I wrote the following reflection on July 26, 2018 when the separations of families at our southern border became living nightmares for the thousands of people fleeing violence and war-torn countries. In light of the news and reports coming from the shelters in the recent days, I am finding it hard to keep silent. I know my words do not change the harsh, undeserved realities that so many are facing - so what do I do? Donate. Call lawmakers & representatives. Vote. Pray. Act. Show compassion. I am preaching to myself more than anyone. My faith will not let me keep silent anymore. Lord, have mercy.
He cries out at 2 a.m. I roll over and turn off the volume to the monitor beside my bed. On the little screen I can see him standing up in his crib, crying the high pitch wail with the gusto of a bad dream. He rarely does this anymore, so I sleepily walk across the dark house to his room.
His wail calmed to a whimper when he saw me. I put my hands on his soft, chubby cheeks wet with tears. I lean down and kiss the top of his head, ruffled with sleepy-time hair. I whisper to him, “It’s okay. Mommy is here.” I pick him up and carry him to the chair in his room. He plants his head on my shoulder and tucks his little face deep into the nook of my neck. His whole body relaxes in my arms and soon he is asleep again.
Being a mother has taught me how to worry in an entirely new way. My worries are rarely about me and more often centered upon my children. Are they safe? Are they healthy? Will this activity cause them to slip and fall? Am I making choices for them now that will help or hurt them in the future? What if they get sick? Are their feelings hurt? Did they eat enough fruits and veggies today? (No, they never eat enough fruits and veggies.)
The list goes on. Some worries I can more easily control where others are products of a worst-case scenario imagination. But one thing is for sure.
At least while they are little and living under our roof, there will never be a moment when I cannot get to them. There will never be a cry that goes unanswered. Never will they reach for me and my arms will not enfold them. They will never be so far beyond my grasp, my embrace, my touch.
I pray this could be true for the mothers and fathers who flee war-torn and violent countries. I pray this could be true for courageous parents who boldly seek refuge only to find themselves torn away from their children.
What kind of world do we live in that the humanity of another becomes nothing more than an object to lock up or a problem to solve?
I cannot pick up my children, hold them in my arms, kiss their cheeks or tickle their tummies without feeling a deep, shameful sadness in my gut. There are far too many mothers and fathers going to bed tonight who will wake up at 2 a.m. (if they ever go to sleep at all) with the cries of their little one ringing in their ears. And the words they have always feared but vowed to never say become their sobs in the darkness of the night:
“My child. I cannot get to you.”
