“Sometimes all a person needs is a smile and someone to listen,” Mary said…

Mary is one of the many amazing mothers I know. Happy Mothers’ Day to each of you! 🩷🌸🙏

Because of the sensitive nature of this story, names have been changed.

We’d dropped my car off to change its tires. All I said was, “You have the prettiest hair.”  Seriously, as Mary stood behind the counter, it reflected the fluorescent light above her head. Or maybe it was her own from within. Since her father’s Alzheimer’s, Mary and her brother John run the little car shop. They’re all like family.

So, you just never know what a few unexpected words might do. Or timely. Timely as in those moments that prove, yes, you too, could be a vessel, as they say. In those moments, all you need to do is stand there. And listen. Seriously. Or you’ll be stunned silent. 

“I haven’t cut it since…”

Since when? I forgot, exactly, what she said. Maybe I wasn’t listening. But I had the sense she meant chemo. Now her hair is shiny. And long. I liked it. It gave me hope.

“It’s the way I style it, you can’t tell.” She held the ends of long strands that nearly reached her waist between her pointer finger and thumb. “It got really thin. Now I don’t want to cut it.” 

“Oh, I get it,” I said. “I stopped my chemo in December and I think it’s growing back in. I can tell because it got so frizzy. Humidity, ugh. Seems more controllable, lately.” Stop talking, Debbie. Just listen to her.

She nodded in recognition, then continued. “I lost my spleen, it spread to my gall bladder so I lost that too. Then I lost my ovaries and had a pulmonary embolism. Now I have to get weekly blood transfusions.

“Wow, my brother had one of those.” Shh!

“I have the best doctor at Froedert.”

I wanted to say, my mom had one too, but I didn’t. “What’s his name?” I couldn’t help myself, remembering Dr. Charleson, and didn’t hear what she said, but she continued.

“We both have 14-year-old daughters. Before my surgery, I went and got a tattoo with my daughters’ names.” She pulled her t-shirt aside and showed me a simple wave of words below her clavicle. Hope and Heaven.

“Those are my girls.” Then she reached for her phone. “This is my Hope.” A beautiful girl with long dark hair stood in the frame beaming. “And here’s my Heaven.” She showed another photo of a young woman who looked like her. “She’s in college. 4.2 grade point. She’s 19. I want her to see the world, but she won’t leave home.”

“Aww, she loves you…I can understand.” Seriously? It didn’t keep you home.

“I don’t want her stuck here. I want her to experience life. You know?”

“Yeah, I do. What’s she studying?”

“Business and Finance.”

Silenced by her story, her beauty, her energy, I stood there. It wasn’t yet 9:00 AM.

“Now it’s spread again, but I’m a survivor. I’m not going to let it win. My doctor sat me down and said the only way I can beat this is with positivity. I have a great husband. He’s negative though. But opposites attract, you know? We’re good for each other. Been 19 years we’re together.”

“My husband and I are opposites, too. Together 26, this past April.”

And we’ve been coming to this little car shop the whole time. After I got my Mini, Mary’s father said, “That car is you! Why you couldn’t have picked a more perfect car if you’d designed it yourself!” With all the bike riding around town, I average about 3K a year. She’s in great shape.

Todd walked up. 

“Mary’s been telling me about her beautiful daughters and husband.”

“Oh, is that the one you left?” Todd said.

What?

“No…” she paused. “That was my daughter from my first marriage.“

“Right. Abused her. Really upset your dad,” He turned and walked away. I cringed. Because mine was too? Or because of Todd’s timing? Maybe both. Maybe neither.

“I had a first marriage, too,” I said. “Todd and I are opposites, too.”

“I met my first husband when we were 15. I had my first daughter at 19, so we were together a while. My second husband is so kind. During a snowstorm there was a car stalled in the middle of the street, so he stopped to help. Well, the guy didn’t like it and socked him in the face.” She made a fist and swung. “Left him lying in the road good as dead. Then at the hospital, they had to take out the front part of his brain.” She gestured, her hands forming a heart across her hairline. “Said he’d never be the same. But he’s fine. You can’t even tell!”

“So you’re the miracle family.”

“No. We all are. Everyone’s a miracle. Everyone’s got stuff. Life’s not kind to any of us. It’s hard for everyone.”

What could I say? She was right, but her words and disposition were a remarkable contradiction to her story. With her long shiny hair that she refuses to cut, she glowed. She hadn’t even mentioned God. I wondered about her faith as she talked, but I didn’t ask. I didn’t need to.

“Where do you hide your wings?” I said as we were walking away. 

“In my daughters,” she said. 

Right. Hope and Heaven.

What just happened there…? Todd and I headed to our favorite breakfast spot, ordered a smoothie with whey, an extra hot large latte, a breakfast sandwich, two cherry scones and a muffin for later. We share. 

“I can’t believe all she told me in such a short time.”

“I couldn’t believe it either. You do that though, to people. They open up to you and talk. You’re empathetic. Deb Farris, street pastor.”

No, or maybe so, but then Todd is too. Like Mary, who said everyone has something going on. Everyone is a miracle.

If we can’t see the miracles around us, we can pray for eyes that can. Surely, we should all be street pastors, don’t you think? As Mary said after she read this story, “Sometimes all a person needs is a smile and someone to listen.” ❤️

My Mini and Mr. Sam (September 2003-February 2018)