I am not called, like Abraham, to sacrifice my son. I am a mother; I am called to raise my son. I am called to give life, not to take it away. Nevertheless, he will lie there, helpless and still, at the mercy of man and blade.
I am worried. I pray to God that he will be okay. I say God; perhaps I mean Goddess. That word, though, is hard on my ears. I've lived my entire life under the rule of patriarchy. God is not Goddess. God is God. Goddess is strange and forbidden. And I say God, because that's who I know. And while God destroys nations and slaughters entire civilizations, God also gathers us as a hen gathers her chicks. God reaches out to lift up the hands that hang down. God sheds blood and water and life to give us birth. God is as much Mother as She is Father.
And so I pray not to the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, but to the God of Eve and Deborah and Esther. I pray not to the God that required the death of His son, but to the God who raised him up again. I pray that though my tiny, precious boy will lay quiet and still, he will once again open his eyes and smile and laugh and live.
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