Through the Eyes of Cain

(This is the Through the Eyes of series. This installment explores Genesis 4:1–17 from Cain’s perspective. Given the nature of the story, the themes can become quite dark. However, there are no depictions of graphic violence in this piece. Instead, it delves into Cain’s inner thoughts and experiences, incorporating artistic license to offer a deeper, more personal interpretation. To fully engage with this reflection, consider reading the referenced passage either before or after)

When I was born, there was beauty all around me. It was unlike anything you could imagine. They say the fruit grew immediately and there were rivers that intersected there. Divine beings surrounded us. Thousands of variations of fruit. The day of my birth ended our lives in this garden. This heaven.

We were evicted from our home; Adonai removed us because my parents were deceived by the serpent. My memory is a painful reminder of what we don’t have.

The words of Adonai, repeated by my mother day after day, became ingrained in me as well. “He will crush your head, and you will strike his heel.” Like a recurring nightmare, it returns. She believes I will crush the serpent's head.

My mother named me Kayin, meaning- “to acquire”. A frustrating choice, especially because, in that garden, everything anyone could ever want was at their fingertips.

But now, it is fruitless toil.

Now, everything we have…… we must kayin.

At our new home, the land yields little. “Through painful toil you will eat food from it all the days of your life” Adonai said- and so it has been. Everything He speaks comes to pass, both the good and the painful.

But it’s not just the land that has changed, but the animals have also changed. They came to my father, and he named them. There was peace.

No peace remains.

Well, for most of us.

I grew up the elder to my brother Hevel—his name, meaning: vapor, a fleeting breath.

Things seem to come to him naturally. His life is easy, especially compared to MY life. And my mother and her responsibilities. My father…. I haven’t seen him in quite a while.

Hevel chose a different path. He spends his days taking care of his flocks.. traveling for days at a time. I don’t see him often, but he is always out there, watching over his flock, always.

His presence is calm short breaths. Carefree. He feeds his sheep and somehow, they trust him with their needs. Providing them a mouthful and keeps them going. If they eat too much of the grass, it will not grow back. They do exactly as he says.

At first, when he left, all I thought was, “Through painful toil you will eat food from it all the days of your life.” If he is not to work the ground, who else? But I?

Initially, I used my hands, after a few hours, they were useless. Next would be my feet. If I was lucky, there would be sticks to use. Being forced to use anything at my disposal.

While trying to open up the ground, my flesh had been wounded and opened up itself, the dripping blood falling from inside my body into the land. My soul now tied to this place. Crops did grow, but it lacked any beauty as it did from my childhood.

Eventually, I decided to bring a portion of my yield to Adonai. I just took what we could spare. I wanted to honor him since he is our creator, and I guess if I can give to him, maybe he would then, in turn, save us.

I don’t know how much more he can hurt us. I did this ritual more times than I can count and yet, nothing changed.

One day, as I was about to offer my crops, my brother returned with his flock. He asked me what I was doing. I begrudgingly answered.

Then, without much thought, he decided to come with me, without an invitation. He brought an offering—just whatever he had on him. No planning, no preparation. The same effortless energy he brings to everything.

We went together, and I presented my offering—just as I had before. My brother followed suit. He presented the firstborn of his flock.

I just wanted to be seen. I wanted Adonai to notice—how He’s been silent with me, how I need help, how my brother has gotten off so easily. Hevel is absent, always wandering, drinking the milk of his animals, doing as he pleases. He never takes responsibility. He never helps me.

Then something happened—something I’d never seen before.

Fire descended from above and consumed the offering.

My brother’s offering.

He smiled, releasing a short breath.

This sparked a flame within my heart. It grew hot and uncontrollable. Ready to burn down a forest.

I didn’t understand. Adonai was silent, now my brother who is absent, shows up to my ritual, and Adonai sees him? Does he not see me?! Does he not care! How is this fair? I am forced to work the ground!

I came home in shock, distress, anger, and horror. All my worst fears had been realized. My mind was racing. I couldn’t look at anything other than what my future looked like..

I stared at the ground.

We are never departing.

Then the person who I wanted to talk to least, showed up. It was Adonai. He told me if I do right, I will be accepted. That sin is at your tent flap. It desires to have you, but you must rule over it.

I was so shocked by his response that I chose to ignore him.

The only words that stuck with me were: “If you do what is right, will you not be accepted?”

I can’t stop thinking—what had I done to deserve this? But even more—what had my brother done to deserve what he received?

No one has ever done for me what he did for Hevel.

He is the reason everything is so hard. He deceived ME the day he chose to care for flocks. He’s been biting at my heel every day since.

I will do something.

Sure, he gave me wool for clothing—but what has he done about the ground?

I knew what was outside my tent flap. I wanted to go out there. To approach my brother. To say how he owes me.

We met in a field. It was all a blur. I took a stone and the words that went through my mind were “he will crush your head, and you will strike his heel.” I…. I…… and he was no more.

The thing that I remember most was his breath.

It was deserved. It was what was right—for the ground. He hadn’t helped me. He hadn’t been there. Now, he’s here forever.

I went home. My anger had faded, but what raced through my mind was how it all felt justified.

I sat there—where I had been before.

Then- “Where is... your brother Abel?”

I gathered myself to answer: Am I my brother’s keeper?

Adonai knew what I had done.

I feared- What am I if not tied to this soil? What am I without Adonai and the earth beneath my feet? What do I have left? Hevel is gone.

If I could do this to him, why wouldn’t others do the same to me?

I've seen my blood and my brothers blood. We are not permanent.

Things did not get easier as I moved from place to place.

Adonai gave me one assurance: I would not die. He protected me.

I tried to build cities—for my family. It never seemed to work out.

Looking into the eyes of my son, thinking "This is Abel's nephew. Could I have become an uncle?"

Now, I carry this with me everywhere—the mark of the murderer. I killed my brother.

I walk the same trails he walked, tracing his steps. I still wear the clothes he made for me.

Things came naturally for him. If only they did for me, too.

Life has gotten easier with a man named Noah. He invented something called a plow. He even married one of my descendants.

I’m glad it’s easier for them than it ever was for me. Yet, it seems as a whole, everyone is continuing down the violent path I started.

Noah's wife has said that he shares a friendship with all animals. My brother is the last one who had that kind of connection with any animal. Amazingly, Noah can interact with them all, as my father had.

Maybe… maybe we might be okay.

What I’ve come to love about my brother—the very thing I once hated in my youth—is his shalom. His peace. His ability to be present. His focus on the breath—the still, small breath. His Hevel.