The Sacrificial Fish

I'm a fish killer.

As a gift for beloved teenage son's eighteenth birthday, I bought him a Betta fish.  It's really hard knowing what is an appropriate gift for a mother to give to her a teenage son.  But I've given Betta fish as gifts to lots of people, and they seem to enjoy them.  They're bright and colorful, and flap their fins excitedly when fed.  They're also extremely hearty fish.  I've had one for over a year and a half and have managed not to kill it yet.

My son's birthday fish lasted about a week; he hadn't even named it yet.  It wouldn't eat, started losing color and, before we knew it, had gone belly up and been gathered to his species.  My son had to step up as a young adult and perform the sad, ceremonial duty of flushing away his nameless, lifeless fish.

A few weeks later, I took my son with me to pick out a replacement fish.  Careful and methodical as he always is, my son looked through every single fish on display at the local pet store to find his fish.  We took it home, filled the fish bowl, and waited for the chlorine to evaporate and the water temperature to even out.

Then we had a rough day.  Our day turned into a late evening of words and tears and silence and prayer that lasted until well after midnight.  After we'd wrestled through the evening's hard work, I thought it might cheer my son if I transferred his new fish into its bowl and placed it on the table next to his bed.

And then I dropped it down the garbage disposal.

I don't know which was more disturbing--feeling the fish writhing away from my fingers, knowing that it would die soon if I couldn't rescue it, or imagining what would happen to my hand if I accidentally turned on the disposal.

My fingers survived.  The fish didn't.

That night I woke several times, re-living both the difficult conversation with my son as well as the horrifying death his fish had suffered at my hands.  I felt terrible that my carelessness and stupidity had caused the death of a living creature, even if it was only a fish that had cost $2.99, plus tax, at the local pet store.

The next morning, in my devotional reading from The Message, I read about the levitical practice of a priest laying his hands on a scape goat, symbolically transferring the sins of the people of Israel to the animal.  The goat was then led into the wilderness, removing the sins of the people far from them.  Of course, the scape goat was a picture of Christ, the One who would come and upon Whom all our sins would be placed.

My reading suggested placing my hands on a stuffed animal, a figurine, or even a pet, to imagine what that practice might have been like for the Israelites.  I didn't need to imagine.  I'd had my hand on that live fish down there in the blackness of the garbage disposal just before my actions sent it into the dark wilderness of my septic system.

It was a truly disturbing experience.

What was more disturbing, however, was the realization of how casual I can be about the horrific, painful death Jesus endured, not just because of my carelessness and stupidity, but because of my willful stubbornness, unbelief, rebellion, and sin.  I mean, as badly as I felt about what I had done to my son's fish, my sin cost my Savior so much more.  It cost the life of a fish to remind me, once again, of the deep, deep love of Jesus.  And that lesson was worth infinitely more than $2.99, plus tax.

I have since replaced my son's fish with yet another.  If he survives the week, I think I'll suggest we name him Lucky.

Joining L. L. Barkat for  On, In, and Around Mondays:

And with the Soli Deo Gloria Sisterhood at Finding Heaven: