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May 16, 2007
What’s Your Problem, Mom?
I searched the crowd for my son Spencer. First, I saw the signature baseball cap, and then I noticed the familiar walk, a proud, self-confident walk that reminds me of my father. Finally I saw Spencer’s face happily talking with a fellow traveler, and I felt a surge of excitement.
When Spencer saw me, he beamed with the look of a man glad to be home yet proud of his accomplishments. As one of twenty high school students and six chaperones, Spencer spent the last two weeks on Ometepe, a remote island in Nicaragua. At that moment I realized that I had indeed missed him and his always-smiling face. However, I did not feel the desperate longing reserved for those who had gone to war or moved away from home, greatly missed and rarely forgotten.
Tears trickled down my face as I gave my son a long hug. After a few moments, he pulled away, looked at my tear-stained face and said, “What’s your problem?”
Cut! Rewind the scene twenty minutes.
Just as the plane from Houston landed at Sea-Tac airport, we parents of the Ometepe delegates began collecting at the entrance to baggage claim. We discussed our excitement to see our children, and the improbable possibility of catching the next ferryboat back to our own island -- the end of Spring Break/Friday traffic already slowed to a crawl. I stood talking with one mom and then another dad. We shared stories of time alone and how quiet our homes were without at least one of our children. We described how that quiet felt both lonely and peaceful.
At the plane’s scheduled arrival time, the number of anxious parents swelled. The collective excitement created an infectious hum while off to the right I noticed another group forming. This group did not represent parents of children on a cultural exchange program. Here people of all ages carried red, white & blue balloons, and Mylar balloons shaped as American flags. Some carried roll-up banners. Their excitement reverberated throughout the waiting area, building to an even stronger crescendo than our parent group. These people exuded an energy of relief, mixed with giddiness and held-back tears. Unable to control their anticipation, the children in the group bounced up and down.
And then they saw them. Down the corridor and toward the waiting group, a young man walked, somber in expression, proud in his uniform. At his side another soldier, older more weary looking, walked, also somber, also proud. The frenzy of their welcoming party climaxed as the children shouted their names and the tears were held-back no longer. One boy opened his banner: Welcome Home Uncle Joe!
Without slowing his pace, the younger soldier moved to his wife, gave her a quick kiss then fell into a long embrace, a desperate, I’ll-never-leave-you-again-if-I-can-help-it embrace.
Minutes ticked by, but the clock had stopped. The not-to-be-forgotten baby in the stroller began to cry. The soldier scooped up the child and held him close in one arm, his other arm around his wife’s waist as she put her head on his chest. Not a word was said. The baby choked back the sobs while he studied the face of this unknown man.
I turned away feeling the moment was too private. My gaze turned momentarily to the older soldier who held a man and a woman close to him. A brother and his wife? His parents? No one spoke. Clearly no words came easily at a homecoming such as this. What do you say to someone who has seen too much? Has experienced unimaginable traumatic events?
Now the frenzied anticipation gave way to measured interaction. Other family members holding back came forward for their turn to show their love of the returning soldiers. What lay before them only time would tell. For now, everyone was glad the soldiers were home.
When I saw my son walking towards me, I still felt the combination of love and sadness from the soldiers and their families. To them, I wanted to add my “thank you.” I wanted to surround them with white light, a protective light that would keep them from harm. They had come so far.
My own son did not look particularly excited to see me. I am sure I represented the end of an amazing journey. He had a new family now, one in a tiny village on Ometepe in Nicaragua. During the past two weeks, he witnessed a birth and dug fence pole holes with sticks that only remotely resembled shovels. He built piñatas and entertained the village children. He climbed a volcano, fought off colonies of ants, ate rice and beans at every meal. He lived in a shack without water or electricity. He saw the smiling faces of children with so little and yet so much. Indeed, it was the happiest place on earth. Spencer, glad to be home, could not wait to go back.
What’s my problem? Sorry Spencer. These tears are not for you. I predict you will travel to other amazing places, winning friends wherever you go. Today “my problem” lies in the feeling that my motherhood does not begin and end with raising my own two sons. It continues indefinitely as other mothers’ children go off to war, experience debilitating disease or illness, starve, remain uneducated, die. My heart feels full with love. I close my eyes and send this love to these children of the world.
What’s my problem? I appreciate now that I have no problems. In fact, as you chat amongst your friends, unwilling to let the trip end just yet, I realize that I’m the one standing at “the happiest place on earth.”
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