Reading and rereading the Genesis chapters about Abraham and Isaac, I was struck by Isaac's fragility and weakness. Abraham and Sarah's reactions to his birth raised questions I couldn't ignore. Why does Abraham feel nothing, say nothing at all, when this long-awaited son is born? And why does Sarah speak such bitter words: "God has laughed at me, and everyone who hears about this will laugh at me"? The official Italian translation softens this, rendering it as "God has given me cause for laughter," but the Hebrew text offers no such comfort.
Searching for answers to these questions, I began to wonder: what if Isaac was a special child? One of those children who offer the world only tenderness, goodness, friendship, and love. People who cannot defeat enemies or win wars. They will never reach the World Cup final or split a hydrogen atom. But they excel at other things—important things.
The first thing Scripture tells us about Isaac is that "he took Rebecca as his wife and loved her." This is the first time the Bible says a man loves a woman. Isaac is also the first father to bless his children. He never waged war, yet we know he enjoyed roasted game. He was the first to host a feast for his neighbors. These are not the qualities history books celebrate in champions, but they belong to people who make the lives of everyone they meet better. They may seem incidental. But in truth, they—more than anyone else—make the world worth living in.
Is there something extraordinary in Isaac's life? I believe his greatest gift was the way he transformed the hardness in the hearts and minds of his parents, and then of everyone around him. When Sarah protests because after long years of waiting she finds herself with a son like Isaac, she later cries out: "Who would have believed it? That at my age I would bear a child? That I would nurse a son?" Beautiful. And Abraham? He could not give Isaac back to God on that mountain; he abandoned him there. He left home, didn't even return to his wife, simply vanished. We find him later with another wife, Keturah, surrounded by children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren in Genesis 25. But before he dies, he chooses Isaac—finally, truly—as his universal heir, accepting him at last as his son.
While writing Isaac: The Imperfect Son (Claudiana, 2018), I surrendered many times. It was too hard. The book came to life only because in moments of despair, I would encounter one of these friends—people like Isaac—who would calm me, give me peace, restore my strength and courage. I wrote for them. But I remember one dinner in particular at one of these friends' home. I told the story of Abraham, Sarah, and Isaac as I felt it in my bones. I watched the eyes of this friend's parents begin to glisten. I saw them cry and smile at the same time. They recognized themselves in Sarah and Abraham—in their fears, their silences, their darkest thoughts. But also in their love, which in the end managed to soothe every wound. They felt less alone. The thought that their own story appeared in Scripture, that someone saw them and their struggle, offered them what the world so often withholds: attention, welcome, love. I dedicated the book to my family. But if there were a second edition, I would want to speak directly to you—the mothers and fathers of children with disabilities. This book is yours.
