A New Creation

Recently, while sharing and praying with a group of close friends via ZOOM, the conversation turned towards the impact the pandemic was having on each of us. Some expressed the feeling of carrying a huge weight on their shoulders for many months without being able to put it down, others were able to candidly say that confinement made it difficult to hide from the personal demons that haunt each of us, but that, until the pandemic, we were able to lock away in the closet. One person described her sense of loss of points of reference, as if none of the ones she previously could rely on remained and that she felt she would have to learn to see and do things in a completely different way after the pandemic.

The notions of tremendous pressure and things hidden away in darkness made me think of diamonds. A quick search on Google made me realize how inaccurate my knowledge of geology is: diamonds are not formed, as I thought, by a great amount of pressure exerted on coal.  

Another image that came to mind as I was dwelling on what my friends had said was the one found in the creation story in the book of Genesis:

In the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth — and the earth was without form or shape, with darkness over the abyss and a mighty wind sweeping over the waters — Then God said: Let there be light, and there was light.  God saw that the light was good. God then separated the light from the darkness. - Genesis 1, 1-4

Could it be that out of the topsy turvy world we are living in, out of this mighty wind that seems to be sweeping away all that seemed solid before, out of this darkness that we have been engulfed in for so many months, will emerge something dazzlingly new?

My heart is waiting with anticipation to finally see what the Spirit of God is doing right now. It will surely be infinitely more precious and beautiful than a diamond!

Un coeur pour accueillir et des oreilles pour écouter

Après un infarctus à l’âge de 40 ans, j’ai senti le besoin de me tourner vers les personnes malades pour les accompagner dans ce qu’elles vivaient. Je suis donc devenu bénévole dans une résidence de soins de longue durée près de l’école où j’enseignais. Je faisais partie d’une petite équipe supervisée par l’agent de pastorale de l’établissement. Il y avait 75 résidents dans la section de l’édifice dont j’étais responsable. J’ai vite compris que ce dont les résidents avaient avant tout besoin était d’oreilles pour les écouter et d’un cœur compatissant pour accueillir leur histoire et qu’il fallait prendre le temps nécessaire pour faire cela. J’enseignais à plein temps à l’époque et je n’avais que quelques heures par semaine à consacrer à ce bénévolat.  Je n’arrivais à voir que quelques personnes par mois.

Cette année-là, j’avais deux classes d’enseignement religieux en 8^ième année. Un jour, en les regardant, je me suis dit, « Voilà beaucoup d’oreilles et de cœurs qui pourraient accueillir les histoires des personnes que je n’ai pas le temps de visiter à la résidence. » J’ai donc organisé des visites bimensuelles à la résidence avec ces jeunes de 13-14 ans. Deux jeunes allaient ensemble visiter la même personne pendant toute l’année scolaire. Des liens profonds se sont créés entre eux. Je prenais aussi du temps en classe pour discuter avec les jeunes de leur expérience et de ce que ces visites leur apportaient. Lors d’un de ces échanges, un jeune homme m’a dit, « Les vieux sont comme nous les ados. Personne ne les écoute. » Quand un cœur se met à battre à la même cadence que celui d’un autre, c’est que la compassion est en train de naître. Je n’aurais pas pu enseigner cela dans une salle de classe.

What Remains beyond All Losses

When I went for the second dose of the Pfizer vaccine last week, the nurse who administered it asked me a few questions about why I was getting it. I told her it was because I visited my brother in a long-term care institution. She responded, “It’s good of you to do that.” Her statement surprised me. I know she was trying to be supportive, but I somehow felt, without knowing why or how, that what she said, “missed the mark.” I have been thinking about this for the last few days and I now think I know what felt slightly amiss in her words.

Over the years, I saw François lose chunk after chunk of what he could remember, what he could do and how he could relate to others. He is now no longer able to speak or to walk and I doubt he ever recognises anyone. Seeing that happen to him was heart-wrenching. At the same time, as I slowly worked through the unavoidable grieving process in such a situation, I gradually became aware that something positive was emerging. I miss the “old” François, the one I could have conversations with, take bike rides with, enjoy meals with… I do miss him. But I have discovered a “new” François. “New” only because I can now see something that I could not see before: I discovered that François is a complete person, not a defective person nor a reduced one, just as he is now.

I love that “new” François just as much as I loved the “old” one. He has opened my eyes to see, not only him but others as well, more deeply. I now know that there is something in a person that endures beyond all losses; something that is the essence of who they are. That awareness is what this "new" François has gifted to me. It is a wonderful gift.

Instead of, "It is good of you", the nurse should have said, “It’s good for you" to visit your brother.

It’s you I like

My dream last night had to do with loving and accepting ourselves just as we are, just as God loves us. I thought I should write about that today, but I remembered that Mr. Rogers has already done so beautifully. I think the child in all of us still needs to hear often and welcome like an affirming hug his words:

“It’s you I like,
It’s not the things you wear,
It’s not the way you do your hair–
But it’s you I like
The way you are right now,
The way down deep inside you–
Not the things that hide you,
Not your toys–
They’re just beside you.

But it’s you I like–
Every part of you,
Your skin, your eyes, your feelings
Whether old or new.
I hope that you’ll remember
Even when you’re feeling blue
That it’s you I like,
It’s you yourself,
It’s you, it’s you I like.”

Le plus grand

 Les parents, ces “grandes personnes”, sont vraiment étranges. Ils passent leur temps à prendre soin des enfants, à les nourrir, les éduquer, les protéger, les habiller… Ils sont tellement occupés à faire toutes ces choses qu’ils oublient la chose la plus importantes : ce ne sont pas eux qui ont le rôle le plus important, mais leurs enfants. Les enfants, ces « petites personnes », sont là pour apprendre à leurs parents à aimer. Qui, alors, est le plus grand des deux?

If God wanted us to…

I had a bit of a chat with an “If God wanted us to…” person this morning. As you might guess, it was about vaccination. She knew I had received a first dose of the Pfizer vaccine, and this was her last-ditch attempt to prevent me from sinking even deeper into “heresy” by going for the second one.

 The “if..” argument must certainly be as old as the belief in a deity. I can easily imagine a prehistoric person saying to that senseless neighbour of his, the one who foolishly started mounting on the backs of horses, “If God wanted us to ride a horse, he would not have given us legs.” But the “if…” argument apparently still has something compelling about it and that is why even intelligent, well-educated people still use it today. After all, if you can get God on your side of an argument, that’s an even better advantage than playing on home ice!

It is interesting to note that the “If…” argument is often used by anti-vaccers who deeply believe in alternative medicine. Many of them are themselves health care providers. It is rather strange that they think God would not agree with scientific interventions but fully supports their own interventions in healing people. I wonder how an acupuncturist, for example, would react to someone telling him, “If God wanted us to poke needles under our skin, he would have made us porcupines!”

