While reading a familiar passage, I was reminded of how we seek to make things new:

I have suffered the loss of all things, and count them as rubbish, that I may gain     Christ. -Phillipians 3:8

It hit me in a new way. My Angel is being restored, but not because I insist it to happen, though it is the greatest desire of my heart, but because my prayerful plea was answered two and a half years ago. Restoration has many levels of meaning and can be used symbolically for spiritual as well as concrete purposes. This restoration doesn’t mean that the same will come again. When we restore a place or thing, the original state or existence is not there, except in a resemblance of what it was. He is not the same. He is changed. Yet, glimpses of who he was shine and delight everyone. Nothing and no one is left untouched. My Angel restores gladness and joy with everlasting affects, just as he is being restored through our loving care.

Christians believe in the correlation of Christ, who renews us through His loss of life and resurrection. Even He was restored! How wonderful to see the spiritual meet concrete. With this reflection, I feel better about working tirelessly, watching him through the nights, knowing tomorrow brings more restoration.

Papito Papito,

Laying so still, I miss hearing you laugh, spit, sing. I miss hearing you play your harmonica while your brothers share a tune. Your spirit your drive; your zest for life. It fills me each, everyday. Remember how you would sit on your belly in the living room, watching the trains go around and around. You watched so closely, your eyes level with the tracks. When your brothers trumpet and fiddle, you love your harmonica and wistfully move while playing. Your delight is in one’s laughter. Your pleasure in one’s company. You see beauty in everyone, nature, life.  Your excitement when you see a car, a bus.

Every morning we sing, “It’ll be coming round the mountain when it comes, It’ll be coming round the mountain when it comes…” Then we cup our hands to our ears, listening for your school bus to arrive. Every day you see it turn the corner, your eyes rise wide with surprise, shouting, “BUS!” As if our singing is making it happen. As we cross to board your favorite ride, you stop and put your hand upon the safety lights at the steps of the bus entrance, transfixed, unable to move. Distracted you climb the steps, turning to blow kisses then move toward your seat at the window.

Almost gone, that tragic Monday, your zest and vigor for freedom to run, turned to tragedy as a mother’s worst fear unfolded with a pop and your body motionless on the road. I pleaded your return and heaven answered me. God provided all the right people at the right place at the exact moment so that you may return to fulfill a higher calling.