The hot sun beat on the back of my neck as I held his hand. Sweaty from head to toe, the July heat approached 95 degrees. My long wet pony tail tickled the back of my neck as we swung arms back and forth. It was a rare opportunity to spend a Sunday afternoon with my six year old son. He begged me to take him to the small carnival located in the city park.
“Honey, carnivals are full of germs,” I explained earlier that morning. The last place I wanted to take my sick son. As we neared the carnival I tightened my grip on his hand. My heart panged still aching from the loss of my husband six months ago.
“Mama, look!” yelled my son. “It’s a bungee jumper just for kids. Please can I go on it?” he asked. My heart pounded as I looked at the make-shift attraction. It wasn’t the cords or the rusty metal contraption that pulled the children up and squeaked on the way down that scared me. It was my son’s weak heart that sent chills down my spine.
“Looks dangerous,” I said, clearly not wanting him to embark on a ride that would surely make his blood pressure rise. I slowly walked my son to the ticket booth to investigate.
“How old do you have to be to use the bungee?” I asked the scraggly haired teenage girl at the window.
“Old enough to walk,” she said sarcastically unaware of my fear as a mother. I sighed and looked at my son. His sad eyes plead.
“I’m not sure about this,” I told him now pulling my arm in desperation. Tears began to well in his big brown eyes. It was difficult to think that this may be his last carnival. ’Let go,’ I thought. ‘Let go and let him live.’ I smiled at him and paid the young lady.
Moments seemed to take hours before my young man decided it was his turn. My stomach churned and I felt vomit slowly moving its way up my throat. ‘No,’ I thought to myself. Still holding onto his hand, we approached the front of the line. Tears now formed in my eyes as I wouldn’t let go of his small hand.
A middle age man, whose difficult life was written over his face, looked at the two of us and held out his hand to my small son. He was tall with sun bleached greasy hair and very thin. He was unshaven and unattractive with crooked yellow teeth.
I didn’t let go of his hand. How could I possibly take this risk and leave my son in the hands of a carnie? The tall man looked directly at me. His brown eyes pierced through me as he stared into my soul. He knew my pain. My heart beat and I could feel every breath now.
“Let him live,” said the carnival man with a small wise smile. “Let him live.” There was something familiar in those brown eyes; in that smile.
I immediately let go of my sick child’s hand and guided him to the strange man. Holding his hand now, the man led my son to the nearest bungee and strapped him tightly. “Go, little man,” he whispered to him. “Fly like an angel.”
As I watched my young bird, jump, twist and turn, a deep calm set in me. A calm I’d not felt in years. The carnival man gazed at me the entire time my beautiful son soared through the air. Tears now streaming down my face, I stared back. The strange carnival man had freed me. For five minutes I had no fear. I watched my son sail through the air like an angel. He was on God’s wings for those few moments.
He was unstrapped, lifted to the ground and ran towards me. We hugged tightly as my young man said quietly, “I was in the arms of Daddy.”
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