I, for one, am grateful that the cardiologist who saved my life 30 years ago was not an “If…” person. Had he hesitated to treat me because of a theological doubt that set him wondering, “If God wanted me to inject this substance that will unclog that blocked artery he would have…”, I would not have survived long enough to hear the end of his sophisticated argument.

What the “If…” argument always wrongly implies, is that God cannot possibly act through scientific development and technology, or any other such rational means of bringing about positive change in our world. That is obviously uh… I am searching for the technical term for such a perspective… ah yes, bunk!

Cannabis et billets de loterie

Comme beaucoup de jeunes des années 60-70 j’ai, à quelques reprises, essayé de fumer du cannabis. Mes tentatives furent très peu fréquentes et vite stoppées. Je me suis rendu compte que cela m’assommait - littéralement. Après ma dernière tentative dans la jeune vingtaine, je me suis retrouvé au lit pour plusieurs heures avec une migraine catégorie 5 (si on calcule la violence des ouragans ainsi, pourquoi pas celle des migraines!) Encore aujourd’hui, je n’ai qu’à flairer la boucane d’un joint que quelqu’un fume, même à une bonne distance, et le cœur me lève et j’ai mal à la tête. C’est sans doute une question d’intolérance.

Cela peut sembler étrange, mais je crois que j’ai aussi une « intolérance », non pas physique mais tout aussi forte, aux billets de loterie. Je n’en ai jamais acheté. Pas un seul. Si quelqu’un me demande pourquoi, je peux donner toutes sortes de raisons plus ou moins valables. Mais je n’ai pas envie de justifier ce choix. Récemment, en réfléchissant à cela, je me demandais pourquoi cette « intolérance » presque viscérale était si forte en moi. C’est un souvenir apparemment anodin qui m’a fourni une réponse.

J’ai travaillé dans un Harvey’s comme cuisinier pendant un été. Un jour, après la fermeture du restaurant, quelques-uns des employés m'on invité à jouer au poker avec eux. Je savais comment jouer mais je ne l’avais jamais fait pour de l’argent. J’ai gagné près de 25$. À l’époque cela équivalait à plus de deux journées de salaire. Je n’avais certainement pas triché en jouant, mais je me suis senti profondément coupable de soutirer de l’argent à des gars qui avaient travaillé fort pour le gagner et qui vivaient très pauvrement. J’ai décidé à ce moment-là de ne plus jamais jouer pour de l’argent. Enlever de l’argent au jeu à des personnes qui n’ont pas les moyens d’en perdre est une injustice. Cela me répugne autant que de voir quelqu’un intimider ou brutaliser un autre plus faible que lui.

Il n’y a pas que les gens qui peuvent se le permettre qui achètent des billets de loterie. Il y a aussi ceux qui n’ont pas les moyens de le faire. On a beau mettre le blâme sur leurs épaules en disant qu’ils devraient mieux gérer leurs affaires, mais le blâme repose peut-être davantage ailleurs. Toute la publicité faite autour de la vente de billets de loterie fait miroiter des biens que ces personnes ne seront jamais en moyen d'acquérir. Elle prend avantage de leur rêve d’avoir une vie meilleure pour leur soutirer le peu qu’ils ont. Cela me lève le cœur et me donne mal à la tête. C’est sans doute une question d’intolérance. 

Building a School

I spent a month one summer in a job that has remained in my memory in black and white.

I was hired as an electrician’s helper installing the wiring for the intercom system in a “polyvalente”, a large complex offering academic courses but also equipped with workshops for students in apprenticeship programs in various trades.

I spent most of that month in the underbelly of that sprawling monster. It was not a basement, but an unfinished hole where all the arteries and veins of this behemoth were hidden. There were therefore no passageways and no doors that allowed us to navigate easily. High concrete walls separated one section from another. In places, there was enough space between these walls and the ceiling/floors above to crouch through. We had to climb over these to get from one place to another. To do so, I had to jump up a few centimeters, grab the ledge at the top of the wall with my fingers, and hoist myself up with the full weight of my body supported by my fingers only. I did this a few dozen times daily. In no way can I be considered an athletic person, but that summer, I was the fittest I have ever been.   

The only lighting came from a few lightbulbs dangling from loose wires. I remember B rated movies I sometimes watched when I was much younger. These low-budget flicks were in black and white and the lighting was extremely sparse, probably to try to hide the poor make-up jobs and other defects in the production. Our underground environment would have been ideal for such a movie.

My main task was to feed the wires that would lead to each of the offices, classrooms, and workshops into metal pipes that went through holes in the ceiling and into the walls of rooms above. Sometimes the metal pipes were too small for the number of wires and a block and tackle was required. Occasionally, additional brute force had to be applied and I would have to pull with all my might. It was not easy work.

I don’t remember eating lunch out in the open. I suspect we had to do so down below because it would have been too time-consuming to go back up and down again. The ground was of clay, sometimes wet with dripping pipes and there were puddles here and there. The air was dank, stuffy, and although it was summer, a bit on the cool side.

Despite all of this, my memories of that summer job are positive. I think it is because I was aware that I was not just stuffing wires through pipes; I was helping to build a school. Education has always been important to me and even this seemingly small contribution to making it possible for others gave me a sense of accomplishment.  

Accident Waiting to Happen!

I’m thinking of my grandson Victor. I can see him barreling at full speed in his back yard or in his house, for the sheer pleasure of doing so and not always looking where he is going. There should be a sign on his back that reads, “Accident waiting to happen!” In fact, often when we are not in confinement and can visit, he will show us his assortment of bruises, scratches, and other miscellaneous self-inflicted injuries: a 7-year-old’s collection of trophies proudly displayed! Fortunately, his dad and mom are there to limit the damages, reminding him often to slow down and be careful of the precipices he is gleefully running towards.

Imagine seven Victors let loose in the world without the guardrails he has, seven Côté boys barreling through their neighbourhood and in their playground, the Gatineau Park. We collected trophies galore! Fortunately, there was a hospital not too far from our childhood house. My parents were often there with one of us. We would take turns being the recipients of necessary repairs. I never checked, but there should be a wing in that hospital with the Côté name on it. We probably helped pay for most of that wing!

Sister Death

For a few months one summer and on weekends the following school year, I was a hospital porter at the old Ottawa General Hospital which was then located on Bruyère Street near the Byward Market in Ottawa. My task consisted solely of moving patients in wheelchairs or on stretchers. Most of the time, this was from their room to a department within the facilities where they would be tested or receive treatments and back to their rooms. Sometimes, however, the trip would be one way. I was in my early twenties that summer and the work I was doing would lead to my first encounters with death.

