Right now I want to write about the courage of the human spirit. In particular, the spirit locked within the adolescent breast of my thirteen-year-old son.

Right now I want to write about his witness, about his goodness, about his compassion.

Last night my son stepped into the icy waters of an ice-rimed Ohio lake, in an attempt to save a soul. As gray eyes locked with brown, he watched the light dim from the frightened orbs of another being, yet continued to fight to bring the dying form to shore.

Gently he laid the still body upon frost-covered ground, his heart filled with love for the hapless soul who had minutes earlier breathed in the chill snow-scented air of Central Ohio. Then my son wept.

To some it would have seemed trivial, even comical, and they would have laughed. They would have ridiculed someone who would step into frigid waters to save a wild animal, who would have fought to save a nothing – a pest; who would have struggled to save a rabbit that had just happened to get in the way of a dog bred to the chase…but not my son.  He stayed with the tiny animal until someone could come to remove him. Gently stroking the wet fur, my son prayed to Creator to accept His child into His arms. Then my son came home to me, his mother, and wept some more.

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