Many miss the greater truth of courage by thinking of it solely in terms of bravery.
Though bravery may be admirable, courage is far more than valor in the face of danger.
Courage and heroism are not exactly synonymous. Acts of heroism may or may not be indicative of true courage.
Heroism in the face of danger may be momentary burst of instinct not reflective of true character.
Some people are simply constitutionally impetuous. They are bolder than others by nature. Sometimes public heroes in war or athletics later live unproductive and even destructive lives.
Such people were never truly courageous. They are simply brave.
Imagine a live scenario presented below, where a young boy in crutches will be walking his way unassisted to the front steps of his school, with eyes fastened on him.
“I don’t want to do this.”
“I know.”
“Please let me stay home with you. Please. Mother. I’ll be good.”
She could see that his eyes were brimming with tears. Ten is such a tender age, not one at which a boy should have to deal with things like this. His lips trembled, and he clutched at her sleeve.
“It’s not a matter of being good. Sean. You’re always good. It’s about your life. How long can you stay with me? Don’t you know that I want you to? I’d love to keep you right beside me all day; every day. That would make me happy, but it would also make me selfish. No. Sean, you have to go back – back to school, back to life.”
“I’m afraid.” He was so small, so frail and so defenseless against a stupid, cruel world full of stupid, cruel children.
“I know.”
“Is it all right? To be afraid, I mean.”
“Yes. It’s all right.”
“I don’t want to do this.”
“That’s all right, too. It’s not in the wanting to or in the feeling brave. It’s in the doing it anyway.”
“Do you think they’ll laugh at me?”
She hesitated, wondering how much he could take from her. “Some will. Sean. Some will stare, others will ask idiotic questions, and some will try to help and be friendly and won’t know him.”
A sob, a sigh, really, a wet, lonely sigh, deep and full of pain, racked his thin frame. She longed to clutch him to her breast, to protect him from this terrible thing, to drive away and keep driving.
She clutched the steering wheel and fought to keep from screaming.
“Do you want me to help you get out?”
“No, they’re watching.”
“I’m proud of you.”
He didn’t answer but fumbled instead for the door handle. The car at the curb honked, and she struggled to suppress her rage.
What did they want her to do, push him out on his face?
The car door swung open, and Sean hoisted himself out, bracing for a moment on the metal crutches and then hefting his weight up onto the curb. With the left crutch he slammed the door and turned to face the knot of children on the school’s front steps.
For a moment they stared at each other across the uncrossable gulf of disparate experience – her little son remembering what it was like to have legs, and other people’s sons and daughters wondering what it is like not to.
At last, he started toward them, away from her, from the safety of her, swinging his prosthetic legs in syncopation with his crutches.
“I love you.” She whispered, knowing he could not hear. “I’m proud of you.”
Then the driver behind her honked again, and she shouted at the rearview mirror. “All right, all ready. I’m moving, I’m moving.”
Life itself, does not only demand bravery from us, for a single act of heroism, but enough courage to break the status quo.
Selah!
