We all have
heroes; people who spoke up for what is right and true, even when their voices
were shaking (apologies to Maggie Kuhn) or who overcame seemingly
insurmountable odds to accomplish great things. We need these role-models to
inspire us to rise above our small and selfish selves but here's the rub: often
the very heroic nature of their achievements makes us feel small and selfish,
shrinking from self-sacrifice and unfit for daring deeds. Or is that just me?
The thing
is, if bravery is defined as being afraid
but doing it anyway, courage cannot be quantified in absolute terms - after
all, something that scares me skinny might merely make you laugh lightly. I am
fearless in the face of giant cockroaches which, I am told, can make grown men
bleat like baa-lambs but I quiver like the proverbial aspen at the sight of
snakes of any size or form (including the rubber variety!) And this being so,
it follows that it is within reach of each of us to be a hero, albeit unsung in
the halls of fame.
Let me tell
you about one of my heroes...
Today, my
not-quite-four-year-old grandson started at a new school. Now new schools are
pretty daunting places for everyone, be they child or teacher, but for Sammy,
who finds life in general a perilous enterprise and change particularly
difficult, this was a real red letter day.
To begin
with, he was required to wear a uniform for the first time, instead of
selecting a 'safe' shirt with a wheeled vehicle emblazoned on its front like a
shield. He had to endure having regulation brown sandals strapped to his feet,
when wearing shoes of any kind bothers him. And he had to shoulder a large
school satchel all the way to his strange, new classroom (where a strange, new
teacher and strange, new children awaited him), even though the webbing rubbed
red marks on the sensitive skin around his neck.
'And so?' I
hear you scoff. 'Don't all children have to do this?'
Allow me to
add a little context to my tale.
A few
evenings ago, a small head popped around our lounge door and a piping voice
announced proudly: 'Come and see a boy eat toast.' The spouse and I rose as one
and followed him down the passage to his bedroom where we applauded
enthusiastically as he ceremoniously consumed, piece by tiny piece,
three-quarters of a slice of toast, lavishly smeared with Steers' barbecue
sauce. It had taken almost seven weeks of balking, gagging, and painful perseverance
to overcome his very real fear of eating that toast and his pride in his
achievement was well-deserved. Being brave doesn't mean that you succeed the
first, or even every, time. Being brave means you keep getting up each time you
fall.
Like
millions of other children, Sammy survived his first day at his new school -
slightly tear-stained but intact. But the price he paid in courage makes him a
hero in my eyes.
As I witness
Sammy's daily struggle to do life in what is for him, at best, a bewildering
world, I would be ashamed not to emulate his courage and dig deep to find my
brave and face my fears.
And one day,
if I keep trying, I might be a hero like him.
Bravo,
Samwise the Brave.
