I never intended to write about this. My plan was to remain a quiet observer, taking in the incredible stories of those sacrificing so much for a greater cause. I aimed to assist in whatever small way I could and then return home, disengaging until the next time. But now, it occupies my thoughts constantly. I often wake in the middle of the night, their faces haunting me—their weary eyes, their radiant smiles, their tears, their fears, their gratitude.
It all began during dinner. After spending most of the summer away, my family was thrilled to reconnect with our neighbors, to catch up on life’s happenings. But the conversation shifted unexpectedly. I sensed they felt similar to how I do now—while life continues, the weight of certain issues overshadows everything else. Even when we try to avoid discussing it, it intrudes on our comfortable lives, reminding us of the realities faced by others.
We were aware of the refugees fleeing from Syria, Afghanistan, and Iraq, attempting to navigate their way through Hungary in search of safety. However, our knowledge came primarily from articles, news reports, and social media. Now, we were hearing firsthand accounts from our neighbors, who dedicated their time to assist at the train station.
They spoke passionately about the families they encountered, the efforts they made, captivating our attention entirely. As they were about to leave, one of them invited me to join them. I hesitated, feeling anxious, but ultimately, I couldn’t refuse.
The first night my husband went down with her, I waited anxiously at home. When he returned, it was nearly one in the morning, but I couldn’t sleep. I craved to know what he experienced and yet feared the reality of it. Eventually, he shared his stories, and as I lay awake that night, images filled my mind—the mother, her baby, the children sleeping in the park, the father likely bracing himself to protect his family while planning their next steps.
When I was invited to come along, nerves bubbled within me. What impact could I possibly have that wasn’t already being fulfilled by the dedicated volunteers who were there daily? Yet, as I stood there, I overheard murmurs about a family arriving with small children.
Looking up, I spotted them crossing the platform, nearly collapsing onto the cold cement. The mother carried something that took me a moment to recognize—a baby, so small that he must have been born during their journey. Her other three children huddled close, one sleeping on the family’s lone backpack.
When I locked eyes with the mother, I felt an unexplainable connection. I had never met her before, nor had I experienced her circumstances. Yet, the sorrow etched on her face was familiar. I understood the tears in her eyes, the conflicting feelings of grief and comfort emanating from her four children. She longed for rest but needed her children close. Though she spoke no words, her body language conveyed her exhaustion.
When her youngest whined beside me, I saw her desire to soothe her, yet fatigue weighed her down. I motioned that I could help, to place the child beside her, and she nodded, patting the ground next to her. A few moments later, as her daughter lay on a makeshift bed of cardboard, I moved closer, rubbing her back gently until she drifted off to sleep.
I noticed the gratitude in the mother’s gaze as I offered to hold her baby from the carrying basket. It felt surprisingly heavy and awkward in my lap. As I cradled him, I could see the eagerness in her eyes to hold him again when he began to squirm. She buried her face in his neck, showering him with kisses, and I realized that this was the first time I had seen her smile. It was a profound love—exhausting and consuming. I didn’t know her struggles or the horrors she had faced, but I understood that kind of love well.
Recently, my son Benjamin had been sick and needed me constantly. For nearly three days, he clung to me. I yearned to take my older kids to church for a moment of respite, but even with the best distractions, he wouldn’t let go. After a half-hour struggle and some tears, I finally surrendered. As much as I needed a break, he needed me more.
Sometimes love is easy, but often it’s wearying. It’s a relentless giving, even when we feel drained. It hurts, but it’s genuine and profound. This is what I recognized in that mother that night. I understood without her needing to say a word that she only desired a small reprieve, a helping hand.
As we guided her four exhausted children through the train station, I realized she was not doing this to them but for them—even if they didn’t grasp it, even if it drained her completely. I knew that, in her shoes, I would be the broken one, the weary one, the one in search of assistance, doing anything to safeguard my children.
That night, looking into that mother’s eyes, I felt what it means to be human. I now understand it in a way I couldn’t have just weeks before. I recognize my privilege in being born where I was, but I also see it as mere geography. At our core, we are not so different after all.
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Summary:
In a poignant reflection, the author recounts a transformative experience with a refugee mother, highlighting the deep connection forged through shared struggles and the universal nature of love and sacrifice. Amidst the chaos of seeking safety, the mother’s exhaustion and unwavering devotion to her children resonate powerfully, prompting the author to confront the realities of privilege and humanity.