Someone's son

This morning I was riding the T home, after meeting up with my spiritual director. As usual, when I changed trains at downtown crossing, there were a large number of both homeless men and women and very strange men and women on the platform. For whatever reason, this particular station seems to attract that crowd.

But today, one gentleman in particular caught my eye. He was upper middle-aged, wearing a white T-shirt that was at least 3 sizes too big, and pants that barely stayed up, carrying a heavy winter coat over his arm. He was weaving and reeling like the late night crowd leaving a bar after closing time, even though it was only 1pm.

He talked to everyone, but not in real words or sentences, just mumbled and sometimes shouted garbled blather. He seemed angry, frustrated, but mostly just crazy. He had no sense of personal space and his odor did not remain personal either.

He then began to spasm and seize as though he was having a seizure, but he wasn't. His body would writhe and then stop; writhe and then stop; writhe and then stop. The effects of his spasms were magnified by the 100+ cans that he held closely behind him, making the sounds of trash collectors or tympani, you pick. Then he would pick up his bag full of cans, in total perhaps summing to $5.00 in value, and move, weaving and reeling, rattling, to the next seat on the platform, where he would once again invade the personal space of the disturbed passenger who would try very hard to pretend that he was not there.

He was obnoxious. He was a little frightening. And in all honesty, I was very glad to be on the opposite platform, going the opposite direction.

But as I watched him, I was struck by one single thought:

"He is someone's son."

And in the middle of Downtown Crossing, standing on the train platform, I began to weep.

Simple reality.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had new eyes to see with deeper compassion: he's someone's son. She's someone's daughter. Obnoxious, irritating, frustrating, ugly, beautiful, rich, poor, homeless, public figure, handicapped, Olympic athlete, peacemaker, warmonger, diplomat or debutant, prostitute or Nobel Prize winner, he was once loved by someone. She was once loved by someone.

And if he or she was loved by no one else, they were and are loved by God.

He's Someone's son. And she's Someone's daughter.

Have mercy, Lord, and give us new eyes to see.