I remember making only three of those one-way trips to the morgue. Two of them were on the same day. In the morning, I received a call from the emergency room. When I arrived, someone pointed to a stretcher in a corner. I was told that the elderly lady on it had wandered out into the cold in her back yard and had died there of hypothermia because she had dementia and could not find her way back inside. As I wheeled her to the elevator that led to the morgue, her wrinkled forehead was uncovered, and I could see her gray hair. When I returned to the office where I waited for the next call, I was completely drained, numb, and felt as if someone had knocked the wind out of me. I just wanted the day to be over.

That afternoon, I received another call from the emergency room. On arrival there, a nurse was waiting for me with a small child cradled in her arms. The beautiful little girl she held must have been no older than 2-3 months old. The nurse insisted that I carry the child up to the morgue in my arms, not on a stretcher. The death of that infant had obviously touched something very deep in her. I was still reeling from the morning and I could not bring myself to do what she asked. It was not fear or repulsion that compelled me to refuse her request and certainly not indifference. It was a total sense of dismay and powerlessness. I brought the tiny body up on a stretcher.

I left both the old woman and that beautiful child with the attendants in the morgue that day, but I still carry them in my heart. These were my first experiences of death, but they would not be the last, far from that. I have encountered death scores of times since. I have also had to face my own mortality.

It is not easy to write about these things and probably not easy to read about them either. But it is in no way morbid to do so. I may never be able to sing praises to God for “Sister Death” as Saint Francis of Assisi did in his famous Canticle to Brother Sun and Sister Moon:

“Praised be You, my Lord through Sister Death,
from whom no-one living can escape.”

However, I am grateful that I have had to grapple with death.  Refusing to think about death and to come to terms with our mortality only allows death to haunt us in subtle ways. More than that, I have come to think that it prevents us from loving fully. If I reject the ultimate fragility that is in my brother or sister, their mortality, how can I love them fully? If I reject that ultimate of fragilities that is in me, how can I love myself as I am? And how then can I love as Jesus did: "Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end."?

Sepia Summer Job

My memories are usually in colour. These vary depending on the emotions the events imprinted in me. Some are in crisp vivid colors. Others are drawn in subdued misty shades. There is a variety of intensity of lighting in each of them. Some are in black and white and some in a single colour of varying hues. The memory of my summer work in 1971 is of the latter. I call it my sepia summer job.

I worked at Statistic Canada transferring information from completed census forms onto computer cards with a pencil. I recall it was a well-paying student job, but so mind-numbing that I cannot remember what I did exactly. All I have in the part of my brain where such things are stored are snapshots of the place I worked in and people I worked with.

I see a large room with old wooden desks placed a fair distance apart. These were no doubt occupied by other students, but I remember none of them and could not tell you if I ever interacted with them, although, of course, I must have on occasion. The only face I remember clearly was that of our supervisor, an elderly gentleman, seated at his wooden desk, slightly larger than ours, but not enclosed in an office. His position was that of a clerk like mine was, but with a few digits added to his job designation. He was there to answer our questions if we hit a snag, which rarely happened because the work was so straight-forward, and to make sure that we worked diligently.

The overall impression it left in me is like a drawing in a Dickens novel: a schoolmaster supervising students doing an extremely long exam with pencils in hand. No one is speaking. There is absolute silence.  A clock is ticking ever so slowly in the background, so slowly in fact that I would not be surprised if it stopped altogether and left us frozen in time: a sepia snapshot in an old dusty photo album.

Semeur de paix

La semaine dernière, j’avais des courses à faire. En arrivant à la caisse pour payer mes emplettes, j’ai vu que la caissière était très fatiguée et qu’elle n’avait pas du tout le goût d’être au travail. Je dois admettre que cela m’a agacé. La réflexion initiale qui m’est venu en tête est, « Si elle ne veut pas travailler, qu’elle reste chez elle. Je n’ai vraiment pas besoin d’être accueilli par une gueule de bois. » Malgré cela, comme je le fais souvent dans des situations comme celle-là, j’ai décidé de faire un commentaire pour montrer ma solidarité et mon empathie avec ce que cette personne vivait et pour l’aider à sortir d’elle-même. Je lui ai dit. « Vous avez l’air très fatigué aujourd’hui. » La jeune femme, une anglophone, m’a répondu agressivement, « That hurts. That hurts a lot! » - « Cela est blessant. Très blessant! » Devant sa réaction, j’ai eu un moment de recul et je me suis demandé si j’avais fait une bévue. Ce n’est que plus tard, en réfléchissant sur ce qui s’était passé, que je me suis rendu compte que la caissière a probablement réagi non pas tant à mes paroles qu’à l’agacement que je ressentais quelques secondes avant de lui parler et qui devait toujours transparaître dans mon regard, malgré toutes mes bonnes intentions. Elle avait senti instinctivement ce que je portais dans mon cœur. 

Si je veux que ma présence auprès des autres leur apporte un peu de paix, il faut d’abord que la paix se fasse dans mon cœur. Sinon, même le geste le mieux intentionné ne leur apporte pas la guérison, mais creuse la blessure qu’ils portent.

Based on Real Facts

“This movie is based on real events.”

We find this caption at the beginning or at the end of many movies. When I see that caption, I assume that the facts have been  doctored to make the story more interesting and palatable for viewers.

While my stories are sometimes “based on facts”, I must admit that they are not a video capture of events. I am a storyteller, and storytellers, even when writing about “real events”, will filter them through their own impressions of what happened, their biases, their outlook on life. You can add to that gaping holes in memories and a desire to entertain. That in no way diminishes the value of my stories. They are a much better rendering of the impact the events had on my life than an impeccably accurate one would be.

I don’t think I will ever use another caption also often found after the opening credits of movies: “The events and the characters depicted in this movie are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.” However, I do reserve the right to be a tad creative in how I tell the story! That is in no way telling tall-tales. It is simply letting years of experience and reflection infuse the events with a depth of meaning that the "true story" may not have originally contained.

Listening to the Word

I have spent a lot of time with the Word of God.

I sometimes sit with it as one would with a friend to have a conversation. I try to listen deeply to what it is saying to me and I pour my life into it to see how it fits into its folds. I am then Nicodemus searching for answers by night. I am with the disciples sitting around a campfire listening to Jesus asking, “Who do you say that I am?” I am Mary in her house in Bethany listening to Jesus instead of busying myself with many things.

