What is spirit? What is faith? We see the proof of spirit in action, in real life. Part of it — a large part — is a kind of stubbornness. The ability to see past reason, to act on one’s hopes and not one’s fears. That is my understanding. It’s the legacy of faith and survival handed down to me by my grandfather, who helped me survive and live when all seemed hopeless.

I became aware of this spiritual legacy only a short time ago. I left Poland as a boy and was returning there as an eighteen year old young adult, for the first time. My memories of places, family and friends were vague, and I wondered what the reality would be like. As we were landing and the ‘fasten seat belts’ sign lit up, I had a feeling that something especially meaningful was about to happen. I was going to discover that where I came from, my roots. As the wheels touched down, I had goose bumps all over and had to make a special effort to relax.

Our family home in Poland was slightly different than the way I remembered. It seemed smaller somehow, shrunken. Maybe the impression was just an illusion; a child sees everything as big, and I wasn’t a child any more. In any case, meeting and getting to know my family and friends again was really exciting. To this day I cherish my wonderful memories of the trip: the beautiful white winter; my cousin’s wedding, the Christmas and New Year’s festivities. My visit also coincided with my grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary. It was at this great celebration that I learned of two great struggles that had changed my grandfather’s mind and his life. On this return journey to my homeland I received my grandpa’s spiritual legacy.

While preparations for the anniversary were going full speed ahead and the house was buzzing with the constant arrival and departure of family and friends, I sat in a chair next to my Grandfather’s bed. He was lying down, gathering his strength for what would be a lengthy — and somewhat taxing — party. I was just about to ask if he needed anything when suddenly he smiled at me with special warmth, and his eyes filled with joy. There was something so profound and loving in his expression that I was speechless. After few moments, he broke the silence and asked me a question that I could only answer with a question.

“What do you mean Grandpa?”

“Do you know that right after you were born, you almost died? Didn’t your parents tell you about how they rushed to the hospital just about a week after you returned home with your Mum?”

“No, not that I recall.” This was all so new to me, as my parents rarely spoke of my childhood. “I mean, I heard that I was sick, but I do not know what happened.” Grandfather proceeded to tell me how I had been saved.

“Hmm … yes, you were sick, you could hardly breathe. Your parents took you to a doctor, who immediately sent them to the hospital. I spoke to your Dad just hours later, and he sounded like you were already gone.”

“Was it really that bad?”

“At first I could not tell, but yes, the doctor who diagnosed you didn’t think that you would survive the night. You could hardly breathe. You were born with an enlargement of the thymus gland. It was almost twice the normal size and blocked your airway. You were in danger of suffocating to death from the moment of your birth.”

Grandpa continued; “In fact, the doctors didn’t want to let you come home in the first place. They hoped you would just get better as time passed. When you came back to the hospital there was little they could do; there wasn’t any known cure. They said that if you survived it would be a miracle. And that was only the beginning of your struggle.”

“But I did survive!” As I was saying this, I felt like I was screaming inside. I couldn’t believe how fragile I had been as an infant, and it disturbed me.

“Yes, it took nearly a month for you to stabilise and begin breathing on your own. But this was only the beginning of your struggle to live. When you finally came home from the hospital you needed constant attention and care. I remember your parents struggling to cope with the situation, trying to work, study and care for you all at the same time. Your grandmother and I offered to look after you, so your Dad brought you here after the hospital released you. Now that I think about it, this was a challenge that showed us the limits of our own abilities. About a year went by before our lives settled down and your health started to improve.”

I was a little overwhelmed by his words and all I could think to say was; “I wasn’t aware that it was so serious. I thought that I had some sort of a cold or flu.”

As I listened, it occurred to me that I had survived not because of medicine or science, but because of something else. The ‘something else’ was my family’s love and faith. I wondered if I could ever meet the challenge of returning this kind of love.

“When you first got here you were barely alive and I am not exaggerating that at all. Our biggest concern was that you refused to eat. Besides that, you had to be in a sitting position at all times, so that you didn’t choke. Your grandmother had to constantly invent new ways to keep you occupied, so you might eat something without realising what you were doing.”

