There is a little church at the tippy top of a barren hill, overlooking the sea, all by itself, lit up at night, it’s called the Madonna della Guardia. Going to that church seems like a cool thing to do, a worthwhile endeavor, a destination. I have seen the sign for it in the town, I know where to go. We take off in the car, drive up a curvy road among houses and buildings, but not for long. Soon the houses end and the road ends, with a little place to leave the car. We are nowhere near the church, and from here on, it’s going to be on foot on a dirt road.
George sees the barren road in the beating sun, processes the situation immediately, and starts to register complaints with the management. I try to be positive and to encourage him on. He is not open to positive encouragement, but we start off. I can’t see the church from the road—fairly flat though we are going to have to gain altitude—which winds around the mountain. I give myself some positive encouragement and I find myself receptive.
This section of mountain was damaged by fire, an incendio, which sounds like a much more apocalyptic event, that’s why it’s so barren. But the mountain is slowly springing back to new plant life. It’s lovely to see up close, nature doing its thing. There’s a certain purity to walking in open space instead of the woods. The view, even just a short way up, is beautiful: the sea, the coast, all the way to Savona.
George becomes more insistent in his complaints, resorting now to tears. He is crying.
When he was little and something horrible happened to him, such as a shoelace untied, or a missing toy, he would wonder aloud, “I’m a great boy, why this keeps happening to me?” He was little but he had a profound sense of cosmic justice. He was a great boy, not just a good boy—a delightful self-assessment—how could life treat him so poorly? Shouldn’t there be a connection? If you did everything right, shouldn’t you be rewarded?
While he no longer expresses himself in precisely these words, he’s thinking right now, how could he be dealt such a blow of unfairness? How could he possibly deserve this? I find it hard to watch him cry, but I want to keep going.
Occasionally, but only very occasionally, we encounter someone coming down the hill, and we proceed. We shoot for a curve in the road, and I’m hoping that beyond that we’ll be close, but it doesn’t look that way, no. We ask a group of descending pilgrims if we’re close, and they look at each other wondering if we're for real, and then say that we’re not, no. So we turn around and walk down. Still a beautiful walk even if we didn’t get to our destination. For a short while there, we were on top of the world.
I will use this church in the future every time George misbehaves or doesn’t eat the food that’s put in front of him. I will point in the direction of the church and say, “La chiesetta!” And he will say, “No, mamma, no,” but he will laugh. Laugh, little boy, laugh, we will still get up there someday.