At other times, the Word sets me in motion, and I mingle with the people Jesus met and tried to reach with his words, with his eyes, with his touch. I am a rich young man who sometimes goes away sad because I find it difficult to let go of my security blankets. I am the bent women who seeks out Jesus in the crowd in the hope of being healed. I am the Samaritan at the well thirsting for happiness and coming away empty-handed so many times until Jesus says, “Give me a drink.” “I thirst”

Often, I find myself at the foot of the cross. There I stand with Mary and John and look up at Jesus, listening intently to the few words he can still utter because it is so difficult for him to breathe, let alone speak.

The Word comes to meet me wherever I am: it is the calming of my stormiest seas, the promise of dawn in my darkest nights, and the gentlest of breezes in my most fragrant gardens.

Hells Angels and Harley-Davidsons

I spent quite a bit of time on school benches, but that is not the only place I received an education. I had just turned 18 when I left home for university and to be on my own. The scholarships and student loans I received each year were never enough to cover tuition fees, books, accommodation, and all the other usual expenditures. I, therefore, took any job that was offered to me and worked weekends and breaks during the school year and full-time during the summer months.

My first summer job was on the maintenance crew of a golf course. I would ride my bike a few kilometers to my boss’s place by 6:40 AM to get a ride with him to the golf course where work started at 7AM and ended at 5PM six days a week. It was hard work: cutting grass with a hand-pushed lawnmower, manicuring sand traps and greens, watering when necessary. Rain or blistering sunshine we would be at it all day with two short breaks morning and afternoon and a half-hour lunch. I still remember how heavy a roll of sod is when you are laying it in the pouring rain. That is the only job I was ever fired from. One morning, after almost a month of this regime, I was so tired that I overslept and did not make it on time to my boss’s place in the morning. When I phoned him to apologize, he fired me.  

I was out of work for only a few days when I was offered a position as a security guard at one of the municipal beaches in Hull. After the grueling pace of the previous month, this was like entering heaven after having spent the required time in purgatory: a 35-hour week, a much better hourly wage, days spent strolling on a beach filled with people in swimsuits – and, yes, I must admit that, for an eighteen-year-old, the scenery was quite interesting! Quiet days doing little when the beach was almost empty because the weather was a bit off and the crowds stayed away.

I remember the month I spent on this job being very uneventful except for two incidences. One day, I heard a commotion and a crowd gathering on the shore a few meters from the beach. A water-skier had hit a branch that was jutting out of the water with his leg and they were carrying him ashore. The branch was two inches thick and had gone through his leg and was embedded there. That is a scene I will never forget.  

The other memorable moment involved a biker. I was rather naïve at the time and knew nothing of the reputation of the Hells Angels. The beach area was off-limits to motorized vehicles and that included motorbikes. One gentleman drove his Harley-Davidson to the edge of the water and parked there. I felt it was time to finally earn my paycheck and went over to tell him that parking in that spot was not allowed, and he would have to move. He told me in no uncertain terms that he had no intention of doing that. My response was to advise him that if he did not leave, I would have to call the police. He grinned at me – not what you could call a friendly smile – and pointed to a police officer who was standing next to his own motorcycle a few hundred meters away in the parking lot. “Go right ahead!” he growled under his beard. I dutifully went over to the policeman who, I now have no doubt, had seen the offender, but had ignored him until he had no choice to address the matter because I intervened. He did go see my bearded friend, gave him a ticket, then left. I saw the motorcyclist get on his bike and turn it in my direction and start riding. He kept on accelerating as he got closer to me. Adrenaline flowed through my whole body because I thought he wanted to ram me. When he was close to me, he put out his cowboy-booted leg in my direction and attempted to hit me in the knees. He missed! There was a second security guard working with me that day. When he saw what had happened, he ran to the motorcyclist as he was turning around for a second attempt and wrestled him to the ground. I was amazed to hear some of the comments from people standing by watching the scene. They were accusing my rescuer of “Police brutality!”

The police were called once more and two of them took the Hells Angel gentleman away in a police cruiser. When I had calmed down, I looked at my leg, grateful it was still intact, but the rip in the pants reminded me how narrowly I had been spared. Municipal beaches are hazardous to your legs!

I was expecting to get a call to give a statement about what had happened, and, possibly to testify, but it never came. I spent the remaining time of that summer glancing sideways, half expecting a Harley-Davidson, with its motor roaring ominously, surging toward me at full speed. But, thankfully, that also never came.

That was the first of my summers working to pay for my studies.

Qu'il me soit fait selon ta Parole

La Parole de Dieu tient une grande place dans ma vie. C’est souvent avec elle que je prie. J’imagine Jésus qui m’appelle et me dit, « Viens. Installe-toi devant cette parole-là. Écoute attentivement. J’ai quelque chose à te dire. » Il y a certains textes devant lesquels je m’assoie ainsi régulièrement depuis plus de quarante ans. Quelquefois c’est une phrase qui s’impose à mon attention et qui m’interpelle. En silence, elle semble me dire, « Viens demeurer en moi. Laisse-moi habiter en toi. »

Parfois, ce sont des paroles de réconfort, apaisantes et pleines d’espérance, qui s’invitent chez moi. Mais il y en a aussi de celles qui me bousculent, celles qui cherchent à se frayer un chemin, à percer mon coeur, des paroles tranchantes au goût parfois amère. Elles sont toutes porteuses de vie et bienvenues chez moi. Je les accueille : « Qu’il me soit fait selon ta Parole. »

Writing Marathon

My writing marathon has been going on for three months now. I sometimes feel like Forest Gump running from coast to coast! I know that I started posting stories regularly to connect with people at a time when outside contacts are so severely restricted. I am discovering that there may also be a deeper meaning to this strong need to write.  In a world where we have the impression that we are constantly walking on a path that is shifting under our feet, it is normal to seek solid ground. My little stories are my way of looking for and becoming more deeply aware of what is solid ground in my life. I also hope that, occasionally, it will help someone else find their footing as well.

While writing about the little anniversary meal “miracle” recently, I felt I had to dig more deeply into that event. Something felt “unfinished” even after talking about it twice. I finally figured out why. I have often seen God’s loving presence in events that were positive, joyful, uplifting. I am deeply grateful for those moments in my life. But that does not mean that God was any less present in those moments when I felt as if I had been kicked in the stomach and had the wind knocked out of me for a while. He was no less present, no less loving, no less the gentle and caring Father during those dark days than he was when the sun shone brightly. In fact, I believe that without those moments, I would never have been able to see the depth of his love for me. 

It is easy to believe that God loves you when all is going well. It is more difficult to do so when all hell breaks loose and you feel that you are, at least partly, responsible for it. It is at those moments in my life when I felt less than adequate that God lifted up my head, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Don't be afraid, I am there. Nothing can happen that will prevent me from loving you. Nothing you can do will ever make me love you less.”

