The Wisdom of “Les Miserables”

It happened so fast. On the first day of our Mediterranean vacation.  I had just paid four euros for a Margherita pizza-to-die-for in a Naples ristorante. A place recommended by Vito, our all-knowing guide through the unearthed ruins of Pompei. I secured my wallet inside my zippered and clasped shoulder bag (a remnant of last summer’s Alaskan cruise). Feeling positive about our good fortune, Esther and I set off on the two-block journey back to the port and our Carnival Freedom home away from home for the next two weeks.

Prior to this first venture off the ship, the staff had warned us that we had entered a city where “a red traffic light is only a suggestion.” Huddled on a street corner with a mass of death-defying pedestrians, we let the natives run interference until we reached safety. It wasn’t until we crossed the gangway to the ship’s security station that I noticed my shoulder bag unlatched, the wallet compartment empty.

The reality so shocked me, I refused to believe what my mind and senses reported. This couldn’t be happening; not to me. I had taken precautions. To think that someone had targeted me as a rube and overcome my prudent defenses caused dismay and shame, along with a sense of having been victimized. 

Reason forced its way through this emotional turmoil and I assessed the damage. Five hundred dollars in euros and U.S. greenbacks. An assortment of credit cards. My Social Security and medical cards. Driver’s license. Two missing photos of my grandson cost me the pride of showing him off to shipmates. Not my passport, thank God. Esther held that precious document which became my only photo ID. It took the rest of the afternoon, with the patient help of the ship’s Pursers, to block credit cards and order new ones, forestalling further financial damage. A close call, because $3,000 in purchases had been attempted—and rejected—within the hour it took us to return to the ship.

Back in our stateroom, we faced two options. Declare our vacation ruined from the start and go through the motions for the rest of the cruise. Or, accept what had happened and move on. In the end, we decided, “It’s only money we’ve lost.” Plus, we still had half of what we had brought and could charge whatever we needed on other cards. More important, we had each other and no one had gotten hurt.

Yet, something remained unfinished. Our decision to go on had outrun my personal emotional damage. Inner peace stalled at the bitterness I held against the person who had violated my life. Jean Valjean, my literary hero and moral model, nudged me toward recovery. Echoing Jesus’ call to “love our enemies,” he urged his daughter Cosette, “Those Thenardiers [the innkeepers] were wicked. We must forgive them,” despite the physical and emotional abuse she had suffered. A supporting voice came from Stanford professor Fred Luskin, author of Forgive For Good, who outlines the physical and mental health benefits of forgiving and getting on with one’s life.

To catch up with my “move on” decision, I had to forgive the anonymous thief and pray for his or her welfare and change of heart. So I did—or tried to, given my fragile resolve. The rest of our trip was truly amazing and thoroughly enjoyable. But the Naples experience remained a pebble in my shoe,  a discomfort that has lingered into the post-vacation business of identity protection.

Lessons learned from this incident are many. The most lasting is the wisdom of a forgiving heart. Thank you, Jesus; thank you, Jean Valjean; and thank you, Fred Luskin.