Last week, in the Cerro del Muerte mountains, there was a tragic accident with a bittersweet ending. The tragedy—a young pre-school teacher traveling home after a full day of teaching—lost her life when the car she was driving went off an embankment and plunged some fifty meters down the mountainside. While her body was recovered at the scene, her 6-year-old son who was traveling with her was nowhere to be found.
Overnight temperatures can drop to the point of freezing there. It is called Cerro del Muerte (Mountain of Death) because many early travelers died of exposure due to being unprepared for the harsh weather conditions. This hazardous road descends from its peak at over 3000 meters (10,000 feet), down to 700 meters (2,400 feet) in a distance of 40 km (25 miles).
It was once part of the Pan American Highway and is still the road used between San Jose and San Isidro de El General, the largest city in the southern zone. It is a narrow, winding, two-lane highway shared by buses, tractor-trailers, farm machinery, motorcycles, cars, and trucks. The name Cerro Del Muerte really has a dual meaning now, as it is a road that takes several lives annually in vehicle crashes.
As night fell, the Red Cross and various search teams flew drones and used infrared technology in search of the child. The odds seemed against his survival, but the night was milder than normal, and the following morning the boy was found alive, in the fetal position, by a waterfall. He was reunited with his father in a scene that deeply moved all who saw it.
Online, the news was received joyously, and with the predictable responses from a largely God-fearing people: “Gracias a Dios” was the most common response, followed by “Un milagro (miracle) de Dios.” God was invoked over and over as the reason the little boy had miraculously survived the night. My wife repeated similar sentiments when I informed her of the news.
As she is a devout believer and I am a confirmed skeptical agnostic, when it comes to events such as this, we have what I will call a friendly debate. When she said, “Gracias a Dios,” and spoke of God’s greatness and the miracle that the boy had survived, my response was— “What about the mother? Why did she have to die?”
My wife responded by saying, “It was her time.” I didn’t like this argument and responded with, “Her time? She was young, with a 6-year-old son, a career, and her whole life ahead of her. It was NOT her time.”
I did not push the argument too far. After all, I am seriously outnumbered not only when I am with my wife and her family but in Costa Rica in general. The God they worship is all-knowing, all-powerful, and we should do our time on earth in preparation to serve in His kingdom. All good that happens is “Gracias a Dios.”
All bad that happens, well, “Gracias a Dios” that it wasn’t worse. Our time is marked, they say. Everybody has a time to die, it seems, and this was her time. Gracias a Dios, the little boy survived and was reunited with his father.
Finding a common ground with people with whom you have little in common spiritually is not easy, but in this case, there was one thing we could agree on, even if we disagreed on the reason—yes, the end result was bittersweet, but indeed, it was a miracle the little boy was found alive.