“Inventing new ways of eating? … Why would anyone have to invent a way to make me eat?”

“Swallowing was incredibly painful for you and without coaxing, you would have starved to death. We had to distract you enough to feed you small amounts of food. The trick was to make you focus on something else long enough, so that you would forget the pain when you swallowed. Most breakfasts and dinners required this sort of distraction for you to eat anything at all. Your grandma would take you for a walk and feed you outside. At first, our neighbour’s dog did the trick. Then it was cars on the road, and so on. That’s what kept you alive. Your aunt Maria helped us whenever she could. During the day she would take you for a walk, and at night while she was studying late she kept an eye on you. Every so often she’d give you a bottle. Imagine a baby who refuses a bottle of milk! That was you. You’d suck on it a few times and then refuse to continue. That’s what it was like. And at night, you’d cry constantly unless we rocked you non-stop in your cradle.”

I couldn’t help but imagine the sheer physical tedium involved in caring for me. How could they cope with all that and still take care of their own needs, or live their own lives? Yet it’s difficult to ask questions that probe the depths, and all I could venture was; “Wow, how long did that go on for?”

“Longer than we liked, that’s for sure! I can’t remember exactly how long, but for months this was our daily routine. If only they had invented those electric cradles that rock on their own! Sometimes we’d fall asleep and stop rocking your cradle; then you’d remind us with a cry. We tried different gimmicks and tricks to keep you quiet, and the most effective way was to tie a bit of a twine to the cradle, so we could rock it while sitting or lying down. We’d hold that string and pull it for hours until our hands became sore. Then we’d tie the twine to our feet to relieve the pain in our arms. The next day we’d switch back to using our hands, and so on. At the end of it all we had to replace the floorboards from under your cradle, because the constant rocking had dug fairly deep grooves in them.”

I considered the sacrifice involved in all this. How had they managed to rest after a day’s work? Where did they get the strength to do this over and over again, with no assurance that I would ever recover? As I would eventually learn, grandpa had developed an inner strength by having gone through a great crisis and trial of his own. That strength as well as his faith and love, had kept him going throughout my illness.

I wondered how I would fare if I were faced with this kind of a test. Where would I get the strength and will to keep me going in this way? … How long would I last?

“As an infant,” Grandfather continued; “you couldn’t get any vaccinations because the doctors were afraid they might affect your thymus. Vaccinations might make it swell, cutting off your airway. Being unvaccinated, you caught almost every childhood illness imaginable and basically you were sick all the time. The tone of your skin was ashen and you got thinner. You were undernourished and anaemic because it was so hard for you to eat, and your bones were soft and fragile.”

It was a terrible image. Grandpa must have feared for my life every day. “It had to be so hard for you to care for me,” I said; “never knowing what the day would bring.”

“We always hoped for the best no matter how bad things seemed, or what down-in-the-mouth comments the neighbours made. It never occurred to us to give up and in spite of everything you started to develop. First you crawled and then eventually you started to walk. In the beginning you were pretty wobbly, but you did it. In fact, you helped us believe. When we saw you struggle to live and hold on, we marvelled at you and forgot our troubles.”

Granddad continued. “One day you woke up with blisters all over your legs. We took you to the doctor and she could not make any sense of it. But what shocked her weren’t the blisters. It was the fact that you were still there, still alive.”

“What happened after that? How did I finally get better?”

“If I were to tell you what made you better, you’ll laugh at me.”

At this point I couldn’t imagine anything that would make me laugh. And I was hardly expecting what followed, which was a folk-remedy that would strike some people as absurd.

“Tell me, I promise not to laugh.”

“Well, we had seen so many doctors without much success. In addition to your other problems, you had developed a deep, chronic cough that lasted for months. One day your grandmother went over to see her friend, Dr. Pyrzowska. She’d always go over there for advice or to get a second opinion about what the other doctors had advised. This time Dr. Pyrzowska made a suggestion for us to try. The idea was a little strange, but by now we were willing to try anything. To put it in a nutshell, the advice was this: we should have you breathe the fumes from fresh horse manure. Just imagine that!”

