there!” she screamed.
“I’d probably believe it,” I said, “but I don’t really want to know the details.”
Well, you guessed it. She turned up pregnant. We were really pleased.

And then: the reality set in.

Here’s my wife, seventy years old or something, going through pregnancy. She throws up in the morning and dislodges teeth. She craves prunes and Metamucil. Her bones hurt constantly with the osteoporosis, and the kid is sucking her dry of any nutrients. She takes vitamins, but they’re only for seniors, so now she takes Flintstones vitamins, too, and complains how they hurt her cavities. It’s at this point that I began to see how this whole idea was pretty lame-brained. I mean, my wife is miserable! So, I’m miserable, too.

“Call him,” my wife gasps at me one morning between heaves.
“Call who?”
“HIM!” and she points to the ceiling.
“Yeah, and say what?” I ask.
“Just tell Him I’m miserable,” she said, ducking back to the toilet again.
“Well, honey, there are a lot of people in the world who are miserable. I mean, you certainly are not the first woman to go through a pregnancy, and after all, it IS kind of your lot in life…” I was interrupted by the screaming.
“If you don’t call Him right now, I promise you the rest of your life will be nothing short of misery, old man.”
I looked around innocently. My eyes found an old crayon that I used to write parables with. My wife had put it in a cup besides a stack of papyrus papers. I picked it up and fingered it, saying, “I had no idea that’s where that goes.”
“CALL HIM NOW!” She was near an apoplectic fit.
“I’m on it.” I went outside.

“God? Hey, you there?”
No response.
“Hey, uh, God? God? Can you hear me now?”
“WHAT?” He asked. He sounded peeved.
“Oo, sorry, didn’t mean to bother You. What are You doin’?”
“Painting the ceiling.”
“You’re painting the ceiling? Isn’t that what the angels are for?” I asked.
“Turns out it’s not in their contract.” He said, sounding agitated.
“Contract?” I asked.
“Yeah, you know who most of them are contracted with, right?” He asked.
“No! You can’t mean-Satan?”
“Worse. Teamsters. These guys got by-laws that get them out of all sorts of work. So I’m stuck painting the ceiling. You called just when I was at the top of the ladder.”
“Oh, I’m sorry about that, God. Hey, wait a minute. I thought you were able to be everywhere at once!”
“Can we not get into that right now? What do you need?” He sounded annoyed again.
“It’s the old lady. Turns out this pregnancy is pretty tough on her, you know, being so old.” I said. In the background I heard the wife say something about ‘not being all that old’.
“Well, you know, you DID ask for the pregnancy.” God said.
“Yeah, but, I mean, I didn’t know it was going to be this miserable!”
“Well, it’s nice to hear you empathize with your wife,”
“No, I mean, miserable for me!” I said emphatically.
There was silence.
“But of course I love her, and hate to see her so ill all the time, and just want to be a good provider, O Great One, and make sure my family is well provided for, so I beg for your Mercy, O Lord of All, O Great Benefactor of…”
“Okay, shut it. Shut it. I’m on it. Problem solved. Look, I gotta run. There’s paint dripping on my shoe.” God said, and then hung up.

I went back inside.
“Nicely done,” said the wife. I thought she was being sarcastic, but for once, she wasn’t. Because there in her arms lay the most perfect, rosy-cheeked little baby I had ever seen. My son was born, and was healthy and beautiful, and my wife and I lay back in the glow of God’s greatness and smiled with affection and tender love upon the gift from Heaven, the little angel…and all was peaceful.
For five minutes.
Then, the kid started to cry.

So there was that whole ‘parenting’ thing we had to go through, my wife and I. Many times, I was on the helpline to God, but He had gone to an automated voice recognition system at that point, and I kept getting directed to India for help. Here’s an idea of THOSE conversations.
Me: “Hello?”
Yogi: “Please hold. I am currently trying to reach Nirvana.”
(Musak)
Me: pushing zero several times to get to the operator.
Yogi: “You persist much. Tell me, what is the nature of your question?”
Me: “The damn kid doesn’t get fractions. I tell him ‘Go get a fourth of a pound of lamb from the freezer’ and he just looks at me. So, I do the whole apple routine. ‘If you’ve got two halves of an apple, you have one apple. If you have four quarters of an apple, you have an apple.’ There’s just no getting through to him.”
Yogi: “Yeah, I can’t help much in that department. We’re on a different measurement system over here.”
Click.

But we managed to get by, and the little squirt wound up being pretty well-loved and nurtured.

Yesterday was his thirteenth birthday. We slaughtered a kid for him (no, not the neighborhood bully—I meant a kid goat). We put a bright red balloon on a string around his neck, to signify his importance. Of course, he almost choked himself on it, so we tied it around a chair. We had some of his little hooligan friends invited for a big party. I hired some troubadours for entertainment who only asked for wine as payment. I mean, I had done pretty well on expenses and the wife was happy and the kid was really thrilled.

So, an hour before the party started, I get this message while out feeding the sheep. It’s Him.

God: “Hey, you.”
Me: “Well, hey there, Stranger! Long time no hear from!”
Silence. Then, “I’d appreciate it if you spoke in a manner that expresses respect for Me.”
Me: “Um, sorry. Your Humble Servant doth verily apologize, O Great Master. What can I doest for Thou?”
God: “Better. Tomorrow, take your kid up to Mount Moriah and kill him for Me. It’s a sacrifice.”
Me: “Huh?”
God: “You heard Me. I need you to do this. The angels are demanding better terms in order to keep working for Me, and I’ve got to satiate them with the blood of a human boy, preferably a well-behaved one. That way, they can’t say I only stick it to them.”
Me: “Huh?”
God: “I know, it’s a trouble. I guess I now know what the Collections department must feel like when placing calls. But I need you to do this for Me. Okay?”
Me: “How am I going to explain this to the wife?”
God: “Easy. Don’t. Sins of commission are better than sins of omission.”
The line went dead.

