"Looking through the photographs,
Across the distant past;
Where did all the time go,
The years went by so fast."
A
MOTHER'S WISH - MIDI
THE MARK OF ANGELS
Many years ago my husband and I
visited Bern, the charming capitol of
Switzerland. One evening, we had a night free of planned
activities.
Feeling liberated from itineraries,
we wandered through the medieval
streets into the heart of Bern. The warm evening breeze
had lured swarms
of people into the town's square. Old men played checkers
at cement tables
amid musicians, jugglers and other assorted street performers.
Frank and I
paused to drink in the carnival of sights and sounds.
An American accent rang out above
the bustle. I grabbed Frank's hand
and pulled him toward the sound of home.
"One’ Two’ Three!"
A burst of laughter erupted from
the crowd around a juggler. I moved
in closer, drawn in by his act and familiar accent.
After a finale of quick-handed magic
tricks, appreciative onlookers
threw coins and moved on.
As the juggler bent down to collect
the loose change, I felt compelled
to connect.
"Excuse me. Uh, I liked your
act."
The Juggler looked up with a surprised
expression, as if he didn't
expect anyone to stay around.
"Hey, thanks! You sound like
an American."
I laughed, admitting that I'd been
drawn to speak with him, maybe
because of his Yankee accent too. As travelers tend
to do, I politely
asked him what part of the States he was from.
"California." The Juggler
replied. "And you guys?"
I responded in the same general
way. "Pennsylvania. Outside
Philadelphia."
The juggler stopped picking up coins.
"Oh! Where outside Philadelphia?"
I was slightly taken aback.
Why did the name of the town matter if he
was from California? Feeling silly, but strangely compelled
to talk, I
answered.
"Havertown."
The Juggler's jaw dropped and his
bearded face softened. He spoke
barely above a whisper. "I went to Haverford High School."
Now Frank caught the compulsion
to talk.
"But I thought you said you were
from California?"
The Juggler got up off his knees
and sat on the edge of a concrete
flower container. He drew in a breath and poured out
a story he'd long
locked away.
"I discovered I loved to perform
while I was in high school. I wanted
to study the Arts in college but my stepfather felt I should
study a
serious subject -- like dentistry or something. I felt
I had no choice, so
I went to college in California, but I couldn't study what
I didn't love.
Rather than go home and face my stepfather, I left the States
to travel
around Europe. I haven't seen my mother in 7 years."
After further discussion, Frank
and I learned that his mother lived
three minutes from our house. In fact, I drove past
her home every day on
the way to work. We stood in awe of the "coincidence"
of our meeting.
The Juggler broke the silence.
"If I give you my mother's number,
would you call her for me when you get back home? Would
you tell her I'm
okay?"
As a mother of two, I ached for
this woman who was separated from her
son. I nodded a tearful yes.
I tucked the number away and the
three of us parted, forever changed
by a chance meeting thousands of miles from home.
On the plane ride back to the States,
I worried out loud to Frank.
"What if his mother is angry? What if she doesn't want
to hear from me?"
Frank squeezed my hand and said,
"You already know the right thing to do."
Once back in Havertown, I picked
up the phone and put it back in the
cradle countless times. But, I couldn't ignore the
strong inner voice that
urged me to call. After taking a deep breath, I dialed
the number on the
crumpled piece of paper. A woman answered the phone.
I spoke quickly --
before I lost my nerve.
"Hello. You don't know me
but..."
The story of our trip to Bern spilled
out, rapidly reaching the part
where we met the Juggler in the town square. As I relayed
her son's
greeting, the woman cried.
"Oh, Thank God!"
In a voice thick with emotion, her
questions tumbled out one after
another. "How did he look? Was he well?
Is he okay?"
I found myself in the peculiar position
of describing a son to his
mother. I assured her that he was healthy, making a
nice living and seemed
to be doing fine. I described the Juggler's hair, his
beard and his
request that I make contact with her.
The Juggler's mom spoke between
sobs.
"My son sent me a letter last year
saying he was thinking of coming
home. He said the next time I heard from him would
be a sign that he'd be
home soon. Thank you! Thank you so much for calling!"
After I hung up the phone, I wondered
about the odds of meeting the
Juggler at just the right place, at just the right time and
at just the
right moment in his life. I smiled through tears of
my own and knew that
chance had nothing to do with it.
Signs, coincidences, accidental
meetings, inner voices -- all the mark
of angels at work.
Author -- Teri Goggin
Teri says, "I believe the bond between
a mother and child is forever.
Whether the child is near or far,
young or old, living in heaven, or on
earth, the link is never broken.
I'm so grateful to have been part of the
miracle of reconnecting this mother
and son."
 
  
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