As a child I was captivated by the story of the early
Be Not Afraid Courage
Chapter 14
Courage
As a child I was captivated by the story of the early Christian martyr Polycarp, who was burned at the stake some eighteen centuries ago. Part of it was the drama – the bloody Roman arena of gladiators and saints, lions and cheering crowds. But what struck me even more was Polycarp's willingness to die for his convictions. Not that he went meekly to his death – according to witnesses, he was defiant, and even berated the mob that surrounded him at his execution. But he showed no trace of fear:
Eighty-six years have I served my king and savior, and
he has never done me any harm. How could I blaspheme
him? You threaten me with a fire that burns for an hour
and goes out after a short time, for you do not know the
fire of the coming judgment and of eternal punishment
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for the godless. Why do you wait? Bring on whatever you
will.
After he said this, the mob piled brushwood around him and (though he was already bound with ropes) threatened to nail him to the stake to make sure he wouldn't escape. Polycarp remained calm, saying: "Let me be. He who gives me the strength to endure the fire will also give me the strength to remain at the stake unflinching, without the help of your nails."
Like Polycarp, countless men and women – and not only Christians, but Jews, Muslims, and people of other faiths as well – have paid for their convictions with their lives. And I believe we have much to learn from them. Will we meet death with similar courage and conviction – with the confidence that comes from being at peace with God and ourselves? Or will we shrink from it in fear, circling around our regrets and mistakes, and wishing we had the chance to live life over again?
Because martyrdom is basically an historic phenomenon, such questions may not seem urgent today. But courage is not an old-fashioned virtue. It is a vital weapon. And we will not come through the arena of death – an arena each of us will have to enter one day – without it. That is why
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I feel that of all the qualities shared by the people who appear in this book, courage is the most notable. Courage in suffering; courage in the midst of emptiness and loss; courage to face the future, even
when it means certain death. Without it, none of them could have overcome their fears and found peace.
Certainly courage is just as important in the prime of life as at its end. In fact, if we hope to muster it when we need it most – at the hour of death, for instance – we must nurture it from day to day. And if we cannot find it in ourselves, we need only look around us. In my home state of New York, for instance, stories of the selflessness and heroism shown by police officers, firefighters, and other rescue workers are still surfacing, months after the tragedy of September 11, 2001. And there are always "ordinary" people like Ramona, below. Though unconnected to any public event, and previously invisible except to a small circle of family and friends, I found her story inspiring.
Five months pregnant, Ramona was eagerly looking forward to the future. Or at least she had been – until a routine checkup at the doctor's office dashed her hopes and changed her life forever:
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It was a Friday, and my husband, Barry, was working, so
I had gone to my checkup alone. The doctor finished my
sonogram, and asked me to take a chair. Nothing could
have prepared me for what he had to say next: my baby
had a condition called anencephaly, which basically
meant that he had no skull. The top half of his head
would be severely indented, and though he should have
no problem staying alive in my womb, he would not
survive birth for more than about forty-eight hours.
I was in shock. I had had two miscarriages, but they
were so early on in pregnancy that there wasn't much
more to see than a sac. This was different. I could see
this baby on the sonogram as a real, already-developed
person.
I wept all the way home. I thought of the Old
Testament story of how God had commanded Abraham
to sacrifice his son Isaac. Not that I would be killing my
child. But I would have to let go of him and give him up
to God.
It was the hardest thing I had ever had to deal with,
and I couldn't stop asking why. God knew I had loved
and welcomed each child he had given me. Why was he
doing this to me?
As time went on, however, Ramona spent less time trying to find an answer to that question. Even if she'd
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never understand why she had been subjected to such a burden, she was determined to accept it, and to carry her baby to term. It was, very simply, a matter of "reverence for God's gift of life," she says.
Once she made her decision, Ramona had to defend it. First her doctor reminded her that since the fetus was less than twenty-four weeks old, state laws made abortion a legal option – and gently recommended exercising it. Friends and acquaintances, too – even members of her church, which is Catholic – asked her why she didn't "do something" about it. But she would not be swayed: "I never once thought of abortion as an option. As I explained to my doctor, and to folks who seemed baffled, my baby was still alive, despite his condition, and as long as God willed that he should go on living, I would go on caring for him."
