The Collective

They say it takes a village, an army, to raise a child.

True.

I say it takes the navy seals. The green berets. The best of the best.

As we forge on, live our lives, walk through the mud, navigate the detours, conquer the barricades, I am forever reminded of something.

There’s strength in numbers, power in the collective.

When I say the collective I mean the many people who support Ronan and me. Those who band together and do little things that are big. Send gift cards for groceries. Take a walk with us on a tough day. Call on a lonely, rainy night. Send old pictures that make me smile. Get on planes to visit.

There’s my family, of course, who are there, walking through the mud, navigating the detours.  Every day, all day. The ultimate, supreme and unflinching source of power that keeps this train going.

Then there’s the others. The friends, the co-workers (and for me there is little difference these days). The ones who “like” a picture of Ronan working on walking, who make a funny and supportive comment on Facebook about his progress or his ever developing Irish charm.

I “like” it. It helps.

This is “The Collective.” The troops. Ronan’s troops. Our army.

Those who are, holding our hands, physically or virtually, in this battle.

Those that I celebrate, and appreciate, and am proud to share his victories, and his inability to see barricades, with.

I don’t know if there is there the equivalent of a purple heart for friendship, but, if there is, I am giving it to you all.

Take a bow. Thank you.