I am always a bit hesitant to write about “miracles”. The crowds that followed Jesus often did so because of the healings, because of the free meals, and even, as is often evident in his disciples, because of the power and prestige they thought they could gain from doing so. It is so easy to want to follow Jesus because I see in him someone who can satisfy my needs and my wants; someone who can do something for me.

The paella I ate at that restaurant years ago is long gone; the money I found on that day also. That was not what was important. If I want to follow Jesus because I love the signs, I will eventually be disappointed, as the crowds were and as his disciples were also. What Jesus invites me to do is to have faith, not in miracles, but in the Father's unwavering, steadfast love for me. The signs are but the scaffolding that helps build the house. When Love dwells in me and I dwell in Love, the scaffolding is no longer useful, because only Love is the solid ground under my feet. When the marathon has been run, and when all else is long gone, only Love will remain.

Un monde in-sensé

Nous étions installés à table chez ma fille et le souper n’était pas tout à fait prêt. Les enfants étaient un peu agités et Marie-Claude, pour les calmer, a dit, « Demandez à grand-papa de vous raconter une histoire. » C’est ce qu’ils ont fait. Katherine aime beaucoup les constructions Lego et la salle où elle garde les pièces pour les construire est rempli de celles-ci. J’ai donc pensé inventer une histoire à propos de pièces de Lego qui se rebellent contre leur maître parce qu’elles veulent être libres. J’ai à peine eu le temps de commencer l’histoire que Katherine qui, à onze ans, possède déjà des qualités d’actrice, m’a interrompu en affichant un air indigné: « Je ne veux pas entendre parler de Lego qui se rebellent. »

Elle plaisantait évidemment, mais il y avait certainement une part d’authenticité dans cette indignation. Pour elle, les pièces de Lego n’existent pas individuellement. Même si elles sont pour l’instant isolés, sans connexion avec les autres pièces, Katherine les voit déjà comme partie d’un tout; elles existent en vue des projets que Katherine pourrait créer. Une pièce de Lego qui refuse de faire partie de ces constructions et fomente une rébellion ne peut pas exister dans un monde sensé.

Si une enfant de onze ans sait déjà instinctivement que les individus font partie d’un tout et que se rebeller contre cette réalité est un non-sens, comment se fait-il qu’il y ait tant d’adultes qui pensent qu’ils peuvent faire à leur tête sans se soucier du bien commun. Ne comprennent-ils pas qu’ils sont alors « in-sensés ».

When the Well Runs Dry

A few years ago, I participated in an ASIST suicide prevention training program. The objective of the workshop was to “learn how to prevent suicide by recognizing signs, providing a skilled intervention, and developing a safety plan to keep someone alive.”

A month after taking that workshop, I was placed in a situation where the skills I had learned became very useful. I was having a coffee with a friend in a MacDonald’s one morning, when the elderly gentleman seated at the table next to ours turned to us and offered us his coupon for free coffee saying, “I won’t need this. Would you like to have it?” Something in his tone of voice and his body language sounded an alarm in my head. I asked him why he would not need the coupon. His reply was that he would not be around much longer. I few more questions on my part made it abundantly clear that the gentleman was seriously considering suicide. Because of what I had learned during the workshop, I was able to pick up the SOS signals he was sending us when he initially approached us. I also felt confident that I could do something to respond to the situation. I did manage to keep him safe until he could get the professional help he needed. I saw him a few times after that day and I could see that he would pull through the rough stretch he was experiencing.

I have not since had to deal with a situation like that one, and hopefully will never have to again. But one thing I always keep in mind is a notion that is at the very heart of this suicide prevention approach. Underneath the most desperate and numbing situation, there is still life flowing. That life sometimes needs a bit of help to flow freely again when it seems to have dried up.

The house I grew up in as a child was on a well. Occasionally, the pump no longer managed to pull water up. My dad would then have to go fill a barrel with water and “prime” the pump by adding a bit of water in it, thus inducing a vacuum so that the well water could be pulled up and flow again.

The same principle holds true for people. When nothing seems to be left but a void and life no longer flows freely, a bit of priming is necessary. While talking to the gentleman from the MacDonald, he mentioned that it saddened him that his daughter would be hurt by his death. I replied, “You seem to care a lot about your daughter. You must have a good relationship with her?” Buried in the folds of his despair was the love of his daughter for him and his love for her, a love that was still brimming with life.  That was the primer that allowed life to start flowing again in him so that he could seek the help he needed. 

All that is required sometimes is for someone to listen deeply enough to hear the murmur of life-giving love flowing powerfully below.

Communicating in Two Languages

We lived in Papineauville for 4 years. There was almost no English spoken in that small rural village in Québec. Diane and I assumed that our young daughters could not understand English and, when we did not want them to understand what we were discussing, we spoke to each other in English. What we did not know was that Geneviève, our little sponge, had picked up enough English by occasionally watching Sesame Street on TV to understand what we were saying!

I also learned a smattering of English as a child by watching TV shows. It was not, however, until I was in grade 9 that I started to systematically learn how to read and write in English. Even though we resided in Quebec, my parents had the foresight to send me to a high school in Ottawa where half the subjects were taught in English and half in French. I remember my first English literature course. One of the books we were to read was Macbeth. I sometimes jokingly say that, for a few months, I believed that the correct written form of addressing others was “Thee’ and “Thou”.

I have since then mastered both languages and like to use both to communicate. I say “like”, but I should in fact say, “need to”. Both languages have become part of me and allow me to say who I am. They are not, however, always interchangeable, especially when I speak about deeply personal things. If you were invited to one of our family gatherings you would hear a lot of French being spoken. If you didn't, you would either be in the wrong house or you should start suspecting that aliens have taken over our bodies. 

When someone asks me to translate what I have written in French, I am happy to oblige if I can. I must also admit that I feel a slight pinch of sadness as well when they do because I know that the English version would never be able to transmit all the depth of meaning and lived experience that the French version contains. The same holds true when I write in English about something that comes from my heart. The beautiful language of Shakespeare conveys supple nuances of meaning that are lost even in the best of translations.

If I write in both English and French it is not simply because I want to reach people who can read only one of these languages. It is also because I cannot otherwise express fully the different layers of who I am. Learning another language adds a new layer to who you are.

Souvenirs de mon grand frère

Mon grand frère est parti depuis quelques années mais les souvenirs de lui habitent toujours un coin de mon coeur.