Ramona's attitude may seem matter-of-fact. In reality, however, it took courage to hold to her decision, and endless prayer. When she flagged, it was the baby who helped her up again: "I could feel him moving inside me, and each time I'd feel a kick, I felt he was reminding me to pray." Asked what she was praying for, Ramona says it wasn't only for her own peace of mind. She also hoped her decision might encourage others to question the widespread belief that abortion is the best solution to prenatal deformities – or at very least to respect her belief as a valid one.
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This hope was fulfilled, at least on one count: in December, as she was leaving her doctor's office after another appointment, he said to her, "You know, Ramona, I really admire your respect for life."
On February 4, 2001, Ramona gave birth to Isaiah, as she and Barry named the baby:
It was a sudden, sharp, painful labor. Maybe I was
subconsciously resistant to it, just knowing that Isaiah
was safe as long as he was inside me. I started crying.
But I'd had a friend bring me a picture of Jesus on the
Cross, and I placed it where I could see it. I looked at it
throughout the next several hours and prayed that Jesus
would be with me.
When I finally gave birth, a mixture of emotions
flooded over me. I felt both great joy and deep sorrow.
Isaiah looked very different from a normal baby. Like
the doctor had warned me, the whole top of his head
was missing, and his eyes were badly swollen from the
unprotected passage through the birth canal. Yet he
was living, breathing, and kicking. He was even robust-
looking.
Not all of Isaiah's siblings could handle seeing him
that first day. My younger children were fine – they
didn't even seem to notice anything different about
their brother – whereas my fifteen-year-old daughter
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carefully avoided my hospital room, and went off to the
cafeteria with a cousin. But despite her uncommunicative
exterior, I knew she was going through a lot underneath.
So I was not surprised when it all hung out later. After
Isaiah had died, she held him and wept, "Mom, I never
held him alive."
Given Isaiah's condition, there was little the hospital could offer that Ramona and Barry couldn't. And so they took him out of the intensive care unit and home to the family. He died the same evening:
I had prepared a small bassinet for Isaiah, but he
never used it – we never stopped holding him once we
got out of the car. Around 7:30 p.m., his brother, who
had him in his arms, said, "Mom, I think Isaiah needs
changing." I took him and laid him on the couch, and he
suddenly stiffened and turned purple. I had been told
to expect something like this, but when the moment
came I out-and-out panicked. I felt completely helpless.
Handing Isaiah to his dad, I looked frantically for the
local hospice number, but when I finally got through,
they couldn't seem to make out who I was or what I was
talking about. I tried the hospital next, and asked for
Amy or Sue, Isaiah's nurses. They came as soon as they
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could, but it was too late; Isaiah had already died by the
time they arrived.
It took him about twenty minutes to go. Right before
he died he gave about seven deep breaths – like sighs,
with pauses between, and then there was nothing. I bent
over him and checked for breathing. There was none.
I had never seen someone die before, and this was my
own child. I can't forget it, ever.
Asked whether she was angry with God after first hearing Isaiah's diagnosis, Ramona seems surprised:
No – I mean yes, though only at first. A nun I know,
Sister Katherine, told me that since Jesus is your friend,
and friends get mad at each other, you should tell him
everything – be it your anger, doubt – whatever. You
can't just act as if whatever he sends your way is fine.
But then I thought more about it, and said to myself,
How dare you get mad at God. After all, he's the creator
of the whole universe. And who am I?
Ramona says that far from regretting her decision to have Isaiah, she feels it was a privilege. And several
coincidences make her feel that perhaps she was fulfilling a divine obligation as well. First, the day she
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found out about Isaiah's condition was a Friday – the day Catholics remember Mary, the "Mother of Sorrow." Ramona felt that this was a sign. Second, her own birthday, which is January 22, is designated "Pro-Life
Day" on the church calendar. "Because of this I've often felt that perhaps God wanted to use me as a witness to the value of all life," Ramona says.
Sometimes the courage to act decisively springs from a deep well of personal conviction. To Ramona, for example, abortion was out of the question. To another person, even someone who has nurtured her beliefs over time, the courage to act on them may go missing at a critical moment, and can be re-won only with patience and struggle. This is true in the face of physical danger as much as it is in the face of a moral challenge.
