I never intended to write about this experience. Honestly, I didn’t. I thought I could quietly observe, take a step back, and appreciate the sacrifices others were making for a noble cause. I aimed to contribute in any small way I could and then retreat back to my comfortable life—until the next time, at least.
But lately, I find it hard to think about anything else. I wake up at odd hours with their faces lingering in my mind—the weariness in their eyes, the flickers of joy in their smiles, their tears, and the weight of their fears mixed with gratitude.
It all began over dinner. After spending nearly the entire summer away, I was thrilled to reconnect with my neighbors and catch up on family life and the latest happenings. However, the conversation took an unexpected turn. They probably felt the same way I do now: while life continues, there seems to be little else on the mind. It’s as if, even when you try to avoid the topic, it forces its way into your thoughts, nudging at your comfortable existence.
Of course, we were aware of the refugees fleeing Syria, Afghanistan, and Iraq, trying to navigate their way through Hungary to safety. But we had only known about it through articles, news broadcasts, and social media. Now, we were hearing firsthand accounts from our neighbors, who spent their free time—and even time they didn’t have—helping at the train station.
Their passion for the families they encountered captivated us. When it was time for them to leave, I was grateful when she invited me to join them. Joel went with her husband that night for the first time, and I waited anxiously at home. It was nearly one in the morning when he returned, and sleep eluded me. I was torn between wanting to know and not wanting to know, but eventually, he shared everything.
As I lay awake that night, my mind swirled with thoughts of a mother and her baby, kids sleeping in a park, and a father likely forcing himself to stay alert in order to protect his family and plan their next steps. So, when she asked me to come along, I felt nervous but couldn’t say no.
Initially, I spent an hour questioning what I could possibly do that the dedicated volunteers weren’t already accomplishing. But then I heard whispers: a family was arriving with small children.
I looked up and saw them crossing the platform, nearly collapsing onto the hard cement floor. The mother was carrying something, and it took a moment for me to realize it was a baby—so small he likely entered the world during their harrowing journey. Her three other children huddled close, one asleep atop the family’s lone backpack.
When I gazed at the mother, I felt an immediate connection. Though I had never met her before or been in her situation, I recognized the sorrow etched on her face. Her eyes shimmered with tears, and I understood that her children were both her greatest source of comfort and her heaviest burden. She longed to sit and rest yet desired her children nearby. I could sense her silent plea: she couldn’t go on, couldn’t push any further, even though no words were spoken.
When her youngest whimpered beside me, I noticed how she wanted to soothe her, but exhaustion weighed her down. I gestured to lift the child and bring her close, and she nodded, patting the ground beside her. A few moments later, as the little one lay on a makeshift cardboard bed and continued to whimper, I moved beside her, gently rubbing her back until she drifted off to sleep.
The gratitude in the mother’s eyes was palpable as I offered to hold her baby in his small basket. It was surprisingly heavy and awkward in my lap, and I could see her watching anxiously as he began to squirm. When I finally handed him back, she buried her face in his neck, showering him with kisses. It was the first time I saw her smile. In that moment, I understood the exhaustion that comes from nurturing a child, but I also saw the love reflected in her gaze—a love that deepens with every passing moment.
It’s a love that can be both exhausting and fulfilling. While I can’t fathom the horrors she has faced or those that may still await her, I do know that kind of love well. Recently, my own son Benjamin had been sick, clinging to me for days, making it difficult to even use the bathroom without him. I secretly craved a moment to enjoy a full church service without chasing after him. But when I tried to leave him behind, he sobbed, and after a long struggle, I realized he needed me more than I needed a break.
Sometimes love is effortless, but more often, it’s a weary kind of devotion—a relentless giving, even when you feel you have nothing left to offer. This is the love I recognized in that mother that night, the reason why I understood her without a single word. She needed nothing more than a brief respite, a helping hand.
As we guided four tired children through the train station, I realized she wasn’t doing this to them, but for them—even if they didn’t fully understand. It took everything out of her, and in her situation, I would likely be the same—broken, exhausted, and seeking help, doing anything to keep my children safe.
That night, as I looked into that mother’s eyes, I felt the essence of humanity. I now grasp it in a way I hadn’t just weeks earlier, a realization I can never unlearn. I recognize how lucky I am to have been born where I was, but it also strikes me that it’s merely geography. At our core, we’re not so different after all.
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In summary, the experience of connecting with a refugee mother revealed the profound commonalities of love and sacrifice that bind us all, transcending geographical boundaries and personal circumstances.