To Sing Frogs Chapter 45d

Amy wanted us together one more time for photos with the amazing Andalusian sunset. Individual and group pictures were taken again and again until long after the sun had set below the horizon.

Sensing the gravity of emotions that was coming to bear, the girls scurried away from our somber group. They cheerfully abandoned the opportunity to lament their immanent separation. Instead, they lunged at the chance to live last seconds to their fullest. They ran and chased and tagged each other while the international language of little girl screams and squeals echoed off the pure white walls of the romantic villa.

José Manuel and I were both inclined to follow the girls’ examples in avoiding deep and complex emotions. Eventually we squared our shoulders and faced our fears.

“I’m sorry I didn’t buy you a gift,” Mike translated for José-Manuel. “I couldn’t find anything perfect enough. I will keep looking, though. I’ll find the right gift. I’ll send it to you.”

“You have already given me the perfect gift. Nothing could compare to the time our families have spent together. Thank you.”

“Yes, but I will get you something else, too.”

“There is only one more thing I want.”

“Anything.”

I told my dear Spanish friend that if I could ask for one thing more it would be for him to be my brother. José Manuel bit his lip and responded only with a nod, afraid of what might accompany words. I responded in kind with the same fear.

Insurmountable odds lay in jagged ruins. Three little girls had their families. Despite the fact that the locations of their homes had divided the world into thirds, their friendships remained intact.

Maybe my application of Occam’s razor has been incorrect. I have looked to science and numbers for the simplest forms of ever increasingly complicated explanations.

I have learned wisdom from a patient wife and three little girls from an atheist country, who believed in prayer even in the face of ridicule.

Perhaps the least complicated answer to time-tried questions involves only the immeasurable love of an all-powerful God for His children. It’s likely Friar William of Ockham was right when he provided for the postulation that the simplest explanation is probably the correct one.

Maybe it’s Amy who is correct when she throws everything else out and boils her borrowed theory down to its bare bones; God works in mysterious ways. It works for her. It works for Sarah and for Marina and for Julia. It works for millions of other believers too.

It’s not enough for me. A few orphans beat fate, carried out of the rapids by their new parents. Most go over the waterfall. There is so much bad in the world. Why? Some people think I’ll rot in hell for questioning. I hope they’re wrong. I hope God’s parenting skills go beyond those of mothers and fathers who can be found screaming in Walmart aisles. I would prefer a final judgment without a Supreme Being screeching out: “Because I said so, that’s why! Now go to hell!” I like to imagine that the perfect parent is tolerant of His children who like to learn by asking questions.

The appropriate time for pondering on that night of separation had past. The only thing left for me to do—in that fragile, finite microcosm—was to feel.

Three families from around the world stood in a circle close together. With our arms around each other—our heads bowed and touching—salty tears fell in streams and mingled with the pure wet dew settled on cool green grass. Stars appeared one by one in a rapidly darkening indigo sky as night continued its unstoppable advance.

And the frogs began to sing.

 

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