Every year Bernard, grandfather and godfather to Emeric, a 24-year-old boy with Down syndrome, spends about ten days with his nephew. What unfolds between them is an exceptional bond.
My beloved daughter Virginia called in tears. Her second child had Down syndrome. I borrowed a car and drove across France to reach her in the clinic, desperate to find words of comfort. She stopped me short: "Dad, don't say anything." Two words that still move something inside me. I understood then that in certain moments, you don't speak. You listen. You simply take their hand.
Virginia's anguish cut deeply. I wanted to be there for her and for little Emeric. But if my closeness to her son is exceptional, it's because he has something the others don't. I don't have this kind of relationship with my other grandchildren. Every Easter, he comes alone to stay with me in Antibes for about ten days—one of the best times of his year. Emeric's attachment to me overwhelms me. One day, when I was ill and stuck in bed, he knelt at the foot of my mattress in tears: "My God, Grandpa is sick. We have to do something. He can't stay like this!" He woke in me a tenderness I never suspected I possessed. He has a kind of master key for unlocking the heart, shattering every conventional wall. My other grandchildren don't throw themselves into my arms the way he does. None of us dares simply tell each other we love each other—the way Emeric does.
This love doesn't come naturally just because one is a grandfather. My wife Mirella grew up with a handicapped brother. In those days it was a shame, something to hide. So when Emeric was born, it was harder for her than for me. One day she wanted to embrace him, but he pulled away. He sensed what she felt. It was terrible.
An Extraordinary Request
When Virginia asked me to be Emeric's godfather, she was clear about why: "because we need you." It was an extraordinary request. At that time, Virginia had stepped away from her faith. I noticed that Emeric, now sixteen, had never made his first communion. But I saw how much he loved joining me at Mass each day when he stayed with me. I proposed to Virginia that we prepare him, and she agreed. Emeric made his first communion in my parish. Now when he introduces me to others, he doesn't say I'm his grandfather. He says I'm his godfather. He has only one godfather, and among my fifteen grandchildren, I have only one godchild. This makes us unique to each other.
Keeping Him Occupied
I'll be honest: after I was widowed, I wondered how to fill my days with Emeric. So I arranged for him to help at the supermarket in my neighborhood. When he visits, he spends his mornings stocking shelves. He goes to work and gets a gift at week's end as payment. You should see how happy that makes him. For the rest of the day, he follows me everywhere. He moves easily with everyone. But I'll admit, looking after him is a big responsibility, and when he leaves, I feel relieved.
I love my nephew deeply, and this brings his mother great comfort. It absolves her, in a way. She sees that her son is wanted. I don't like what priests say: "God loves all people." It leaves me cold. I want to be loved as a unique being. Emeric is unique to me, and I am unique to him.
