Believe it or not, there was good news fromOttawa at the beginning of this year. Long pause. No, it had nothing to do with protests or convoys, hysteria and shouting or anything else political or confrontational. The good news was that a new life entered the world in the perfect shape of our first grandchild, a precious little boy. I shall not name him or his parents because, in this broken world, there are people who hate and hurt others and while I can take it – and do so most days on social media – I must protect my family. I wish that I didn’t have to say that of course, but that reality, sadly, illustrates why new, pristine and gorgeous life is so important. Because there is too much darkness, too much pain, too much suffering and too much anger. Then along comes a tiny ray of light, extending and renewing hope and promise. In his cries and his laughter, he is all of the world’s sparkling possibilities personified. Well-meaning friends have said to me that grandchildren are the reward for parenting. Sorry, I disagree. I loved, still love, being a father and bless the fact that we have four children. This doesn’t mean that it’s always been easy, for me or for them, but that’s not the point at all. Family is as complex and layered as is the rest of life. But I’m so, so thankful for it. I’m 63 now, and both of my parents were gone in their mid-70s. That was far, far too young. Mortality has exponential meaning, and I find myself reading obituaries and looking to see how oldmy heroes were when they died. I’m a priest; I spend a great deal of time with the dying and have got to know the intimacy of death. Good Lord, last year alone I presided over 12 funerals. But here in this spectacular miniature is the guarantee that at each ending, there is another beginning. My mum was in Toronto on holiday from Britain when our third child, Oliver, was born. It was October 9, which was her birthday, too. I always remember taking her to the airport and the woman checking her in asking if she’d had a nice time. “Yes,” said Sheila Coren in her best east-end London accent. “I saw my grandson born.” The Air Canada official replied, “Well, I’m going to make it a nice journey home, too. I’m bumping you up to business class.” They could do that back then. It was the only time my mum ever flew business class. It was also the last time I saw her before the hellish blanket of dementia wrapped its filthy arms around her. She declined horribly quickly, fell into a coma and then passed fromus. As I age, I miss her more and more, miss my dad, feel guilty for my failures as a son and wish that I could tell them how much I loved them and how much they did for me. Oh, how I wish that so much. In the years which I have left, however, I can tell my grandson howmuch I love him. Tell his parents how much I love them. Tell my other children, their partners, my wife and all of the members of the cast that keeps our little play moving and growing. Love isn’t, as the Valentine’s Day cards will tell you, never having to say you’re sorry. It’s telling people howmuch theymatter, howmuch theymean and how much you need and want them. Yes, there was good news from Ottawa earlier this year, and from every town and village and city and country in the world. It’s birth and it’s love, it’s care and it’s sacrifice, community and collective, empathy and apology, giving and knowing. Good news that sings words of incalculable beauty. I’ve no idea what my tiny grandson will be, what he’ll do, and I couldn’t really care less. If he’s happy, and makes others happy, the good guys have won once again. And when I’m gone, and he remembers grandpa, looks at photos of the funny-looking bald man who wore a collar and wrote some columns, I simply want him to be able to say, “I loved him.”That’s all. Seems very small and insignificant, but it transforms the entire world. I know that to be true, because I see it every single day. Opinion with Michael Coren CSANews | SPRING 2022 | 13
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