The price of love of fear of loss. If we wouldn’t be sad by the loss of a loved one or by being rejected by someone we deeply love, love would have no bond, no intimacy, and no joy. To love is to risk the vulnerability of our inner most being.
At least that’s what the most genuine and delicious level of love requires. Some love is virtually involuntary. It seems you have no choice but to love. To love without restraint. One case where this is most potent is with young grandchildren. Love from a grandchild is unpolluted from typical parental responsibilities or the duties of discipline. The relationship between a grandparent and grandchild is like dessert. When you surrender to a chocolate lava cake or two scoops of gelato in a waffle cone you are unconcerned about protein and fiber. Balance is out the window in the face of unrestrained enjoyment.
But…our tenuous vulnerability is always lurking. This past 4th of July my six-year-old grandson, Antonio, was run over by a float in a small town parade. The wheels of a 12 foot steel snowmobile trailer carrying 12 other children rolled directly over his head ripping his scalp away from his skull. Antonio does not suffer from a lack of confidence or a shortage of what-can-I-do-next ideas. As the parade was coming close to its finish he decided to join many of his cousins who were riding in the trailer. In one ugly instant he slipped directly in front of the trailer as it began a turn, then he tripped and there on the ground he later said he saw the tires rolling toward him. He froze and closed his eyes while scores of eyewitnesses began screaming, some already crying, the trailer rumbled directly over him. The children on board later said they all felt the bump. As blood flushed over his face his uncle leaped forward and picked him up carefully, holding Antonio’s skin on his skull. Everyone was terrified.
Except Antonio. He said,
“I don’t have any broken bones. Clean me up and bring me back. I don’t want to miss anything.”
You see Antonio had broken his arm a few years ago and he somehow remembered what that felt like. The paramedics were there almost instantly because their emergency vehicle had been in the parade. As they put Antonio inside, he said, looking at no one in particular but in the form of an announcement, “No shots.”
What transpired over the next twelve hours confirmed the impossible had happened. Although several eyewitnesses said Antonio’s head should have been crushed like a grape, he instead was fine. Of course he had to have over 100 stitches, mostly under his scalp and thankfully not across his handsome face, but after CAT scans and many neurological tests there was no permanent or even critical injuries. No cracked skull, not even the sign of a concussion. Lots of swelling though. The next day, still in the hospital with his head the size of a Halloween pumpkin and one eye swollen shut, he was playing a video game with his 12-year-old girl cousin. He was overheard telling her,
“I am 6 years old with one good eye and I can still beat you.”
Ah, my sweet little Antonio.
So how can I explain a miracle? I can’t. The whole of reality is like trying to explain art using only technical analysis. Describing the science behind our optic nerve or the chemistry of paint pigment tells us nothing about the experience of a breathtaking Monet or the wonder of the Mona Lisa. I don’t know why and certainly not how Antonio’s life and health was spared. What I can tell you is that the experience of love and gratitude brings me to a sense of meaning far deeper than daily life, the evening news or my trivial complaints. It also fills me with compassion for the scores of good fellow human beings who every day desperately need miracles to save their child or grandchild and don’t get one. I don’t know why. But I pray for them. I pray because I am humbled by what I don’t know. What I don’t understand. I pray because I feel in some way connected to something bigger than I can understand. I pray because I believe that personal and collective energy of compassion somehow matters. I pray because it fuels my optimism. I pray most of all because it changes me. It changes what I desire. It changes how I see things. It changes the quality of my everyday encounter with life.
And the next time I get frustrated or fail I will think of my grandson Antonio’s words:
“Clean me up and bring me back. I don’t want to miss anything.”