No matter how it arises, every act of courage has the power to give birth to new ones, whether through the chain reaction of inspiration, or more directly. This was true in Ramona's case. Almost ten years earlier, in the same hospital, another mother had found out that she was carrying an anencephalic baby, and on hearing that this woman had decided to have her baby anyway, Ramona found extra confidence and a sense of peace. And the story isn't over yet: in the year since Isaiah's birth and death, Ramona's hospital has called on her to
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help counsel members of a support group for grieving women.
Anne, a cousin of mine, showed similar courage in following her heart, though the circumstances could not have been more different. Troubled by the endless conflict in the Middle East, she wished she could do more than read about it in the papers. So when an organization in the West Bank sent out a plea for help, she signed up and traveled to Bethlehem as a volunteer.
Anne knew she was heading into an extremely dangerous environment. Given the constant back-andforth between the two opposing forces in the city – the Israeli Defense Force and the PLO – anyone or anything that moved was a potential target, especially at night. But what was the point of traveling to Bethlehem, if protecting oneself meant cowering indoors?
Once settled in her new quarters and working at her new job (she cares for blind and disabled women and children at a private group home) Anne began exploring the area around Bethlehem on foot, trying to get to know as many people as she could on both sides of the conflict, and listening to their perspectives.
Anne admits that life in a combat zone can be tense: she has witnessed gun battles and helicopter raids,
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and had to comfort traumatized survivors. She has met people who have resigned themselves to a war they believe will never end. But she also found pillars of resilience, strength, and hope – people who go
on loving and giving, who offer coffee to a complete stranger, and beckon a foreigner in to share a meal.
At one point Anne weathered a 46-hour barrage of artillery fire between a nearby Jewish settlement and a Palestinian village. Another time, Israeli tanks moved into her neighborhood:
Things are really getting out of hand here. It is absolutely
crazy…Who knows who is shooting at whom? There
have been countless shots right through our olive grove,
twenty feet from my window. At one point last night
something came whistling past, and right afterward
there was a huge explosion on Hebron Road. My heart
skipped a few beats. A little later there were more ear-
piercing booms. As I watch, one red ball after another
rises silently from the Israeli tanks in Beit Jala, each of
them followed by a enormous cracking sound. One was
fired from just three houses away…
I fell asleep while the battle continued, and slept all
night, thanks to your prayers. One of the old ladies I care
for is distressed that because of all this, she will not be
able to get to the doctor any time soon. She had major
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surgery three weeks ago, and her antibiotics and pain
medication ran out ten days ago.
Worried for her safety, I sent Anne an e-mail to ask how she was doing. Her reply surprised me, "I can't explain it, but I am happy and feel completely at peace. I truly believe that God hears our prayers, and that he will do as he wills. That gives me strength to go on living here. It might be that I will have to suffer, but I know I am in God's hands, and that means everything to me."
After several months in the West Bank, Anne returned home for a short breather. She was a changed person. Once timid and jittery, she was now relaxed; once taken with the little things of life – her houseplants, her cockatiels, and her classical music – she was now consumed by a much broader vision.
I never asked Anne about all this, or even commented on it, but she unwittingly explained it to me. During one particularly tense period, she said, she had sought refuge in Jerusalem, in the Garden of Gethsemane, and while there she had experienced something that altered her whole outlook on life:
I was lonely and exhausted, and I needed a quiet place to
think. But once I got there, I forgot about myself – I was
thinking of Jesus, and the agony he had suffered right
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where I was sitting. He felt forsaken, but he prayed, "Not
my will, but Thy will." Somehow that gave me courage
and strength, and I felt I would get through whatever
might lie ahead.
Describing in his journal his own anxieties about death, Leo Tolstoy reveals a similar approach to overcoming them:
I like my garden, I like reading a book, I like caressing
a child. By dying I lose all this, and therefore I do not
wish to die, and I fear death. It may be that my whole
life consists of such desires…and if that is so I cannot
help being afraid of what will prevent their gratification.
But if they have given way and been replaced in me by
another desire – the desire to do the will of God, to give
myself to him in my present state and in any possible
future state –then the more my desires have changed
the less I fear death, and the less does death exist for
me.
Anne is back in Israel as I write, working in a Bethlehem neighborhood patrolled by snipers and lit up at night
by exploding shells. There are few foreigners left in the area. Yet she remains courageous. "I pray every day
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for protection," she said shortly before she returned. "And I know that many people are praying for me. Why should I worry? Won't all those prayers be heard?"