The Retelling

The Retelling

“Ok, ok, settle down, everyone. It’s time for The Retelling.”

“Ssshh! Hush, it’s about to start.”

As the last of the day's sun begins its descent, the family gathers on the hillside as it has every week, since the beginning. Sitting arranged according to age and prominence, the elders toward the rear, working down through the ranks with the youngest sitting on the ground, usually playing with their fingers in the grass as they listen.

The crowd quiets as the elderly couple takes their place on the stools set up for them. The woman begins, “Shabbat shalom, children.”

“Shabbat Shalom, Ema.” The gathering answers in unison.

She smiles tenderly at her husband and waits for her husband to begin.

“Before, back long ago,” he scans the sea of faces now spanning eleven generations, “long ago, things were different.”

“How were they different?” queries a youth about 12 years old.

“Well, things were good.”

“Very good!” his wife interjects.

“Yes, very good.” They exchange loving glances, and he continues. “Everything was just as it should be. We had a garden: we never worried what we would eat, drink, or wear.”

“Paradise!” shouts a little girl, about to begin her education.

“Yes, paradise. That describes it perfectly.” The old lady smiles at the little one, already full of wisdom at her tender age. “Not only were things perfect, but we walked with our Father. He met with us daily in the cool of the evening. We would talk about our activities, ask questions, and well, just be together.”

“What happened?” Asks a young woman, recently married and now showing her blessing of being with a child. Everyone already knew the answer, having heard the telling of the story every week, for the duration of their lives.

“Well, um…” the man stammers, looking down. He rubs the back of his neck as he always did at this point in the story, feeling a headache building up. “Well, your Ema talked to a snake.”

Laughter erupts from the audience, requiring several of the elders to shush the group back into order.

“Do snakes really talk?” The young girl asks; she never tires of hearing the details about the snake over again.

“This one did,” the old woman continued, looking into a far-off time. “This snake was so lovely, beautiful. He spoke with such eloquence. Something about it made you believe everything he said was true. Hypnotic almost.”

The sounds of crickets hum in the background as the cool of the evening starts to take the place of the heat of the day. Some of the younger children begin to wiggle in their seats, but are quickly brought back into order by the older children.

“What did he say?” quizzed a young man.

“He said, “Did Elohim really say…?”’

Silence fell on the gathering, as if the air had been sucked out of each person’s soul. Just then, a baby began crying, breaking the silence. His mother suckled him at her breast, returning the awkward silence to the atmosphere.

The old woman gathers herself, “Did Elohim really say you may not eat?” Her eyes welled up as she pondered the gravity of The Retelling. “I took, and I ate.”

“Where were you, Ada?” heckles a man from the elder section of the group. Laughter erupts across the audience.

The old man hangs his head, rubbing his neck with a full-fledged headache now in progress. “I was standing beside her,” he says in an almost whisper.

“WHAT’S THAT? We can’t hear you in the back!” Again, laughter ripples through the air.

“I WAS STANDING RIGHT BESIDE HER!” He always dreads this part of The Retelling. But it was a sad truth that must be remembered and shared.

They finish with the telling of the curses and the shattered relationships that followed. No laughter from the crowd now. Just the unspoken sorrow of what was lost.

Once they finish, a few of the younger men helped them up, while others grab their stools, taking them to the tables that had already been dressed in the Shabbat elements.

The young mother lingers; the babe at her breast was now half-sleeping, half-eating. She disengaged him, sits him up, cradling his chin in her hand and gently patting his back. She looked into his eyes, as if he could understand her. “You will need to remember every word of this. One day, you will be doing The Retelling, Noah.”