Mon frère Jean-Guy était curieux et aimait expérimenter pour voir comment les choses fonctionnaient.  Un jour il s’était mis dans la tête d’attacher une longue corde à sa bicyclette à un bout et à un arbre à l’autre bout. Il voulait voir s’il pouvait se mettre à pédaler à pleine vitesse et freiner avant d’arriver au bout de la corde. Il a eu sa réponse quand la bicyclette s’est arrêtée soudainement avant qu’il n’ait eu le temps de freiner. Jean-Guy a eu sa première et dernière leçon de vol ce jour-là. La bicyclette est restée là mais Jean-Guy a continué à voler par-dessus les guidons.

Jean-Guy était débrouillard et trouvais des solutions originales pour régler des problèmes. Nous vivions juste à côté du parc de la Gatineau et c’était notre terrain de jeu. Jean-Guy emmenait souvent ses petits frères faire de longues randonnées dans les bois. Un jour, nous sommes arrivés au pied d’une petite falaise d’une quinzaine de mètres. Jean-Guy a réussi à l’escalader sans trop de difficultés, mais pour les plus jeunes ce n’était pas facile et nous avions peur de monter. Jean-Guy a trouvé une solution. Il avait un rouleau de ficelle, le genre qui sert à attacher les balles de foin. Il a laissé la corde descendre la falaise et nous a dit de nous accrocher à elle et qu’il tirerait pour nous aider à monter. La ficelle était beaucoup trop fragile pour soutenir notre poids, mais nous avions confiance dans notre grand frère et nous avons réussi à nous rendre en haut de cette façon-là. Pendant que nous grimpions le rocher, notre chien Peewee qui était avec nous s’est mis à japper et à gémir. Je ne comprenais pas pourquoi il faisait cela. En vieillissant, j’ai compris qu’il essayait probablement de nous dire en langage de chien, « Vous allez vous casser le cou, bande de fou ! »

Mon grand frère avait une passion pour bâtir des choses. Quand il était jeune il rêvait toujours de bâtir des maisons dans les arbres, des radeaux, des forts de neige… Pour bâtir il avait besoin d’outils. J’entends encore la voix de mon père crié de son atelier dans le sous-sol, « Qui a pris mon marteau… ma scie … mon tournevis ! » Mon père était distrait et le tournevis se trouvait quelquefois dans la poche arrière de son pantalon. Mais la plupart du temps, c’est Jean-Guy qui avait emprunté les outils disparus pour un de ses projets de construction. 

Pour bâtir, ça prenait aussi des matériaux de construction et Jean-Guy avait beaucoup d’imagination pour en trouver. Une fois, il nous a emmené à une vieille grange. Il nous a dit qu’elle était abandonnée. C’était une mine d’or de matériaux de construction : des planches, des poutres, des deux par quatre, des tuiles sur le toit… On pouvait construire beaucoup de choses avec tout cela. Nous venions de commencer notre travail de démolition de la grange pour récupérer ces matériaux quand un fermier est arrivé avec son chien et son fusil de chasse. Chose étonnante, il ne semblait pas savoir que sa grange était abandonnée. Heureusement, ce monsieur a trouvé cela pas mal drôle et il aimait les enfants et nous a laissé partir.

Jean-Guy était un vraiment bon gars. Je pense qu’il n’avait pas une goutte de méchanceté en lui, mais il lui arrivait d’agir avant de penser aux conséquences de ce qu’il faisait. Chaque année nous achetions des pétards pour fêter le premier juillet. Je me souviens d’un de ces 1ier juillet. Pendant que j’étais penché pour ramasser quelque chose, Jean-Guy tenait un gros pétard allumé dans sa main, un de ceux qu’on appelait pétards « à cinq cennes ». Il l’a déposé sur mon dos en pensant que ce serait drôle de me voir réagir quand le pétard éclaterait. Le pétard a roulé de mon dos vers mon cou où je l’ai senti. Comme je mettais ma main sur mon cou, le pétard a éclaté. J’ai encore une cicatrice dans le cou comme souvenir de cette journée-là.

Avec cinq petits frères autour de lui qui grouillaient beaucoup et qui faisait de temps en temps des mauvais coups, Jean-Guy pouvait quelquefois, avec raison, être impatient avec nous. Un jour, j’ai emprunté sa bicyclette sans demander sa permission. Je l’ai entendu derrière moi me dire d’arrêter, mais je savais qu’il ne pourrait pas courir assez vite pour me rejoindre et j’ai continué à pédaler en pensant que je lui avais joué un bon tour. Soudainement j’ai senti quelque chose me mordre entre les deux épaules et je suis tombé de la bicyclette. Jean-Guy avait décidé que la seule façon de m’arrêter était de se servir de sa carabine à plomb. Il avait un bon œil et n’avait pas manqué la cible!

Un jour, je vais revoir mon grand-frère. Nous pourrons alors jaser de ces souvenir d'enfance et rire de bon coeur!

Eyes to See

Yesterday, I wrote about something that happened on our wedding anniversary and how I felt that God wanted to celebrate with us.

I remember sharing about this event with a friend of mine who is rather a vocal sceptic about the existence of God. His reaction was dismissive, and he replied, with an impatient edge in his voice, “As if your interpretation of what happened was the only possible one!” He was, I admit, quite right about that. What I see with the eyes of faith as God’s loving presence and intervention in my everyday life could, in most circumstances, probably be explained quite convincingly otherwise. Miracles, small ones or big ones, do not by themselves “prove” anything. If that were the case, none of those who saw the miracles Jesus performed could have doubted him unless they were quite obtuse.

What is needed for a miracle to become a sign of God’s presence is that we have “eyes to see”. That a set of events can be explained naturally or not is not the issue here. Even the most natural sequence of events can be a powerful sign of God’s love to one person, but not to another. Whether I see things because of natural or artificial lighting is irrelevant; what matters is whether I can see or not.  

Jesus was never interested in dazzling people with his works of wonder. His focus lay elsewhere. He always zoomed in on the faith of the person before him, on that person’s openness to recognizing and welcoming the loving action of the Father in their life. For the person who believes in the constant and unwavering love of the Father for them, all is sign, all is miracle, even the most mundane of event. It is not only on a wedding anniversary that God wants to celebrate love and “prepare a meal for us, serve it to us and pay for it as well”; it is every day of our life.

Anniversary Meal

It was the day of our wedding anniversary and Diane and I had decided to celebrate by splurging on a full course meal at a high-end restaurant that evening, a Spanish restaurant near our place that served paella.

In the morning I headed for the drugstore which is a short walk away from where we live. I had done that little trek countless times and almost always took the same route to get there. When I got to the streetlight where I usually cross the street on which the pharmacy is located, I noticed that there was construction on the other side and that the sidewalk was blocked. I therefore had to go to the next corner and cross there. As I was walking in that direction, I noticed a twenty-dollar bill on the sidewalk. I bent down to pick it up and, to my great surprise, there was another one under that one… and yet another one under that one as well... There were ten of them in all. I felt badly for the person who had dropped that money, but there was absolutely no way of finding out who did.

