I heard the heartbreaking news that a four-year-old boy named Leonardo lost his life in an accident near Horseshoe Bay, here in West Vancouver. “Every time a bus was coming or a SkyTrain was showing close my father tells me: ‘Look Leo … look the bus … the bus” are the words of the boy, brought to life posthumously through his grieving father.
It seems that father and son shared a love for public transit — a simple joy, a bond — and it is one of life’s cruelest ironies that something so beloved can also become the source of such unthinkable tragedy.
In his grief, Leonardo’s father found a deeply moving way to express his sorrow: a letter, written in the voice of his son. You can read it in full here: GoFundMe – Leonardo’s celebration of love. Leonardo’s mother remains in critical condition, and the campaign is raising funds for her treatment.
It was this particular posthumous message from Leonardo that moved me to tears:
“First to help some of the pain if we can bring a flower to my friends that drove me around this beautiful city for almost 5 years! Ask their names and how they are doing! Buy them a coffee if you can because they are my heroes! If not a bus driver, maybe a stranger on the street who needs a nice smile or hello.”
In the face of grief, we often search for meaning — and by meaning, I mean a way to reconcile with what has happened, to soften the blow, to make peace with the unbearable. Some of us turn to God, or to anger. Others turn to the church, to the bottle, to silence, to literature, to poetry. Sometimes, through that grief, we birth art. Sometimes, we bring our loved ones back in voice, in memory, in gestures.
That is what this epistle is: a resurrection through love. And what’s most extraordinary is that it dares to humanize the very thing tied to the pain — the bus, and by extension, its driver. To do so in good faith, with tenderness, in the deepest folds of grief, is a gesture of immense spiritual strength. It’s something I admire beyond words.
Grief is the voice of separation.
It can be the distance between parents and a lost child, the breakup of lovers, the fading of friendships, or even the estrangement from our own dreams and hopes when life doesn’t go as planned.
To this Brazilian family, my heart goes out. And may the beauty of this letter outshine the darkness of this loss. Leonardo lives through this epistle, and through every flower offered, every smile given, every bus driver thanked.