I couldn’t help smiling at this, and Grandpa noticed.

“Sure it sounded strange but we had nothing to lose, so we decided to give it a go. The first time we tried this treatment was uncomfortable for everybody, because to achieve the best results, we had to keep a close watch. We got the horse manure. It had dried a little, so we had to break it up into pieces to release the fumes. Then we held you in position so you could breathe the vapour, and the holding was a challenge in itself. We did this as often as we could. Amazingly after three weeks the cough ceased and your breathing dramatically improved.”

“After that there were other changes for the better. Your appetite improved, and not only that — you started sleeping through the night. One morning I woke up and your cradle wasn’t rocking. It didn’t seem right, you weren’t crying! But there you were, lying peacefully in your crib. I looked at your grandma. She had already noticed, and smiled at me through a tear. It was such a relief.”

“We had always known that this day would come. We never doubted it. We just did not expect it to be so sudden. From that moment we knew that everything was different, and we started to give you as much food as you could possibly handle. Your grandma began to make all kinds of treats just to encourage you to eat, to make sure you’d never stop again. And you didn’t.”

I remembered those treats. Even years later after I had completely recovered, Grandma kept making them during my summer visits. The memory of delicious food was a strange counterpoint to the talk of horse manure. “It’s just unbelievable that those fumes actually helped.” I said. “I’m amazed.” At that moment and ever since, I’ve considered if I owe my life to that strange treatment. In any case, it’s clear to me now that what really saved me was faith and love. When everything else fails, love says that there is still hope.

My grandfather’s thoughts turned from the unusual folk-remedy, to his faith. “You’re amazed? We were too, you have no idea! After some time, we learned that those fumes were saturated with traces of ammonia. That’s what probably did the trick. Whatever the reason, we knew that our quiet prayers had finally been answered, and every day we thanked God for strength, courage, your life and the recovery of your health. We had lived every day feeling deeply that there was nothing more important in our lives than caring for you. In the end we knew that our belief was justified.”

I looked at my Grandpa and tried to find the right words to express my gratitude, to control my emotion. A moment later I said; “I’m a little lost for words. But now I understand why I always felt so close to Grandma and you, as though you were my parents. I don’t know how to tell you … how grateful I am to have you in my life.” I was literally shedding a tear.

“You don’t have to say anything. It’s enough just to see you now, how you’ve grown up. You’re all that we wanted you to be and that is enough. Just be as happy about it, as we are.”

At that moment I understood some things about love. I had often asked myself, what is it? Where does it come from? I no longer had to ask. Love shows itself clearly when another is in need and someone gives up all his comforts and even his way of life to help that other person. True love knows no limits. It is above and superior to reason. It says ‘Yes’, when logic says ‘No’. And the sure proof that it is superior is shown in this: real love is always accompanied by happiness. At times it struggles, but when it is given freely and without reserve, it triumphs.

As if these thoughts weren’t enough, what came next in Grandfather’s story was even more incredible. For his faith and persistence hadn’t come out of nowhere. His character was the result of a long life and some incredible events that had happened long before I was even born.

“All this brings so many memories,” he continued. “It reminds me of the time when I was facing a crisis of my own shortly after I married your Grandma.”

“Can you remember your wedding day?” I asked.

“I’ll never forget our wedding day and that evening. It was during World War II. We were married in church on a Saturday afternoon, February 6^th, 1943. Later that evening the neighbours heard gunfire, and thought your grandmother and I were dead.” As it was almost 50 years to the day after his wedding, Grandfather digressed. “It was the Prelate Stefan Dobrzanski who said the vows. Did you know he’s still alive? He’s going to renew our wedding vows in a few days.”

“Is he the priest who used to visit us and bring all those lollies?” I spoke out of turn.

“Yes, he is. And this is how the gunfire happened. You know that by this time, our part of Poland had been conquered by the Germans. But people tried to live their lives anyway, so your grandmother and I married. After the wedding we were coming back home to celebrate this wonderful occasion. We were riding in a horse-drawn carriage, and behind us at the back of the carriage the musicians were playing and singing cheerful tunes. As we entered our yard we could see a vehicle full of German soldiers approaching in the distance. The musicians quickly stopped playing, got out, and fled through the windows at the back of the house. Your Grandmother’s father and I went inside and frantically tried to hide all the food that was prepared for the post-wedding feast.”

