My hands were purple as I recall, with splotches of white and red. They were pressed together very hard in the prayer position. My neck ached horribly, because my chin was so deeply embedded in my chest; lost in solemn prayer. All my adult life I had nothing to do with God and now I was asking him to emerge from the woods and save my boy.

I was raised Catholic, yet I was the Teflon disciple. Nothing with God’s name or ideology stuck with me. My mother prayed and sinned, sinned and prayed and I stood idly by, remembering it as all a bunch of hocus pocus. At eight years old God scared me, at twelve I lost him and at fourteen I was debating with nuns and priests at my Catholic high school. It was not soon after one of those debates I was asked to leave school and not return. And there it was, a cultivated, devout disbelief.

In young adulthood God was about as relevant as prohibition and sexual abstinence. I paid him no mind and I guess I was left to believe he felt the same way about me. I didn’t have religious friends, my religious grandparents had passed on and my mother had given up on me in regard to religion and spirituality. I was left to my own devices, with only alcohol, women and sub par study habits to hold my attention. God continued to remain on the furthest outskirts of my life; a ghost in a desert unseen by a twenty something kid from the city.

At twenty-six I met a woman in a bar who would later become my wife. Supposedly God attended the ceremony of our marriage, because it was held in a Catholic church, but I did not see him there. The giant crucifix at the end of the aisle hung as more of an antiquated symbol to me than anything else. A fella who believed and lost. A son who had faith and got burned. But those were three second daydreams as I concentrated on the unusual prospect of sharing my life with somebody else and sharing the responsibilities of the everyday with that person.

Three days before my twenty-eighth birthday my wife and I had a son. I remember taking control of the naming rights, because I felt I knew him even before he was born. I named him Dawson after a ballplayer I had admired as a boy and the name failed to disappoint. The moment the nurse put him in my arms I knew the name fit. He was strong and tough from the onset and he had the famous hitter’s trademark scowl. The bond was instantaneous and powerful. If God looked on, he did so anonymously and quietly. At the time I didn’t consider the possibility, choosing instead to gaze upon my miracle. My miracle with the big blue eyes.

The days, weeks, months and years passed very quickly for Dawson and me, as people often say they do. Time is so very menacing that way. I became a responsible man without even realizing it. I saw my college buddies less and less and my office desk more and more. I was down to four beers a week and I had quit smoking cigarettes. I gained a couple pounds, but nobody is perfect. The bottom line is I was becoming a father, somebody my boy could one day look up to and I was proud of that. Then came a fork in the road.

My wife, the woman I married in a church of God, the woman who promised to love, honor and obey, came to me one week before my son was to begin second grade with a secret she could keep no longer. She was having an affair with another man. She was sleeping with another man. She was enjoying the company of another man. She was in love with another man. And the missiles launched in my brain. And the firestorm of hateful blood rushed from my heart through my neck to my four alarm face. My fists were rocks and my eyes were knives and my fury was exploding glass. Yet I said nothing. I did nothing. I just stood there hating and hating. That time that so recently ran past my window, through my neighborhood, around the world and back again to my front door a year later had now decided to stand still. It was then that I collected my memories like a season ending scrapbook. The skinned knee on Uncle Mike’s driveway. My first base hit in little league. My father coming home from the hospital after he’d lost a finger in an industrial accident at the mill. My best friend Chad moving to Florida. My first kiss. My first beer. My first love. The affair with my college sociology teacher. A car crash against a light pole in Chicago. My first trip to New York City. Meeting my soon to be ex-wife in a bar. Holding Dawson in my arms…

The obligatory court battle ensued and abruptly ended with a conversation. I remember it like some people remember the Star Spangled Banner or the Ten Commandments; timeless, set in stone, verbatim.

Wife: "I can’t go on like this. It isn’t good for Dawson."

Me: "I agree. Let him stay with me and you can see him whenever you’d like."

Wife: "l love him."

Me: "Then let him stay with me. It’s what’s best."

Wife: "This is so hard."

With that, she cried and ran from the courthouse. She had already alerted her lawyer of her decision and the finalities were arranged. I remember her running down the stairs of the courthouse as if it were in slow motion. It was very dramatic, almost choreographed. My ex wife exited my life like she had entered it. A relatively confused anonymous stranger. I wished her a silent farewell and felt a cold chill run up my back.

