Paul Acampora ‘85

I used to be one of those writers who enjoyed working at coffee shop counters and diner booths. The regular hum and hubbub of daily specials, clanking silverware, and waitresses who called me “Honey” created a welcome white noise that helped me to ignore the world and turn inward where I might find questions and answers and stories to share. That all changed some years ago.

I was stealing some midmorning writing time at a local deli when a young couple with a small boy came in and took the table next to mine. The child never really found a seat. Instead, he raced around tables and chairs, arms outstretched, yelling PEW! PEW! PEW! The boy’s dad tried to get things under control a little by holding out a cookie slightly larger than a human head. Without slowing down, the child grabbed for the snack, but his father lifted it out of reach. “Jonathan,” Dad said to his boy. “You need to stop and say grace.”

Jonathan skidded to a halt and recited, “BlessusOhLordandthesethygiftswhichweareabouttoreceivefromthybountythroughChristOurLordAmen.” He nabbed the cookie and shoved most of it into his mouth. Refueled, he blasted back into orbit to continue his attack on invisible alien space invaders.

Meanwhile, Jonathan’s parents turned their attention to coffee cups and cookies of their own. I tried to return to my work, but it’s hard to focus when the very embodiment of your monkey mind is screaming around the table and firing lasers at your head. I decided to pack up and leave. But that’s when I realized that the commotion had come to a stop. No more lasers. No more space battle. No more flying Jonathan. Now, he was on the ground, quietly crawling on hands and knees toward his father’s feet. “Jonathan,” Dad said. “Get off the floor.”

Rather than stand, Jonathan flopped to his stomach and began writhing like a worm. His father, a big man, leaned toward the ground, tucked a hand beneath his son’s belly, and swept the boy into a standing position. When Jonathan’s feet hit the hard floor, a sudden fit of coughing shook him from head to toe. Suddenly, a big piece of cookie popped out of his windpipe and shot across the room.

Apparently the child had been choking to death at our feet. I know this because Jonathan screamed, “I couldn’t breathe! I was choking to death! I was dying!”

“Jonathan,” said his mother. “You weren’t dying.”

“I was dying!” the boy cried even louder. “I almost died! I was almost dead!”

“Okay,” said Mom, trying to calm her son down. “You were dying. But then you didn’t die. And now you’re alright.”

Jonathan stared at his mom in shock for a moment. Then he wailed. “I WAS ALMOST DEAD, AND I DIDN’T EVEN SEE JESUS!”

At that point, I made my exit. I didn’t want to laugh out loud at this poor kid who maybe did almost die and definitely did not get a chance to discuss the situation with our Savior.

Strangely, hardly a week goes by that I don’t think about that kid. I still enjoy occasional coffee shop writing times, but I rarely delve as deeply into my own head as I used to. There’s not much in there anyway. Plus, that’s not where the action is. Since that day with Jonathan, I’ve come to believe that life is just one near miss after another, and the only way we get through it is if everybody is looking out for one another. Not only that, if I don’t stay awake, I’m never going to see Jesus.

Even if he’s lying on the floor and choking on a cookie right in front of me.