“You were afraid the German soldiers would take all the food?”

“We had no idea what they would do as anything was possible. And so much food might have looked suspicious to them. They would probably ask where it had come from, how we managed to get it, and so on. Better not to provoke them, especially as they were likely to be in bad humour.”

“Worse than usual?”

“Yeah. Just the day before, the occupying Germans had declared a national day of mourning. Their army had sustained heavy losses at Stalingrad and was being forced to withdraw all along the Russian front. It wasn’t their brightest hour and anything could have happened, so it was best to avoid provoking them in any way.”

“We had hid almost everything by the time they arrived. I went outside to talk to them and explained that I had just gotten married. This seemed to relax them a bit. Then to put a good face on everything, I invited them in to have some food and drink. They stayed for quite a while. After a little bit they wished us good luck on the occasion of the marriage, but wouldn’t let us sing, dance or celebrate in any way until after midnight.”

I asked; “Why was midnight so special?”

“Because that’s when the official period of mourning over Stalingrad ended. Well, midnight came and finally they said; ‘Go ahead now; you can have your celebration.’”

“How did the gunfire figure into it?”

“As the Germans were leaving, some of them fired their weapons into the air in a kind of mock-serious salute to our party! It was a sudden and unexpected move. We thought that they were about to shoot us all, but no one was killed. Minutes after they left our neighbours started to arrive, surprised that all was well. They thought that we had all been shot. When their surprise wore off, they congratulated us and stayed a while to celebrate.”

“It must have scared you terribly,” I interrupted. “I guess that during those times, you couldn’t know what to expect. You just wanted to have some fun and I suppose that many people were shot for less, or for nothing at all.”

“Back then anything was possible,” he added. “But not all the Germans were evil. In fact, they saved my life once.”

“Is that the crisis you mentioned before?”

“Not exactly. My own struggle with death came later, in 1950, but it did have its roots in the war. I got sick and almost died as the result of being captured — not by the Germans, but by the Russians. In a way my story was like yours: I had to fight for my life and did not know what to do. I had to decide whether to undergo an operation that would have left me permanently crippled. The medical doctors said that I had six months to live, that if I refused the operation I would surely die.”

“You didn’t die. And you’re not crippled!”

“Right. The experts were wrong. And having this experience, that’s why I never lost faith in your recovery when you were a baby. Deep down, we knew that having survived the first month against all odds, a day would come when you would get better. Like me, you are a fighter. Maybe today you don’t understand everything this means, but one day you will.”

“Grandpa, will you tell me about it? … I mean, about your crisis.”

“Sure, but first, could you make me some hot lemon tea? … My mouth is getting dry.”

“Yeah, I’ll be back in just a moment.”

As I walked into the kitchen my Grandmother was standing near the stove. I walked up to her and hugged her tightly, whispering into her ear; “Thank you Grandma.”

As she gently patted me on the back I heard her soft and loving voice. “It’s alright.”

I felt that she knew exactly what was on my mind.

Thought vs Belief

Reason vs Intuition

Right vs Wrong

Forgiveness vs Acceptance

When enough means just that, enough?

So, where does God fit into all this?

Making sense out of all this

A miraculous, true life story of a man guided by supreme faith

There are times in life when we stand at a crossroads, full of misgivings or even dread. We wonder; “What’s next?” and feel that our entire future, our fate, hangs in the balance.

At these times, when reason falters, we must learn to rely on our intuition. This is the story of a man who stood at such a crossroads, whose life really did hang in the balance. Facing possible death in war, but also in war’s aftermath, he was able to follow his own way, to overcome doubt and uncertainty by trusting his deepest feelings.

His — my grandfather’s — story, has guided me through my own hopeless times. It has enabled me to live with a power that is surer and more powerful than logic. I am convinced that any person who walks such a path will find the faith, courage and inspiration to transform the darkness into joyful living.