The stones pressed into my knees, sharp and cold. I barely breathed as I peered through the bushes, watching Father stack wood like he was building something sacred. And somehow, he was.
He hadn’t said much on the long walk uphill—just asked me to carry the wood for the burnt offering. But we had no lamb. And Father’s hands shook when he touched my shoulder.
I’m not proud of it, but I followed them. I wasn’t supposed to. I was just one of the shepherd boys from our camp. Isaac had snuck me figs when I was hungry. He once helped splint my ankle when I fell. I couldn’t let him go alone. Not when something felt... wrong.
Abraham—his father, the one people called the friend of God—tied Isaac’s hands. Slowly. Gently. With the kind of care you give to someone you love.
“Bind me tight, Father,” Isaac whispered. “I won’t fight.” His voice didn’t shake. Mine would’ve. I would’ve screamed.
I stared, my heart hammering, as Abraham reached for the knife.
And then—thunder without clouds.
“Abraham! Abraham!”
His whole body froze. The blade hovered above his son’s chest.
“Here I am,” he said, his voice cracking like branches in the fire.
“Do not lay a hand on the boy,” the voice said. “Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld your son—your only son—from me.”
For a moment, I couldn’t believe it. None of us could. But then Abraham looked up, and we all followed his gaze.
There it was—caught in a thicket nearby—a ram, wild-eyed, snorting, tangled in the same bushes that hid me.
I pressed my fist against my mouth so I wouldn’t cry out and ruin everything.
Abraham took the ram and laid it on the altar instead of Isaac. It wasn’t a sad offering now—it was something holy. His hands still shook, but now from something else. Awe. Relief. Maybe joy.
Isaac sat up slowly, rubbing his wrists and blinking like he couldn't believe he was alive.
They named the place “The Lord Will Provide.”
And I believed it. Because I saw Him do it.
That day didn’t just change them—it changed me. I'd always thought God wanted sacrifices. But now I knew: He wants trust. A heart that says yes, even when it doesn’t understand.
The ram came at the last second. But so did the voice. And neither was too late.
That day, I stopped thinking of God as far away. I started to believe He sees us—really sees us—and provides exactly what we need.
Even when we're afraid. Even when we’re tied up in the middle of the story.
Especially then.
The stones pressed into my knees, sharp and cold. I barely breathed as I peered through the bushes, watching Father stack wood like he was building something sacred. And somehow, he was.
He hadn’t said much on the long walk uphill—just asked me to carry the wood for the burnt offering. But we had no lamb. And Father’s hands shook when he touched my shoulder.
I’m not proud of it, but I followed them. I wasn’t supposed to. I was just one of the shepherd boys from our camp. Isaac had snuck me figs when I was hungry. He once helped splint my ankle when I fell. I couldn’t let him go alone. Not when something felt... wrong.
Abraham—his father, the one people called the friend of God—tied Isaac’s hands. Slowly. Gently. With the kind of care you give to someone you love.
“Bind me tight, Father,” Isaac whispered. “I won’t fight.” His voice didn’t shake. Mine would’ve. I would’ve screamed.
I stared, my heart hammering, as Abraham reached for the knife.
And then—thunder without clouds.
“Abraham! Abraham!”
His whole body froze. The blade hovered above his son’s chest.
“Here I am,” he said, his voice cracking like branches in the fire.
“Do not lay a hand on the boy,” the voice said. “Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld your son—your only son—from me.”
For a moment, I couldn’t believe it. None of us could. But then Abraham looked up, and we all followed his gaze.
There it was—caught in a thicket nearby—a ram, wild-eyed, snorting, tangled in the same bushes that hid me.
I pressed my fist against my mouth so I wouldn’t cry out and ruin everything.
Abraham took the ram and laid it on the altar instead of Isaac. It wasn’t a sad offering now—it was something holy. His hands still shook, but now from something else. Awe. Relief. Maybe joy.
Isaac sat up slowly, rubbing his wrists and blinking like he couldn't believe he was alive.
They named the place “The Lord Will Provide.”
And I believed it. Because I saw Him do it.
That day didn’t just change them—it changed me. I'd always thought God wanted sacrifices. But now I knew: He wants trust. A heart that says yes, even when it doesn’t understand.
The ram came at the last second. But so did the voice. And neither was too late.
That day, I stopped thinking of God as far away. I started to believe He sees us—really sees us—and provides exactly what we need.
Even when we're afraid. Even when we’re tied up in the middle of the story.
Especially then.