So, you see my crisis, right?

I just went and gathered my son. He was busy playing with some new action figures.
“Look, Dad! This is how we stomp the Philistines!” he cried as he stomped all over some green army men.
“Uh huh. Look, kid, we gotta take a walk.”
“Where to, Dad?”
“Uh. It’s a secret. Like a mission. Or something.”
“Like a mission from God?” My son really liked parables.
“Yeah, kinda.” I said.
We’ve begun walking at this point. The evening is cool, and the sky is layered in all sorts of panoramic colors. The air is whispering of much-needed rain.

“Hey, Dad.” My son says.
“What’s up, buddy?”
“It sure is nice out, huh? And I had such a good birthday, and next week is the Bah Mitzvah, and maybe I’ll get some money…”
“Son, maybe we should just be happy for the time we have. Right now. Together,” I say.
“Oh, yeah, totally. Hey, are we climbing up this mountain?”
“Yeah, thought I’d work my muscles some.”
“Dad, you’re like ancient. You should so not be doing this. Here, lean on me while we walk.”
This makes me want to cry, so I slow down some. Now, night is setting in. We walk further up the mountain, and the first drops of rain hit our cheeks. The rain is ice cold, and it stings. I try to protect my son with my arm, but he pushes that away so that I can lean on him for support.

“Kid, I’m supposed to be protecting you, not the other way around,” I say.
“Well, I guess God would say we both have to take care of each other, right? I mean, He doesn’t talk to me the way he talks to you, but I guess that’s what I think.” My son wrapped an arm around my waist. I want to tell him that’s not God’s plan at all; apparently, God likes to torture us and not answer our prayers and totally disregard humans, and when He’s not ignoring us, He’s making us do really downright bad things. Like killing our kids for sacrifice. I keep silent on the topic.

We come to a ledge.
“Isaac, stop. Lemme sit here for a moment,” I instruct. I sit down and take a deep breath. I feel the cold blade of my knife under my robe, and imagine spilling my child’s blood for God. I’m shaking.
“Dad? Are you okay? You know, it’s pretty dark up here, and I’m soaked. Maybe we need to go home.”
“Listen, son. There’s something…well,” I stall, because this is so hard. I brush tears from my eyes.
“I haven’t always told you that I love you. That’s because I’m old, and cranky, and think most of the time, you take up too much energy. But the fact is, kid, I love you a lot. You are God’s gift to your mother and I. You are as precious to us as all the gold in the world,” I say tearfully.
My son moves closer to me, in order to comfort me. He embraces me, and as he does, I place my hands firmly on his shoulders, keeping him from moving. He goes soft, trusting, not understanding his life is in danger. I turn him around gently, then, I swiftly drop him to his knees as I pull the blade from beneath my robe and place it at his throat.
“Father!” he is screaming. Lightening cracks down the black mountain, and a voice comes through, loud and clear.
“ABRAHAM,” God says.
“What now? Huh? What do you want? I’m in the middle of killing my son for you here. WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT NOW?” Rage is shaking my voice. My hands can’t seem to steady themselves.
“ABRAHAM. LET THE CHILD GO. YOU HAVE PASSED THE TEST.” God is speaking in a movie star voice, deep and powerful.
“What test?” I say, dropping the blade as Isaac stumbles away from me.
“I DID SEEKETH YOUR FAITH. I WANTED TO KNOW IF YOU TRULY LOVED ME. IT SEEMS YOU DO.”
“Well, no crap, God! Of course I love you! I mean, not like THAT, but, you know, I love you!”
“GOOD. I AM PLEASED. I HAVE TRULY CHOSEN THE FATHER OF ISRAEL, AND OF THE JEWS, AND OF THE TRIBES. BLESSED ART THOU, AND BLESSED BE YOUR SON, ISAAC, FOR HE SHALL CARRY ON THE BLOODLINE OF THE LORD.”
Isaac clamps his hands over his ears.
“Yeah, okay, thanks God. Can you stop with the dramatics? I’ve got a frightened kid, here, you know,” I say.
The lightening and rain cease. Isaac stands up and looks at me doubtfully. I shrug with an apologetic face, mouthing the words, ‘He’s crazy!’, as I point upwards.
“I saw that,” God says.
“Sorry, God,” I say.
“I know I don’t always make sense. But I promise you this: I’m always going to take care of you. Even when you doubt me and curse me, but then suck up to me to get back in my good graces. I’m going to help you. I may give you tough things to do, but only because I know you’ll succeed. I promise you, it’s all going to work out,” God says in a
kind tone.
“Dad, can we go home?” My son, forgiving, comes and wraps his arms around my frail waist. We begin to descend the mountain. Halfway down, we hear God again.

“Oh, Abraham?” God asks.
“Yes, Lord,” I respond.
“In forty minutes or so, can you bring some of that fried goat left over from the party?”
“Can’t you just come to the house?” I ask.
“Well, see, I just started this really good book. It’s on Oprah’s book club, and I’m coming up on the juicy part, and it’s so nice up here on the mountain…” God explains.
Isaac tugs on my robe.
“I’ll bring it back, Dad. I have a feeling that God and I have a lot to talk about. Like where babies come from. And how can God be everywhere all at once? You know, kid stuff.”
I smile at my son charitably. Of course the kid can walk up this damn mountain again. I’m going home and having the old lady rub some balm into my joints, because I’m an old, old man. I’m the Father of Israel.