Updated: Oct. 26, 2023
Originally Published: Sep. 15, 2015
I never intended to write about this experience. Honestly, I didn’t. My goal was to engage quietly, to observe the incredible individuals sacrificing so much for a cause that desperately needs our attention. I wanted to lend a hand, however small, and then retreat back to my comfortable life, away from the heart-wrenching reality of those in need—at least until the next time.
However, I can’t shake these thoughts. Nights find me awake, haunted by the faces of refugees. Their weary eyes, radiant smiles, tears, fear, and deep gratitude linger in my mind.
It all began during dinner. After a long summer away, reconnecting with neighbors felt like a breath of fresh air, a chance to share stories about holidays, children, and life. But our conversation took a turn I hadn’t anticipated. I sensed they shared my internal struggle, as talk of daily life felt trivial compared to the pressing issue of refugees escaping war-torn regions like Syria, Afghanistan, and Iraq, desperately seeking safety in Europe.
We had heard of these stories through articles and news feeds, but hearing it directly from our neighbors, who volunteered tirelessly at the local train station, struck a chord. Their passionate accounts of families they had met captivated us. When they invited me to join them, I felt a mix of excitement and dread.
As I prepared for my first visit, self-doubt crept in. What could I possibly offer that wasn’t already being done by the dedicated volunteers? But then, I heard whispers of a new family arriving with small children.
Looking up, I spotted them crossing the platform, nearly collapsing from exhaustion. The mother cradled a tiny baby—likely just born on their arduous journey—while her other three children huddled close, one sleeping atop their only backpack.
In that moment, I recognized her. Though I had never met her before, I understood the pain etched on her face. I saw her tears and the conflicting emotions of grief and love as she held her children. She needed a moment to rest yet yearned to keep them close. The silent plea in her eyes spoke volumes.
When her youngest child whimpered, I offered to hold her, and she gratefully accepted. As I sat beside her, I noticed the weight of the baby in my lap—awkward and heavy, yet precious. I could see her anxiety as her child squirmed, longing to be held again. When she finally took her baby back, I witnessed her smile for the first time, filled with a love that was both exhausting and beautiful.
I’ve experienced that kind of love myself. Recently, my little one, Max, was sick and needed me constantly. For three days, he clung to me, and I felt overwhelmed by that bond. I had planned to take my older kids to church for a break, but when Max sobbed and refused to let go, I realized that his need was greater than my own desire for a moment of peace.
Love can be both effortless and draining. It’s about giving your all, even when you feel empty. That night, I saw that shared understanding in the refugee mother’s eyes; she didn’t need to say anything for me to grasp that she longed for a brief respite, a helping hand.
As we navigated the train station, I recognized that she was not doing this for herself, but for her children. Even if they didn’t understand the gravity of their situation, even if it meant sacrificing her own well-being, she pressed on. If I were in her shoes, I knew I would feel the same overwhelming need to protect my kids, even at the cost of my own comfort.
In looking into that mother’s eyes, I felt a profound connection to our shared humanity. I understand now, in a way I couldn’t before, that despite the geographical differences that separate us, at our core, we are not so different after all.
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In summary, my encounter with the refugee mother not only opened my eyes to the struggles faced by so many but also reinforced the universal bonds of love and sacrifice that connect us all.
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