It was a late afternoon when frantic parishioners were clamouring at the front door of the rectory. There had been an automobile accident just three blocks from the church. By the time I approached the location, a large crowd of people had already encircled the scene of the accident. Still a half block away, I couldn’t help but sense an eerie silence pervading the air. The scene had none of the usual circus atmosphere that characterizes spectator curiosity in face of such circumstances, with the din and shoving movements of people positioning themselves for a better look.

Upon arriving at the site I could see that although two demolished cars dominated the centre of the circled crowd at the intersection, all attention was riveted upon a woman holding a limp child tightly in her arms. She was moving about the inner circle of people stooping quickly here and there to pick up what looked like pieces of debris resulting from the fierce impact of the two cars. No one had the courage to intrude upon her business. A holy awe and respectful reverence pervaded the scene.

As it turned out, the woman was grasping the body of her dead son close to her bosom. She was stooping to pick up pieces of his head that had been scattered in the street from the furious impact of his body upon the pavement. In a desperate attempt to restore his life she was trying to put pieces of his head back together again. What else could a mother do? She had no time to think. The reactive panic of losing her only son compelled her to do this act of madness. Who could interfere?