It is March in Finland.
I’m at work, in a meeting. My ten-year-old son is calling. It’s after school, and he should be at home, alone, probably bored. Or hungry. I hesitate for a moment, then decide to step out of the meeting and take the call.
“Mom, I’m a little bit wet.”
“Why? What happened? What do you mean you're wet?”
“Well, I went to the lake on our bikes with the boys. And I got a little wet.”
The lake is frozen. Almost.
It’s been sunny the past few days, and the ice is starting to thin near the shore, but the temperature is still mostly below zero. I’m not worried. Not yet.
“How wet is a little bit wet? What exactly did you do?”
“Well... I went into the lake. Just a little. I’m kind of wet and cold. And I don’t know what to do.”
Antti, one of his best friends, is with him. Antti’s house is just a few minutes’ walk from the lake.
“Go to Antti’s house. I’ll call his mom. I’ll be there soon.”
When Antti’s mom opens the door half an hour later, the look in her eyes tells me everything.
Something is very wrong.
She says, “He’s okay. He’s okay. Don’t be scared.”
Then I see him, standing by the fireplace, no clothes, wrapped in a blanket. His hair is wet.
Not a little bit wet.
He is soaked.
He had walked across the lake. The ice broke beneath him, and he fell in fully submerged. The other boys, either brave or unaware of the danger, crawled to the hole and pulled him out.
The avalanche of emotions is impossible to describe:
Gratitude. Terror. Anger. Relief. Horror. Joy. And gratitude again.
I can’t speak.
He looks afraid, not because of what happened, but because of me.
Because of what I might say. How I might react.
I hug him. I kiss him.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters. Let’s go home.”
Later that night, after we’ve both had time to recover, I finally ask,
“Do you understand how dangerous this was? Haven’t we talked about frozen lakes?”
He looks straight at me and says,
“I’m sorry, Mom. But… can you please make me a list of everything in the world that’s dangerous?”
I want to.
I want to make that list. I want to hand it to him, laminate it, post it on the fridge and make sure he never goes near danger again. Ever.
But in that moment, I realize, horrified, that the idea we can protect the people we love, keep them safe at all times, is just something we tell ourselves. A comforting illusion.
The truth is: we don’t have control.
Lists aren’t the answer.
Angels are.
Sanda / www.sandaberar.com
