Abraham and Isaac

I've been thinking a lot about Abraham and Isaac lately. I'm not sure why. It could have been The Gift of Asher Lev that brought it back to my mind, it could have been the impending parenthood and of a son--no less, it could have been the great exodus of friends from our church as people graduate and take jobs and move away, I'm not sure, but for whatever reason, I've been thinking a lot about Abraham and Isaac.

I was thinking about Abraham and Isaac again this morning while I was hunkered down into my bowl of Kashi. And I realized something. I have never been a happy person. I find myself distrustful of happiness. I think because I feel certain that we all will be required to sacrifice that which we love most at some point and in some way, and so by being unhappy, by not loving people or places or things I protect myself from the inevitable misery of sacrificing those people, places or things.

I was terrified of marriage--not only for the commitment required, but because I felt certain that having acquired that level of happiness, I could not possibly survive if I were required to sacrifice it. It's been four years and I still have this tiny knot of fear in my heart that something will happen, that I will lose this carefully constructed and protected corner of happiness.

Similarly, I suppose with children. I find myself suspicious of children. They are sticky, germy, wiggling creatures, and yet, people LOVE them. I love them. We endure the discomfort of pregnancy, the pain of labor and delivery, the inherent miseries of parenting them and we do it over and over and over again. My only conclusion is that there must be some joy, some starlight in there some where. And yet. How many parents lose their children? How many are sacrificed to the fates of illness and accident? How does one survive that kind of loss?

I think of Abraham and Isaac, of how many decades this one man waited to have a child and when he finally did he was asked to sacrifice him. I think of what he must have thought walking down that road, not knowing that God would provide a reprieve for him. And I wonder how any of us are ever content in our happiness. How do we ever move past the fear of losing that small corner of contentment that we've worked so hard to build?

I'm not worried about labor and delivery. I'm not afraid for myself. I have survived hard things. I can survive this. I'm worried about the Boy. I'm worried that after coming so far with this little piece of life that something will go terribly wrong. I'm worried that there won't be a reprieve for me at the end of this long road. I worry for the Husband who I know is worried about the Boy too. I worry that after all. After the wait and the preparation and the excitement that we'll be asked to sacrifice this little piece of happiness before we really get to experience it.

I know. I am a pioneer in paranoia. I am officially worried about losing a happiness I have not yet acquired.

I wish I were a braver person. I wish I could embrace life and the world for what it is without fear. I wish I were bolder in telling people that I love them before they leave. I wish I had the courage to be happy. Or at the very least the courage to set aside my cynicism and be grateful for the moments of happiness. For what they are. Rather than wishing them to be what I would make them.