A Moment of Grace
I live in Florence, outside the wall, as they say. I make two or three trips a day down the hill from the property to the small park at the bottom of the hill. I am generally accompanied by my sweet dog, Luca. Ten years ago, Luca made the journey with us from California and has adjusted very well to the Italian attention and affection that is showered upon him wherever he goes. Luca loves people, as long as they are grown up people. If he sees a child, stroller, or baby carriage, he runs behind me, wraps his leash around my legs and we are both tied to the spot until the danger passes.
We have no idea why Luca is terrified of children. I think it’s because he looks like a stuffed toy and children are wont to grab for him and pull at his curly fur, in their small hands. For some reason, Luca finds this quite annoying.
Last week Luca and I were walking down the hill toward the park. It was a beautiful spring day. The Redbud trees were blossoming, the yellow daffodils lined the street and purple irises which just beginning to break through their green sheaves. We walked down the first block and saw no one. Then up ahead, in a flat area of our walk, I saw a mother and father gathered around a small boy in a wheel chair. I heard them say something to the child and then left him on the street as they ducked into their door, obviously going inside to retrieve something.
As we got closer to the child, I could see that the little boy had cerebral palsy. He was probably about seven years old. He held his head a bit to the side and his arms and legs were twitching uncontrollably. As we walked closer, I was unsure of how Luca would react to the wheel chair and the jerking movements of the boy. I decided it was best not to get too close, and I decided to walk Luca onto the street and away from the child. As I stepped over the curb, I heard the little boy called out to me in Italian. He greeted me, and asked me how I was. He wished me a happy day. I thought he was engaging with me in a way that he had been taught by his parents, to put others at ease. I thought what a brave little boy he was to be on the street alone, if only for a few moments, and so I came back closer and started to chat with him.
He asked me my dog’s name. When I told him it was Luca, he giggled like most Italians do when they hear the name. I don’t know why Italians think Luca is a funny name for a dog. Maybe it’s like hearing my Italian friend call her dog Susie. Anyway, once the little boy knew the dog’s name he called out to Luca, in a clear voice. “Luca, vieni qua. Luca, come here.” I was about to tell him Luca was shy and probably wouldn’t come, when Luca pranced over toward the wheel chair, wagging his tail as if he had known the boy forever.
The boy spoke softly in Italian inviting Luca to come closer. I took a deep breath, released Luca from his leash. Luca trotted up closer to the wheel chair, and sat in front of the boy. The boy was swaying and smiling and trying to motion for Luca to come up on the chair. I stood perfectly still and watched. Luca got as close as to the boy as he could, and then genly put his head on the boy’s lap. For a moment the boy and Luca were totally still staring up at one another. I watched the two of them for several minutes mesmerized by the moment. All movements from the boy had stopped. Then the parents rushed back through the door and the moment was broken. The parents apologized for leaving the boy. I said it was fine. I put Luca back on his leash and he came to my side. The parents wheeled the little boy to the back of a van, opened the double doors raised him into the interior of the van. Luca and I stood there for a moment. I waved good by, and Luca started smelling an interesting plant by the tree. We then continued on our way down the hill.
May this Easter day bring you an opportunity to be still and experience a moment of grace.
Happy Easter. Buona Pasqua.
