He was only twelve years old, but already he knew more about resurrection than most of the adults in his life.
He had never met his father, and the only memory he had of his mother was a fading photograph that he had slept with for the first five years of his life until his caressing of it had rendered her image virtually unrecognizable.
Although he was somewhat envious of his cousin, he did love his aunt and uncle, who had taken him in when his grandmother announced, at his mother’s wake, that she was done raising children and, besides, who knew how long she’d be around anyway.
He had kept his first name, Stavros, but had, for convenience, adopted his uncle’s surname, Mulvey, thereby lending him a certain cultural ambiguity. This reflected the ambiguity he would eventually discover in almost all of the aspects of his life.
It was difficult to trace where his contemplative streak originated, but from the time he was a child he was able to recognize the sublime in mud. His aunt would take him for walks and he would ask her to stop every few paces so he could examine the journey of an insect across a slab of pavement or an evocative formation of clouds that suggested angels.
When he entered school, he was frequently admonished for his lack of attention when, in reality, his attention was more deeply refined than any of his classmates – although not on what the teacher was saying. He found his teacher’s voice hypnotizing, and the drone of it in the classroom would transport him to places he would rather be – to experience things, people, places, and events he would rather encounter.
It was, in fact, during one of these reveries, that he discovered his life-long aspiration – the dream that would breathe energy into everything he would do afterwards. This particular trance would last for only a moment in his recollection, though judging by what little he could recall about what the teacher was explaining about fractions, was probably a bit longer. In fact, when she called on him to teach back what she had just explained, his tentative response revealed to his bemused classmates a lapse of more than five minutes.
Stavros had found himself among ruins. They did not, however, appear to be ancient; rather the result of a recent conflict. He was on his knees, leaning over a form which, though critically injured, was impassive. As he reached for his stethoscope, which he knew intuitively would be around his neck, it became entangled with a cross.
It was only with the gift of hindsight that he was able to assess the experience of first grade with the knowledge that his destiny had been laid out for him from his childhood. And, as he knelt beside the Syrian infant who lay bleeding in the street, he knew that the cross around his neck would be more useful to him at that moment than his stethoscope.
There was virtually nothing left of Aleppo. A quarter of a million people, one third of them children, were forced to rely on the few, remaining local clinics; most of the hospitals had been bombed by Russian and Syrian forces. All this in an effort to terrorize the citizens and destabilize the resistance.
For Stavros, the hardest part was believing that anyone cared what was happening here. He had had hundreds of friends at his ordination in St. Olaf’s. And thousands attended his graduation from U of M Medical School. But he wondered now, kneeling in the street, praying over the soon-to-be lifeless child, whether anyone was even aware where he was or what he was attempting.
Oh, he had heard from friends on occasion. A few even sent donations to support his ministry. Some had even encouraged their organizations to recognize him with a significant monetary gift so he could continue his medical-ministerial work. But, most of the time, he knew that he was relegated to a passing thought or a hasty Ave.
Yet, as he continued to kneel there, cradling the now lifeless body of an infant, it began to rain. And, in that baptism, he recalled faded photos, and the salvific love of an aunt and an uncle. He remembered uninvited elementary school visions. And he knew, with total clarity, that he was where he was for a reason. And that reason was Love.
So he got up again.
Anthony S. Ercolano, D.Min.