Sodom killed us all. Oh how that wicked city vexed me, but I was weak, too rooted in rebellion to fight for change. My wife --- that’s another story. That woman’s love of finery drove me to distraction. She spent every ounce of silver we accumulated trying to get into the social center of a world we should have fled.
Why did God Almighty send his holy angels to pluck me and my family out of the fire? Did he care that much? Why does he care? Did Abram pray for us? And why did my wife, that blasted woman, why did she turn back? Regrets --- I have my fill (guess you’ve figured that out), but nothing stabs like the knowledge of what I did to that poor woman. She could be so headstrong.
But I loved that about her. I should have spoken my mind. I should have taken a firmer stance when it came to the way we raised the girls, yet I was never one to disturb the peace. You know I still miss my wife’s pouting lips and wicked sense of humor, but I don’t really miss her. Not really. Is that terrible?
So here I am. Alone with my thoughts, my disappointment, failures. It hurts to remember, but it’s impossible to forget. I’m not as unhappy as you might think. In fact, I could lie here and watch the blackbirds swirl above the valley for hours on end. And the changing color of each evening’s sunset has become more dear to me than all the gold in Egypt.
I might die content if someone would just bring me another blanket. Where are my daughters? I would die content if I knew my sons, the grandsons I myself unwittingly fathered, would shun my example and take the road less traveled. Maybe I should tell them about the God of Abram’s praise? Maybe I should call them to my side and make them listen?
Then again --- maybe not. You see my pride is all I have left to hold onto. So even if I die alone in this dank tomb, then at least the wasted years of my life can give testimony to the fact that the God I foolishly refused to embrace, though more patient than the kindest of men, will not be mocked. Let it be broadcast across the plain, let it echo through the haunt of every jackal, and let it be branded, dear God, let it be burned into the souls of my children, that every man reaps what he sows.
Sow a thought and reap a deed. Sow a deed and reap a habit. Sow a habit and reap a character. Sow a character and end up alone and cold in a cave.
Older Daughter
My sister tells me father is near death. Yippee. I can no longer endure the smell of his foul breath. Let him lie in his mountain hole and rot with regret. As for me, I will rejoice when he is no more.
Call me inhuman, but frankly my father represents a past I’d just as soon forget. We were never close. He was so emotionally distant.
I don’t recall him ever once asking me how I might have thought or felt about anything. You see, I don’t have any pleasant memories of daddy dearest. He was never at home. He cared far more about his precious career than he ever did for either my sister or myself.
I do remember how one night he and my mother fought over whether I should go to a dance at the city square or not. My father was set against it and started mumbling about the God of his Uncle Abram. He used to say what a parent excuses in moderation, the child will justify in excess. That was his habit. He conveniently found religion and used it against us when he needed to win an argument. But he never won. That self-righteous hypocrite didn’t have the determination to win anything.
I am bitter? You bet. Don’t I have the right? My sister says we should take personal responsibility for our action, but I say let the blame fall where it belongs --- on the sorry head of that old man. I can hardly control the anger that floods my heart when I think about the way he almost sacrificed my sister and I to the blood-lust of the mob. What kind of father would do such a thing?
That’s why I don’t have any time for organized religion. I’m not going to throw good money out the door and slaughter the family goat to appease the ego of some supposed deity I can’t hear or see. It’s too easy to hide behind the facade of a trumped-up spirituality.
Life has taught me to be a pragmatist. Don’t kid yourself. People do what people want to do --- and then the rationalizations begin. People do what people need to do in order to survive. And that’s what I am --- a survivor.
I won’t let anyone judge me. Did fire fall from the sky and burn up their fiancée? Were their friends snuffed out in an instant, their home incinerated? Did their mother turn into a salt lick for coyotes?
Besides, as far as we knew, we were the only humans left on the face of the planet. We wanted to save the human race. My younger sister even thought we might be helping out the God of our Uncle Abram. I don’t know --- nor do I care. I had suffered too much to endure the curse of barrenness, and I wanted to know a man before I died. I wanted a child. So, there you have it.
