Someone's Son

He told me his name was Thunder. Only because I asked him what his most unusual name meant in his native language. I asked him if he felt the power of that name and he bashfully smiled and said No. You will, I replied, if you allow it.

A slightly older chap is standing on the corner as I leave my yoga class. His cap is pulled down over his forehead and he clenches his gloved hands in a rhythm only he hears. It is cold. He picks up his sign that says Hungry, and walks down the driver's side windows as most people ignore him. The wind is picking up and I see that his running shoes have clumps of snow on them.

Someone's Son

It is a sunny day, and an elderly man is leaning against the busy walkway of a popular tourist walk along the water. His face is etched with experience and when he smiles, the creases disappear and all I see are his blue eyes. I hand him a granola bar  from my pocket and ask him his name. He is startled. No one has asked me that in a long time he says sadly. Michael.

Each grown of a woman, who perhaps does not know where he is or if he has eaten today. Each carrying the weight of his past choices. Whose son is he? What wishes has he abandoned? What dreams does he still have? Where will he sleep tonight?

We might be cautious to roll down our window but our awareness of him is our prayer. Our open heart can be his gift even if we don’t stop. (Tweet this)

They are someone's son. They have a birthday, a favourite Disney character, a love of macaroni and cheese. They have a story.

Listen to their story as you might go by. (Tweet This)