With that, Dawson and me commenced a life as partners. Almost equals, working together, reading together, watching baseball together. We shared ideas and hopes and dreams. I lost my temper from time to time and he cried for his mother who wasn’t there. We were at odds, we fought, we yelled and on rare occasions things were thrown in the kitchen and living room. We hugged and ate and philosophized. We agonized over mounting losses by our favorite team and we celebrated minor victories. We bought a hamster and named him Ivan. We talked about school and girls and the future. When my mother died, we were the last two people to leave the cemetery. I remember Dawson holding my hand as the casket was lowered. I remember no religious reassurances from God or his son.

As an eighteen-year-old young man, my son began to rebel like I am told many young men do. I cannot verify this, as I have only one son; there is but one young man that I worry about and take responsibility for and his name is Dawson. His hair grew longer, his attention to my words grew shorter and his friends began to change. His responses to my inquiries became terse and he seemed to drift in and out of our home; inconsistent and distracted. At first I responded with an iron fist and threats of discipline, but that was not a wise course. Dawson just isolated more after that and I resorted to fear, my fear in his ears.

Dawson: "I’m ok Dad, I’m just struggling right now a little."

Me: "I’m worried about you son, very worried. Please tell me what’s wrong, I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep kid and I’m distracted at work. I need to know, I can help, please don’t make me worry, please, this isn’t healthy for either one of us. Talk to me. Talk to me damn it, please."

Dawson: "I’m ok I said. I just have to sort some stuff out. Don’t worry Dad."

Me: "I am worried. Why are you doing this? Have you talked to your mother? Is someone threatening you? I said have you talked to your mother? Are you using drugs? Talk to me damn it, please talk to me."

Dawson: "I’ll be ok."

Soon he was a ghost. Never around, leaving me to speculating nightmares. My boy was now an apparently tortured young man and I hadn’t an idea of what to do, how to react. I sought advice that didn’t satisfy me and the shoulders of friends to cry on and soon my greatest fears were realized. I was losing my baby to drugs and alcohol. He had lost his way on my watch, I would find out later and I was powerless to stop it.

The call came at 1:38am according to the digital clock on the nightstand next to my bed. I jumped at the first ring and sometimes I can still hear it. That ring said more than I could possibly explain. I knew what awaited me on the other side of that line and I didn’t want to be anywhere near that damn telephone. It rang a second time and I began to shake and at the third ring I wanted to be an eight year old boy in the backseat of his father’s car on the way to a little league game. Ice cream, base hits and not a real care in the world. The fourth ring and my conscience was screaming "Why!" and my brain was screaming "I was a boy once!" and my heart was screaming "Not Dawson, Not Dawson!"

I gripped the receiver with great authority and resolve and soon fell apart. I don’t know how many moments passed before I composed myself. I was semi conscious, constantly touching things to reassure me I was awake. I may have pinched myself. I blinked a thousand times. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, an old man staring back at me. I remember these words before I dressed.

Me: "Will he make it?"

I obeyed the speed limits on the way to the hospital. I was very deliberate with turns and stops. My hands were at ten and two on the steering wheel. I chewed my bottom lip raw and I breathed through my nose and out of my mouth. I held my five minute old baby in my arms. I brushed his strands of brown hair back and forth on his forehead. I took his little red cheek in my palm and I held it there forever. I found his eyes and I saw his recognition. I took his hand in mine and felt the scintillating shock of devotion. I put him on my shoulder and gave him his first bounce. And I told him, I’m sure I told him that he would be ok with me. That I would never let him down. And I’m sure he trusted me. I’m sure I saw trust in those eyes.

One mile from the hospital it occurred to me that my son could be dead. That I could run to his room at the speed of light, I could shake the breath of a thousand lives into his soul with my strong hands, I could remove my heart and place it in his chest and it wouldn’t be enough. This couldn’t be so, the baby I had held just moments ago, dead; an eighteen year old boy, my son. Time had stolen from me, as it always had, I thought. Where was this God, my mother’s God, the God of my first communion, the God of my high school years, the God that presided over my marriage, where was he?

