the covenant

A ministering angel shall my sister be.

~ William Shakespeare

-

Wednesday, early evening

Katie and I are walking down Newbury Street, Boston’s somewhat provincial version of Fifth Avenue. As we pass the gorgeous old Church of the Covenant on the corner of Berkeley Street. Katie tugs at my arm. There is an elderly woman who appears to be homeless huddled by the church’s fence. She sits next to an overflowing shopping cart. Attached to the cart is a crude cardboard sign asking for money.

“Mama,” Katie asks, “can I?”

It’s the doe eyes that do me in.

I take a bill from my bag and hand it to her.

“Thank you, Mama!” she says with a grin. You’d think I’d handed her a puppy.

She walks over to the woman and gives her the bill. They share a moment as the older woman looks up at her, her weathered face breaking into the warmest smile I’ve ever seen. “God bless you, little one,” she says to my girl. “God bless you too,” Katie says in return. The moment passes slowly.

The old woman’s smile lingers as she watches Katie walk away. The long, deep wrinkles in her chocolate-brown skin curve and swirl, dancing from her mouth to her forehead. Her face tells a thousand stories. It has not been an easy road.

Katie takes my hand and we continue our walk. Or start to.

“Mama,” she asks, her voice nearly a whisper, “why do you think that woman was homeless? Like, how does that happen?”

My breath catches in my throat. I think of the article I’d read earlier in the day about a Sheriff in Cook County, Illinois who says that his jail has become the largest mental health provider in the state of Illinois. The one that shocked me, but didn’t.

I try to answer, but instead a tear rolls down my cheek.

“Mama! What is it? What happened? Why are you crying?” Katie asks in a confused panic.

I know I have to get the words out.

“Baby, I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just .. well .. it’s hard. You see, when I see people like that woman – people from a different generation – well, it’s just ..”

I am fumbling. The words aren’t easy to find.

“It’s just that I think that a lot of the time they are people kinda like Brooke, baby. But back then they didn’t have the support that they needed to manage in the world. And well, they can’t really make it without that, ya know?”

I try to stop them, but the tears are now flowing along with the words. They don’t feel adequate, but I don’t want to say, “Because this is why moms and dads like me wake up breathless at two o’clock in the morning, honey.”

“It just scares me, baby,” I say.

Katie stops walking. She lets go of my hand and grabs both of my arms, squaring me to her. She looks right in my eyes as she says, “Mama, I will ALWAYS be there for her. I promise.”

It’s the doe eyes that do me in.

The dam opens and the tears fall in earnest.

“Oh, baby,” I say. “I never want you to feel like ..”

She cuts me off. “It’s OK, Mama. I promise.”

-

And so it was that on Wednesday, early in the evening in the middle of Newbury Street, in front of the Church of the Covenant, I stood hugging my girl with everything I had until both of us were ready to continue down the road.

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