He sits--head bowed, face buried in a hat held in his right hand--on a low retaining wall separating a dirt parking area from a row of small shops. Sitting close to him, a diminutive, dark-skinned woman holds his other hand on her lap, gently soothes it with both of hers.
I became accustomed to my son's friendly interactions with local folks during the years we previously lived in this small town in Baja California. Many we met, on a market day like today, came from the Mexican states of Oaxaca and Guerrero. Humble of means, they found work harvesting the tomatoes, etc. that fill produce bins in U.S. grocery stores.
Beyond friendly, Owen has a gift for discerning spiritual and emotional needs...and a deep compassion for others. Often--even before the Mexico sojourn--I'd seen his hand on a trembling shoulder, praying for someone.
Is he praying for this woman? Can/should I help in some way?
Taking a couple steps from the shop where I'd found a basic Mexican cell phone, I lay my hand on Owen's shoulder: "Are you helping her...or she you?"
He briefly lifts a tear-stained face to mine: "I'm receiving comfort."
I glance at the woman. Serenity in her small, round face. Clad in the modest attire typical of older indigenous women, she seems almost a child next to 6'5'' Owen, her feet barely touching the ground.
I move to her side, put my arm around her shoulder, lightly touch my head to hers: "Gracias por darle consuelo a mi hijo (Thanks for giving comfort to my son)." I back away, think about Owen's struggles since our recent return to Mexico...and my own angst as a mother watching him struggle.
Transitions are inherently challenging. Uncertainties about housing, work, relationships.
After a couple minutes Owen dries his tears and hugs the woman. We get into our car.
"Thanks for waiting, Mom."
"Of course, honey." We're both silent for awhile as we drive to a nearby grocery store.
Then he speaks: "I need to let go of a lot of bullshit stuff in my life."
"How did you encounter that woman?"
"I was just sitting there waiting for you, troubled by things. She walked by, waved, and extended her hand to me. I waved but withdrew my hand and she sat further down on the wall. I felt bad, went to apologize to her. She took my hands in hers and began caressing them. My tears came. I haven't been able to cry, Mom, but I needed to."
"Something similar happened to me soon after Dad and I moved to Ecuador. We were seeking a place to rent in a city we liked and the dozen apartments we'd looked at were depressing enough to reduce me to hopeless tears one rainy afternoon. I stopped at a small chapel to rest and upon leaving met a sweet woman at the door who held my hand and told me she would pray for my needs. I asked her name. "Angelica."
"This woman had a similar name! Angelique or Angelina."
"They may have been angels*," I said.
"You know, Mom, I had to come to the end of myself, trying to figure everything out on my own."
Now my own tears flow. "I'm thinking of that scripture: God dwells with the one who is of a contrite and humble spirit (I looked it up later: Isaiah, chapter 57)."
* Aunt Lois (my mother's sister), who lived with us in Baja for several years, wrote of her early experiences in Mexico when she and her Mexican co-worker Biachi began taking in babies given to them by parents unable to care for them; a couple infants were left on their doorstep. Once, literally prostrate with physical/emotional exhaustion and desperate for sleep, Biachi left a full bottle at the head of a crib holding a baby next to her bed. She slept soundly and the bottle was empty the next morning. "An angel," exclaimed Lois, who during a later night--their nursery now full of nearly a dozen babies--saw angels amid the cribs.
