The toughest year

WESTPUNT, Curaçao — The past year has been without a doubt the toughest I have ever encountered.

It’s made me realize there are no answers to what seemingly should be simple questions. The one question I’ve asked myself every day over the past year is why does an eight-day-old have to die?

No one can answer it. Not the doctors who allege to know everything. Not the spiritual advisors who claim to be in touch with a higher power. Certainly not politicians who would tell you they have the answer to every single problem facing us today and the solutions to protect us from all the ills imaginable.

Most people over the past year have been great. Some have not been, but their actions are a reflection on them, not me. Ruth and I have made new friends, rekindled old friendships and strengthened existing ones.

We’ve been a lot of places over the past 365 days. I would trade them all in without a second thought or a moment of hesitation to bring back my son.

I’ve also realized many of the “great pieces of advice” people give you are pointless, unhelpful and do nothing but deflect the conversation. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. You have to find a way to keep on going. There is a reason for everything. Blah blah blah…

Anyone who has read Ecclesiastes or listened to Pete Seeger’s “Turn! Turn! Turn!” knows there is indeed a time to be born and a time to die. It’s one thing if somebody dies early in life. That’s a tragedy. But eight days on this planet is nowhere near time enough for it to be somebody’s time.

I’m standing on the north coast of Curaçao as these thoughts enter my mind. To me, it is among the most beautiful places on earth. It’s a place to reflect. The perfect place to ponder. It’s a place to think about all that could have been and all that never was.

I think there’s an answer in a place like Curaçao. If you could listen to some of the first European visitors to this island, they would tell you it is useless. It is not a place to grow crops. Nothing good can come from it.

Since those first European visitors, people from diverse backgrounds, some by choice, others by force, have carved out an incredible culture. It’s friendly. It’s warm. It is inviting.

At breakfast this morning, the barista told us we were half Curaçaoan. It may have been the most beautiful thing somebody could have said to us today.

Standing on the North Coast of Curaçao and watching the water batter the rocks along the coast, it is undoubtedly an inhospitable place. But, beauty comes and all shapes and sizes and all landscapes. The Spanish tried to grow Valencia oranges here. They failed. Instead, they successfully grew an inedible fruit. It has a new use: making Curaçao liqueur.

Maybe that’s the real lesson in life: When a place gives you bad oranges, make something useful.

That is my vow to my son: Turn this tragedy into something powerful to help others.

More on that vow soon.