What Do You Think? Wednesday
For weeks her eyes have been hollow and face sunk in; she has creases at the mouth, greasy hair and ashen skin. She has a brood of children, a reportedly hands off husband of a father and too many responsibilities to name. One day without a word to anyone she left our home schooling group, left a crying preschooler, an anxious toddler and half a dozen older children without a clue to where she went. One mom speculated she needed a break, that she just left to get a breather and could only do so with this type of great escape. When she returned, to my knowledge, no one asked where she went or why she left without a word. I only said, “I wondered what happened to you. You left and didn’t say a word.” She told me she went home, talked to some workers there, never saying she was sorry she left the way she did or thank you for caring for her concerned children. I was offended and decided to have little to do with this woman, but when she came to our group the other week I wish I had said something then.
She came with 70s style track shorts on top of a thick pair of holey dark tan pantyhose that contrasted with her white skin. I wondered “What would make her think it was okay to wear pantyhose with shorts? What would make her think it was okay to wear not just pantyhose, but pantyhose with gaping holes?” Her pulling at and trying to minimize the holes let me know that she knew holey hose were not okay, but was this the only way she could get the help she needed? Was drawing attention to herself in such a loud way the only cry she knew to make. Still, I said nothing. I let her holey cry go unheeded, too afraid to step into her world, get into her business to care for her. But I didn’t let that chance pass me by when a medical office worker gave me more than instructions for my mom’s lab visit. She poured out her soul right in the waiting room, emotions spilling right on the desk and onto me about caring for her dying mom and losing her brother to brain cancer just a few months before.
She cried, sad and angry at her siblings for being absent, coming only to the funeral and not coming around since. She cried right there with a blaring TV, unfiled paperwork and ears captive, listening. “I gotta be strong for my kids,” she said, not able to wipe her tears fast enough before the next well flowed. I told her to let go of that strong black woman demeanor, to get some counseling and grieve fully and as long as it takes for her to feel whole again. And I told her when she could do so without sinful anger to talk to her siblings about how she feels, leaving no room for bitterness to break her but for her attempt at reconciliation to help make her whole again. I prayed for her, told her my name and left knowing that she, nor I, would ever be the same.
When you encounter someone who is clearly crying out for help, how do you respond? What, if anything, would you say to my homeschooling group mom? Please, tell me what you think.