My new friend Matt, a teacher in California, has a student who had an accident, falling and hitting his head so brutally that he’s been on a ventilator for a week. His family and friends prayed and held hands, and sang and played guitar in the ICU. They prayed and told stories, and hugged and lifted each other up. They prayed and pleaded, and made deals, and became angry, and sullen, and cried, and fell to their knees, and said goodbye to Gregory.
They unplugged the ventilator and lost their friend, their inspiration, their dreams, their son.
We will always look back with regrets. But we know that living life is at its very core, running the race, not watching others. How I wish I could lift them up and give them strength. I’m only able to get out of bed, and put one front of the other, and breathe at all – because I’ve been lifted up and granted strength. Prayers lift me up, prayers will lift Greg’s family up.
As I’m anticipating my approaching Camino, it occurs to me that the running of this race seems like the running of the bulls – absurd to those watching, exhilarating to us running. When we stumble and fall, the near misses force us to doubt whether it has been worth it to be here. Then we see the horns approaching a neighbor; we swoop them up to safety. We can because we’re here. I’ll be in Pamplona in a few weeks for the first time. Again.