Listening to NPR this morning I heard a critique of Jerzy Kozinski's 1965 novel The Painted Bird, a novel about a young boy separated from or abandoned by his parents during WWII in rural Europe. The child's dark skin identified him as either Jew or Gypsy. With each passing month of his travail of survival, alone and unprotected, he emotionally withdrew from the horror of abuse and torture that he encountered at the hands of local peasants after being labeled as a Gypsy warlock. The novel was originally merchandised as biography but is actually fiction. As fiction it is still powerful and disturbing.
The critic comments, "During war, parents are not able to protect their children." How innocuous that sounds but the impact is a rip in the muscle of my soul.
Kathy's son lay unresponsive in a coma, convulsing more and longer each day until the great stillness finally came. From the agony of her suffering Kathy said, "But I'm supposed to be able to protect my son." He was a grown man in the navy when he had his car wreck. The parenting imperative to protect is not outgrown because our children marry and move away.
ControlTiny virulent bits of God's creation bring disease and death. A momentary loss of focus brings the crunch of soft body between jaws of ripping metal. Step on a bee and die? Handicapped children. Injured children? "The operation has a very low incidence of mortality."
So very many of us grow old under the weary pressure of a terrible grief. Too terrible is mine. Too terrible is yours. Only the young and shortsighted believe that their personal goodness and luck will sustain them against the roaring black anonymity of unforeseen circumstances.
This is a good writing
hope you make more
-- Zach(correlates: MainGoal, ForgivenTrespasses, GuiltAndShame, ...)