And I am not sorry. I will not apologize. In fact, if I had to do it all over again --- I would. How’s that for personal responsibility? My mother lived in the past, and it destroyed her. I must focus on the future. Moab, my son, is my future. We will find like-minded souls and together we will build a new city, a better world. Let history judge me. They will yet say rulers of men and nations, kings and queens, have come from this body.
Sure, I might go his funeral. But you will not see me cry.
Younger Daughter
I’m going to check on daddy this afternoon. The night air is unusually chilly for this time of year, and it makes me sad to think of him cold and alone. My sister says I shouldn’t concern myself, but I find her bitterness more unbearable than the awkward silence I share with my father.
It’s fair to say that our lives didn’t turn out the way any of us dreamed. When did it all begin to spiral out of control?
I think daddy feels compelled to impart some sort of wisdom to me before he dies. He rants and raves and cries and looks at me with such tenderness in his eyes. I suppose daddy’s right --- “a thousand sins lie in the womb of one sin, and they are like bees, one lot swarming from another.” That’s what he used to say. I just wish he had listened to himself.
So, what family isn’t a little dysfunctional? We’re all selfish in our motivation and calculating in our behavior. You see I’ve reckoned with my wrong doing. Between you and me --- I am ashamed. I haven’t always felt like I’ve been in control of my life. It seems like THE crucial decision has always been made for me. But I know that’s not true. You always have a choice.
I would like to believe that the pattern of destructiveness can stop somewhere. I would like to believe that forgiveness is possible. I really would. I’m tempted to pray to the God of my father, the God he told me about when I was a child, the God of his Uncle Abram, but then I might have to embrace dad and tell him I love him. And I just can’t do that.
I do yearn for something more though. I desire better than this hell we have created. But I don’t know. I don’t know what the future holds for my son, Ben-Ammi. Maybe I’m not as strong as my sister, but if I could believe in a promise to hold onto, then I think I would hold on to it with all my being because I don’t know what else to do --- except take daddy a blanket because it’s late, very late in the day.
Lot
The blackbirds have settled on the ledge, and I know that my time is short. I pray God will bring my children to me. By the sheer power of my will I shall summon Abram to my side, and he will come and we will make amends. And as my grandsons kneel by my bed, I will tell them, “Do not make the mistakes I have made. Do not make the mistakes I have made. Do not make the mistakes I have made.” And they will listen.
I will tell them to read the story of my life and to learn from it. I will tell them not to waste their life in pursuit of things that do not really matter. I will tell them to store up treasure in heaven, where the moth and the rust do not destroy. I will tell them no one can serve two masters. I will tell them that the hour of danger is when you first begin to choose, so that they will choose wisely. I will tell . . . hello . . . God Almighty has heard my prayer and Abram honors me with his presence. He has come to rescue me once again, that I might lean my head upon his chest as I did when a boy.
You are kind to come. No. No. It is my wife. Is that you sweetie? Are you still cross with me? Don’t be mad. See, you have such a pretty smile. I like your smile. It is like the smile of an angel --- my daughter, my angel --- come at last to take me home.
Older Daughter
So, the old man finally croaked. Hip. Hip. Hooray. I will probably go to the funeral. But like I told you before --- don’t expect me to shed any tears.
Younger Daughter
When I arrived at the cave, daddy was shaking uncontrollably, his eyes were glazed over, and he was talking to himself. I bowed to the ground and just looked at the man whose sheer presence (or lack thereof) had so dominated my life. This wave of mixed emotion swept over me. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to slap him back into consciousness. I wanted to weep, and I know that I will for many days to come. But the strangest thing happened, daddy reached up and grabbed me by the back of my neck. He pulled me close, searched my face and whispered, “Grace, grace is everywhere.“* And then he died.
(*The final quote is a play on the ending of George Bernanos masterpiece “The Diary of a Country Priest.”)
