As a mother, I see you
Glancing to my left, I see him. A young Hispanic gentleman with bleached-blond hair’s approaching.
We start with the weather. From there, he moves to his current accommodations, his broken-down car, and his frustrations with an Uber driver. And then it comes. “I wish I could find a partner. There’s just no one here in Indiana!”
“You’re alone,” I say. “You’re feeling lonely?”
He keeps talking. Nearby, I see my sons. They are busy interacting. Their blue-eyed father’s busy, too, engaged in conversation. And the Hispanic man’s still talking.
He tells me about his childhood. About a “psychopathic brother” who repeatedly burned his tiny hand on a red-hot stove when their parents were not looking.
He needs to get it out.
I hear of his “really, really Catholic” family. My listening ear can hear his discomfort. I simply keep smiling, and I keep on listening.
He tells me how bullies found him in high school. “I did so good!” he says. “I made A’s and B’s, but still. I don’t know what I did, but I was a target.”
“Can I say something?” The Curly Head is speaking, but the Hispanic man keeps on talking. He’s not quite ready, yet, to hear it.
At last, he winds down. Looking him full in the eyes, I say once more, “Can I tell you something? I am not your mother, but I am A mother. I have four boys of my own, so I want to tell you this as a mother.”
For once, he’s not talking. He is listening. I’m looking into his eyes.
“As a mother, I want you to know that I see you. I see your value.”
His eyes are squeezing shut. He’s making a humming sound, a keening that comes from way down. Deep breaths, and he presses both hands against his face. I have to tread carefully here.
“I see the boy you were. I see the man you are. I see the man that you will be.” The eyes that are locking now on mine are twin lasers. He’s looking straight into my soul. I hold his gaze.
“I’ve learned that we can’t give what we don’t have, so if we don’t have all of the love that we need first for ourselves, we will not have it to give.”
The smile that’s inside is showing on my face; I can hear it in my voice. And the lonely man? He’s listening.
“My heart is full of love, and so I want to give you a piece of the love that I have for my own four sons. I really want you to receive it.”
He has no words, just tears. He’s frozen in place by Love.
“May I kiss your head?” Everything around me has faded away. The summer sun beats down; time is suspended as I wait one beat for his answer.
And there it comes. “Yes.”
He leans towards me the slightest bit. I take his bleached-blond head in both of my hands, and I press a kiss on his face.
Everywhere I go, there are sons and daughters of other mothers who, too, are looking for love. If I will not see them, who will? If I will not accept them, who will?
If I will not love them, then who?
“The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the Harvest to send out workers into His harvest (Matthew 9:37-38).”
For the love of God and for others,
Rhonda in the World