Fear

Fear is insidious. It is a deceptive emotion that while subtle and crafty menaces your entire well being.

It is an emotion that threatened to ruin my childhood despite the constant reassurance of my beloved Father, “Don’t be afraid.”

I have no idea where or when the crippling sensation began, but I know it became my companion at a very early age and survived throughout most of my childhood.

As I grew older and the academic curriculum led into the early crusades of the Medieval Church, I was haunted by the fear of being forced into the infamous Children’s Crusade.  My Father patiently led me out of that abyss by pointing out logically that it had been centuries since any children had been recruited for such a fruitless endeavor, but more importantly, there was no history of a crusade of any kind ever being formed on West 58th Street in New York City.

As my education progressed into the history of the early Church with the martyrs and numerous saints, another avenue of fear emerged, I zeroed in on the perils of being buried alive.  Once again, my all patient Father pointed out the well paved sidewalks lining both the east and west sides of 58th Street virtually eliminated any such event.

Often, I think back and marvel at his incredible patience.  But then, there came a time, when I was astute enough not to bother him with my nonsensical imagination and recruited my younger sister to share my anxieties.

Fortunately for me, Ellen, although several years younger, was born with the wisdom of an old soul, and refused to share my apprehensions.  I still recall after reading about Father Damian’s Leper Colony suggesting to her that it might be where we would be sent, and her totally pragmatic reaction.  Her vocabulary was succinct, and immediately brought me into reality.  “He’s in Hawaii; we don’t even go to the Bronx.”

And eventually as all things do with much love, patience, and some maturity, most of the qualms about unrealistic terrors subsided.

Now, as I write this, I realize that of the three major sorrows in my life that brought me to my emotional knees, none were anything I ever anticipated or dreaded.  They were rather bolts of lightning threatening an otherwise tranquil existence.

Often, as I look across the street on these wonderful summer days and watch the amazing children going down into the woods with their parents, I feel reassured that we have progressed to a better place.  Children are rightfully insulated from unnecessary trepidations.  They wear not only physical armor (helmets, knee pads) that prevent fears of stumbling on the uneven trail, but society has progressed in other ways.

There are codes that suggest parental guidance in films, TV programs and reading material.  Youngsters are permitted to walk slowly throughout their early years without unknown terrors or phobias.

Or so I thought until this week, when reality hit with the picture that was on the front page of both New York newspapers, along with constant TV coverage.  Perhaps rightfully so.  I am not quite certain.

Every child I know has, if not their own electronic device, certainly access to cable television. 
I doubt if any of them missed the horror of Wednesday’s news.  It was a scene far worse than the imaginary trepidations of my earliest years.

There are several questions that I cannot answer;  both beyond my scope of wisdom.  One is the morality of publishing such a heinous act.  And the second is, if the idealistic view I once held that innocence can be prolonged despite the reality of horrors, is still valid.  I have no answer.

I only know that any child who saw the heroic young American as he stood waiting for his life to end will be haunted for many moons to come.

And reluctantly, I realize our world is not y