It was a shock.
A boy we had known, once a friend of our daughter, grown to be thirty now. Broken and drawn in, wheelchair bound, head bowed, covered in a blanket. The victim – the cause – of a fiery midnight accident two years ago. Hit by a fuel truck that then exploded.
He lay between life and death for so long. Unrecognizable, even to his parents at first, comatose for so long, lingering. And yet, beneath, inside, making progress, coming back, inch by tiny inch.
So all things considered, this view of him now was a miracle.
And when his dad gently grasped his son’s head between his hands, and faced him toward the camera, then I saw the boy I once knew. Yes, he was still there. There was a spark – the light of life – in his eyes, and even a smile on his face.
Life. A precious, holy thing. And through it all, life remained.
I thanked God for this gift, which I could now see for its true worth and beauty.
And I thought of another friend whose gift was taken away, whose son didn’t live, a recent, painful loss. What she would give to see that spark still alive in her own son’s eyes, even wrapped in a broken body.
I am looking at things differently now.