A Story of Divine Communication
One crisp October afternoon, Giuseppe and I set out to collect mushrooms in Lodi, a charming city on the banks of the River Adda. The Adda, as Giuseppe often warned, was dangerous—il fiume Adda è pericoloso. Its waters rushed down from the mountains with a force that could sweep away anything in its path. But today, the river seemed calm, almost serene, as we walked along a narrow path that hugged its edge.
The autumn air was filled with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. As we made our way through the woods, I suddenly heard a rustling sound. Something moved through the dry leaves nearby. I looked down and saw a snake slithering away, its scales catching the sunlight before it disappeared into the undergrowth.
Giuseppe, always observant, noticed my reaction. “The snake was probably sunbathing on a stone,” he said with a chuckle. His voice was steady, reassuring. I smiled, grateful for his company. Giuseppe was the kind of man who could fix anything, a jack-of-all-trades with a heart of gold. His garage was a testament to his resourcefulness, filled with tools and gadgets that seemed to have a purpose only he could understand.
Today, we were dressed for the task at hand—pants with shoulder straps and rubber boots. My boots were a bit too big, so Giuseppe had stuffed some cloth around my ankles to make them fit better. He always thought of the little things, always made sure everyone was comfortable. I silently prayed that God would forgive any sins he might have and grant him a place in heaven. If anyone deserved it, it was Giuseppe.
As we ventured deeper into the woods, we realized that many of the mushrooms had already been picked by others. But we didn’t let that discourage us. We continued our search, and soon found ourselves near a small canal. The water was shallow, barely more than a trickle, but Giuseppe’s sharp eyes spotted something.
“Look,” he said, kneeling down to inspect a cluster of mushrooms growing near the water’s edge. They were long and slender, like fingers reaching up from the earth, their caps small and delicate. Giuseppe took out a small knife and began carefully cutting them. I followed his lead, mimicking his precise movements, and placed the mushrooms into our bag.
Then, something caught my eye—a small creature in the water. At first, I thought it was a shrimp, but as I looked closer, I realized it was a tiny crayfish, its abdomen swollen with eggs. It seemed to watch me. I felt a strange connection to it, as if it had something to tell me.
Impulsively, I grabbed a long branch and used it to lift the crayfish out of the water. I was excited by the discovery. “Giuseppe, Giuseppe, look! I found a fish!” I called out, eager to share the moment with him.
But when Giuseppe saw what I had done, his expression darkened. His usual calm demeanor was replaced with a stern look. “Put it back,” he said, his voice sharp with anger. “Leave it in the water.” He felt pity for it.
His words hit me harder than I expected. I quickly returned the crayfish to the canal, but as I did, I noticed that the eggs were no longer attached to its body. They floated away in the water, separated from the life they were meant to bring into the world. A wave of guilt washed over me. I had disturbed something sacred, something fragile. Even now, I can’t shake the feeling of remorse.
We continued our walk in silence, the joy of the day dampened by the weight of what had happened. As we neared the bridge that led back to the city, my phone rang. It was my mother-in-law. Her voice was filled with urgency as she told me that my wife was in labor.
My heart raced. It wasn’t time yet. The baby wasn’t due for weeks. How could this be happening now?
As we hurried back to home, my mind raced with thoughts. Was this just a coincidence? Or had God, in some mysterious way, been trying to communicate with me through that tiny crayfish? Had my actions somehow triggered this early birth? Or was it God’s way of reminding me of His presence, of the delicate balance of life that we so often take for granted?
I still don’t have the answers. But that day, by the banks of the River Adda, I felt something greater than myself at work. A gentle reminder, perhaps, that we are all connected—by the river, by the earth, and by the unseen hand that guides us all.
And so, life continues, with its mysteries and moments of grace.