Later that day, I had another errand to run and, again, I walked along yet another sidewalk near our building. My mind was still on that $200 I had found that morning and the thought popped into my head that it was no coincidence and that God wanted to pay for our restaurant meal that evening. I would have dismissed that as frivolous thinking but for what happened next. I spotted a quarter on the ground. That was not unusual. I have found several coins in the past, but never more than one at the time. This time, though, the quarter was not alone. There were dozens of coins spread out on the sidewalk and the street nearby. I felt as if God was insisting that what had happened that morning was his doing. 

When the bill came after a wonderful meal together that evening, the amount, with tax and tip, was slightly over $200. I could not help but feel that God wanted to celebrate our anniversary with us. Not only that, but he wished to prepare the meal for us, serve it to us and pay for it as well!

I have often felt that providence was at work in our life, especially at a time when, as a young couple, we struggled financially: an unexpected check would arrive just in time to pay a bill that needed to be paid or a perfect home would suddenly be for rent just when we were looking for one. We could feel that God was taking care of us. But this occasion was special. We did not need help to pay for that meal. On that anniversary day, I felt that God was simply showing his gentle, tender love for us and his joy in being part of our life and marriage.

Un tourbillon de musique

Quand mes petits-enfants Katherine et Victor entendent une pièce de musique classique, ils disent, "C'est de la musique à grand-papa." Quel beau compliment ils me font en m'associant ainsi à quelque chose d'aussi merveilleux!

Je me souviens de mes premiers contacts avec la musique classique à l'âge de 13 ou 14 ans. Papa avait gagné un phonographe et 3 long-jeux lors du pique-nique annuel de l’Imprimerie Nationale où il travaillait. Un des disques avait une sélection de 5 ou 6 morceaux de musique classique. J’ai joué et rejoué ce disque des heures entières, particulièrement le Boléro de Ravel, Le Prélude à l'après-midi d'un faune de Debussy et l’Ouverture 1812 de Tchaïkovski. La musique me remplissait d'une joie profonde, d'émerveillement et de gratitude que quelque chose d’aussi beau puisse exister et que je puisse l’écouter.

Une page de mon journal: le 9 janvier 2015

Hier, il faisait trop froid pour marcher dehors. J’ai donc fait ma demi-heure de marche dans le corridor sur mon étage. Voir les mêmes murs et les mêmes portes défilés une quarantaine de fois n’est pas ce qu’il y a de plus captivant. J’aime donc prendre mon IPhone et écouter de la musique en faisant cela. J’ai choisi un CD de musique chorale – Vivaldi, Bach et d’autres compositeurs classiques.

J’ai mis le volume très haut. La musique m’a aussitôt envahi. Elle était partout en moi, pas seulement dans mes oreilles et dans ma tête. Elle me donnait l’impression d’un grand vent tourbillonnant, un vent enjoué qui prenait plaisir à me soulever l’intérieur comme s’il était un cerf-volant. J’ai eu le sentiment que la musique ne venait pas du IPhone, mais qu’elle avait sa source au creux de moi. Comme si elle se créait en moi et que je puisais à la même source d’où Vivaldi et Bach l’avaient eux-mêmes puisée. Je sentais que j’étais co-créateur avec eux, mais que cela ne provenait pas chez moi d’un talent de musicien – je n’en ai pas du tout. La musique et le chant faisaient tout simplement jaillir au fond de moi la source même de toute créativité.

Little Green Antennas

Because I visit my brother in a long-term care residence, and because the government of Ontario has made these residences a priority in the vaccination program, I was offered the possibility of getting the Pfizer vaccine. I got the first dose last week. 

This morning, I went for yet another COVID-19 test and jokingly told the pharmacist who administered it, “I had no secondary effect except for those cute tiny green antennas growing in the back of my head.” His response was, “Don’t put that on social medias. The vaccination rate would go down by 10%!” It is, in fact, amazing to see how skittish and how polarized people are on the vaccination issue.

The pharmacist’s comment got me thinking: what could I write on social medias that would lower by 10% unbridled greed in our society, indifference to millions of people who live in poverty, the painfully slow pace of implementing effective climate change policies, the inhumane isolation of the sick and elderly, systematic racism and discrimination… You can help me complete the list here…

Des colorés !

Quelques extraits de mon journal:

le 14 janvier 2015

Je viens d’aller conduire Diane au travail. Il fait très froid : -22. Le soleil est magnifique et éblouissant. Les branches d’arbres sont givrées et saupoudrées d’une fine couche de neige. Avec la fumée qui monte des tuyaux d’échappement des voitures et des cheminées on dirait une illustration dans un livre de contes. Cela me réchauffe le cœur et fait monté en moi une joie qui est comme un miroir de ce paysage éclatant. C’est comme si quelque chose en moi se « reconnaissait » dans cette beauté.

le 17 janvier 2015

Un autre coucher de soleil merveilleux hier. Je l’avais dans les yeux quand je conduisais pour aller chercher Diane à son bureau. Il n’était toutefois pas aveuglant parce qu’il était un peu tamiser. Il semblait avoir été dessiné par un enfant avec un crayon de cire orange. Il ne faisait pas que me remplir les yeux, il se coulait en moi comme un liquide rafraîchissant et légèrement intoxiquant. Il m’enveloppait le cœur comme une caresse pleine de tendresse. Il avait un gout de joie et de bien-être. J’avais aussi le sentiment que ce soleil était entièrement nouveau, qu’il n’y avait jamais eu de soleil comme celui-là auparavant et qu’il existait seulement et entièrement dans les quelques minutes que je vivais à ce moment-là et nulle part ailleurs.

Gentle Restauration

To celebrate our 40th anniversary in 2012, Diane and I went to Europe, visited several countries, and took a Mediterranean cruise. One of the sites we visited during that trip was Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome where I saw Michelangelo’s Pietà. It was behind a thick fiberglass protective shield because, in 1972, a 33-year-old Australian geologist had attacked the sculpture with a hammer. The blows broke off one of Mary's hands and her face suffered extensive damage.

I recall reading that, after the incidence, a team of experts was brought in to restore the sculpture. They did not set to work right away. They spent the first weeks simply studying the Pietà. They wanted to be so immersed in the spirit behind the master's work that when they began the restoration process, they would do so with the mind of Michealangelo and not simply with their own.

All of us have, in some ways, been “hammered” once in a while by circumstances in our lives and all of us are in need of “restoration” or healing. There was much wisdom in the approach of the Pietà’s restorers. Any restoration of a work of art should be grounded in the spirit of the artist who has created it. In the same way, our restoration should also be grounded in the spirit of our creator who is a loving Father, full of tenderness and compassion.