The doctor was six foot, two inches tall. He weighed 183 pounds. He had salt and pepper hair parted to the left, black horn rimmed glasses and impeccably pressed tan pants. His name was Musab and he was of Middle Eastern descent. He smelled of smart cologne. He enunciated meticulously, every word with a purpose. His mannerisms were exaggerated and his detachment was palpable. He said my son’s name, Dawson, three times. He told me Dawson had a chance.

Me: "A chance?"

Doctor: "Yes sir. Dawson has a chance to survive. Only time will tell at this point."

Again, time. The doctor opened the door to my son’s room and I walked in. The injuries were mostly internal from the car accident he was in. He had hit a light pole with his car, just like his old man had a lifetime before. There was internal bleeding and he was comatose. The nurses smiled ambiguously. Dawson’s mother cried and cried and I told her she wasn’t doing any good. I told her to go home and rest. I told her he would be ok. She asked me how I knew and I said I didn’t, I didn’t really know. I saw her leave and as she entered the elevator I called out to her, but my mouth produced no sound. I called again as the elevator doors closed and a janitor walked by. I closed my eyes and opened them and there was my boy, seven years old, standing in front of me, beaming.

Dawson: "I love you Dad."

Me: "Ya, why is that son?"

Dawson: "Because I just do. That’s how I feel inside."

I took my son’s hand and all of a sudden I was a boy myself. Younger than Dawson’s eighteen years, I was a child, a scared, confused child. I searched for something in Dawson’s face and nothing appeared. I was lost and the trees were ominous and the monsters were everywhere and my mind spun round and round for answers and heroes and safety. I was drowning in doubt and fear and I ran in circles looking for my own father. Save me, I thought, save me, how hard can that be? Rescue me from these woods, from these black trees and take me in your arms and you don’t have to say a thing, I’ll know. Father please.

I clasped my hands and the prayer came pouring out like water from a faucet, streaming. I pleaded and begged and demanded. I stood up and screamed at the sky through the ceiling. I walked back and forth in the hospital room ranting and cursing and apologizing. I said mean things to illicit a response. I asked why a thousand times.

Me: "Why are you doing this to me? Are you there? Talk to me please!!"

God: [Nothing]

Me: "This is my boy. Didn’t you bring him to me? I ignored you and this is how you treat me? You, this great, caring God I’ve heard so much about. This thing that saves lives, creates lives, makes life, what are you doing? Where are you, my God, I don’t understand any of this. I’m here and I’m pleading and I’m supposed to believe you’ll intervene. Do something. For my son. For my son."

God: [Nothing]

I clasped my hands and prayed again. And again. Time passed and I prayed again. Day turned to night and night to day. My pants sagged and my head ached and my eyes remained in a constant squint. I grew a beard and I didn’t smell good and I sent Dawson’s mother away crying time and time again. I alternated between myself as a young boy searching for his own father and the father I am today. I cried. I prayed. I sought God. I prayed some more.

It was five thirty exactly on the black and white wall clock above my son’s bed. The pinky of his right hand moved, the hand I had grasped eighteen years before. The hand that changed the course of my life. The pinky on that little baby’s hand moved eighteen years later in a hospital room reeking of tears, remorse and discarded prayers. I jumped at first, but the calm came a moment later. Twenty-six minutes later my boy’s blue eyes would open and I knew. He would be ok. We’d made this eye contact before. I knew what to believe.

I talked to the doctor and the news was good. He wanted to take a moment alone with my son. My son’s mother collapsed in an orange plastic waiting room chair and let out a loud sigh. I handed her a cup of coffee and I placed my hand on her shoulder for a moment. I let the moment soak in and she did as well. Then I let her go.

I walked down the stairs of the hospital and outside the front doors. I stood there for a few moments and let the cold air and the bright sunshine hit me. I looked around at people going back and forth. I stared at the sun. I stared at the sun and fell to my knees and I clasped my hands together tightly. I let out the rest of my tears.

And somewhere in Rome, an elderly Italian woman prays over an ancient rosary and the electricity of her belief is entangled in my brain.