"Cole" is the nephew of one of my best friends. He has had health struggles his entire life. Born with a severe form of cerebral palsy, he has grown and thrived because of love. In his young life, he has undergone over two dozen surgeries. Without words, he communicates. Without the ability to walk, he never slows down. He is the anchor of his family, holding them steady with the light of his smiles.
Today, Cole was brought to the emergency room of our local hospital because he told his mother that his lungs were burning, and he was struggling for breath. After many tests, the doctors sent him home, because his family already has a ventilator to place him on. He's in his own bed now, surrounded by everyone who has nurtured and cared for him. They are awaiting the results of a Covid-19 test.
I don't have to ask for a miracle for Cole. Cole is a miracle. What I'm asking for tonight are prayers and love for Cole. Lift him up to whatever higher power you believe in. Yahweh. Jesus. Buddha. Mohammed. God. Science. Ask for healing. Ask for strength. Ask for the universe to smile down on him, the way he's smiled up at the universe his whole life. I want everyone who reads this post to be a miracle for Cole.
When my nephew, Caden, was dedicated at church as an infant, I wrote a poem for him and his parents. I'm including that poem tonight, this time for my best friend's nephew, whose whole life has been dedicated to love.
And for that Saint Marty gives thanks.
Dedicated
by: Martin Achatz
My daughter draws roses
Crowned with valentines,
Stems long, leafy, without thorns.
She hands me a sheet of them,
A garden bright as Christmas lights,
Cardinal red, finch gold, jay blue.
I put the picture in a book, know
Tomorrow, when I open it to read,
My daughter’s flock of blossoms
Will take flight, fill the air
With the slap of crayon hearts.
Christ, as a child, scooped clay
From the ground, molded it
Into a bird, a wren
The size of a date.
He brought
His creation to Mary and Joseph,
Caged in His ant fingers,
Released it before them.
They watched it rise into saffron
Sky, disappear like the frost of breath.
Perhaps that’s when they truly knew
He didn’t belong to them.
I want to keep my daughter’s roses
Locked deep in the bed of my chest
Where they’ll flutter like trapped sparrows.
But I have to let them go.
They don’t belong to me.
They belong to the grass, the clouds,
The pigeon-white moon,
The bright palm of the sun.
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