“The Lord is gracious and full of compassion, slow to anger and great in mercy. The Lord is good to all, and His tender mercies are over all His works.” Psalm 145:8-9

I have to remind myself often to “be merciful as your Heavenly Father is merciful” or, to put that in plain words, “Be gentle with yourself!”

Snowfall

This is about a little incidence that I have already referred to in a previous posting in French. I thought my English-speaking friends would enjoy it as well.

Daniel was not yet 1 year old when the first snowstorm came at the beginning of December that Winter in Kelowna. I stood in the kitchen looking at a good layer of fluffy snow through the patio doors opening onto our porch. Everything in view was a dazzling white.

I heard the familiar footsteps of Daniel running into the kitchen. I use the term "running", but he really looked more like someone falling forward and taking quick steps to avoid landing flat on his nose. I waited with anticipation to see his reaction to the first snowfall of the year - in fact, the first snowfall that he could recall in his short life.

He stopped abruptly facing the patio doors and was very quiet for a few seconds staring intently at the scene. Daniel then said a single word in French: "dégât!" Dégât - "what a mess!" - was the word he invariably used when he inadvertently spilled milk when he was eating.

The snow was beautiful that morning, but millions of Canadian drivers would no doubt have agreed with his one-word evaluation of the situation.

Un coeur en gestation

La gestation d’une vie spirituelle, comme celle d’un enfant, prend du temps. Et comme il faut une mère pour porter l’enfant jusqu’à la naissance, il faut des mères et des pères pour faire éclore une vie spirituelle.

J’ai eu de nombreuses mères et de nombreux pères spirituels. L’un des pères spirituels qui m'a le plus aidé à grandir fut le père Yves Girard, un moine cistercien, jadis de l’Abbaye à Oka, maintenant à Saint-Jean-de-Matha. Je ne l’ai jamais rencontré en personne, mais ses livres ont été le pain qui ma nourri pendant des années.

Un autre de ces pères spirituels fut Alain Dumont. Alain a donné des ressourcements qui s’inspiraient des écrits du père Girard. J’ai pu bénéficier de plusieurs de ces ressourcements puisque, pendant des années, ils étaient offerts ici à Ottawa.

Alain ne peut plus donner de ressourcements à cause de sa santé. Il a toutefois commencé à offrir gratuitement les enregistrements des ressourcements offerts par le passé: https://alaindumont.ca/.

Je vous invite à puiser dans ce petit trésor de sagesse spirituelle.

Je vous offre aussi une seule petite citation d’un livre du père Girard :

« Un organisme est en santé non pas quand il a réussi à éliminer tous les microbes ambiants, mais quand son système immunitaire peut produire des anticorps pour combattre les microbes qui tentent de l’envahir.

De même, je suis vivant dans le Christ non pas nécessairement quand je réussis à bannir toute trace de péché dans ma vie, mais quand je permets à la grâce de se servir de mon péché comme d’un tremplin pour me jeter dans les bras de l’amour.

Je suis délivré de ma mort non en m’affranchissant de celle-ci, mais en acceptant que la vie m’envahisse. »

                     Yves Girard, Pour le seul bonheur de vivre, p.64

Le prince et la pierre précieuse

La coutume au début d'une nouvelle année est de se souhaiter la santé et le bonheur, mais nous avons aussi besoin de guérison après l'année qui vient de passer. Ma prière pour nous tous en cette nouvelle année est que l'amour du Seigneur coule en nos cœurs et guérisse toutes les blessures que la pandémie nous a fait subir.

Ce conte qui évoque cette guérison et est basé sur une histoire que j'ai lu dans un livre de Bernard Bro. J'aime beaucoup raconter cette histoire à ma façon. Je l'ai écrite en anglais et en français. La version française est ci-dessous. La version anglaise est ici : The Prince and the Precious Gem.

Un prince possédait une pierre précieuse d’une beauté incomparable. De toutes ses possessions, c’était celle qui lui donnait le plus de plaisir. Il la contemplait souvent avec joie et il était fier de la montrer à tous ceux qui lui rendaient visite.

Un jour, par accident, la pierre fut terriblement endommagée. Le prince fut complètement dévasté par la profonde égratignure qui défigurait maintenant son trésor. Il fit venir les plus grands bijoutier du royaume en espérant que l’un d’eux puisse réparer sa pierre précieuse. Pas un n’osait entreprendre la tâche. Ils insistaient que toute tentative de la réparer risquait de l’endommager d’avantage.  Le prince croyait qu’il avait à jamais perdu son plus précieux trésor.

Quelques semaines plus tard, on vint l’informer qu’un joaillier d’une contrée lointaine était de passage dans la région. On disait de lui qu’il était non seulement un grand maître dans son domaine, mais qu’il était aussi un homme d’une grande sagesse. Le prince le fit donc venir à son palais et lui demanda s’il pouvait faire quelque chose avec le bijou défiguré.

Le maître regarda longuement la pierre avant de répondre, « Oui, je le peux. Mais à une condition. »
« Si tu peux la réparer» dit le prince, « demande tout ce que tu voudras et je te l’accorderai. »
Le sage lui dit alors, « Il faut que vous me confiez votre trésor. Je partirai avec la pierre et te la retournerai dans trois jours. »

Le prince hésita. Même endommagé, la pierre était d’une grande valeur. Laisser le bijoutier la prendre était risqué de la perdre pour toujours. Il regarda la pierre qu’il tenait dans sa main, puis son regard croisa celui du maître. Le prince ouvrit alors lentement la main et lui remis la pierre précieuse. Le joaillier quitta le palais du prince.

Pendant les trois jours qui suivirent, le prince n’eut pas de nouvelles et ne savait pas s’il reverrait sa pierre précieuse.  Mais le matin du troisième jour, un serviteur vint lui annoncé l’arrivé du maître. Le prince s’empressa de se rendre dans la salle des audiences où le joaillier l’attendait. En entrant dans la salle, le prince le vit se tenant debout au centre de la pièce. Dans sa main, il tenait un objet recouvert d’un somptueux mouchoir de soie. Le prince s’approcha, s’arrêta devant lui et, sans mot dire, fixa de ses yeux le mouchoir de soie.

Lentement, le bijoutier souleva le mouchoir et le prince pu voir ce qui était sous le voile. La pierre précieuse était là. L’égratignure était là aussi, toujours aussi profondément gravée dans la pierre. Le maître ne l’avait pas enlevé, mais la pierre était cent fois plus belle qu’elle ne l’avait jamais été, car il avait sculpté sur la pierre une magnifique rose et l’égratignure en était devenue la tige.