The Line at Jersey Mike’s

You were behind me in line at Jersey Mike’s that day. Surely, you remember? They had just opened, and the line was short. I had just left a doctor’s appointment and stopped in for a #6, roast beef and provolone, extra Mike’s Way. I was taking it home; the appointment had left me drained and out of sorts.

There was a young man ahead of me. He was tall and very thin. He slumped slightly, as if it hurt to stand up straight. I might not have noticed him at all, but he kept reaching around and scratching at his lower back. It irritated me. My patience was wearing thin that day. I thought, Don’t scratch yourself right in front of me! And in a restaurant! How rude. How unsanitary. How—

I was fully caught up in my irritation when something stopped me short.

I looked again. First at his hand, which trembled slightly. Then at his demeanor; he seemed to want to shrink into himself. Then I noticed the woman standing ahead of him who had just said his name. Her voice was a gentle balm that resonated a lifetime of motherly love. She asked him which toppings he wanted on his sandwich. She had to ask twice before he answered in a low, pained voice. She then reached back and placed a supportive arm around his waist.

I looked again at his back—his jeans hung low and crumpled. They were barely holding up, much like the son.

I recognized his energy—his suffering, both physical and emotional.

And then I realized I knew this young man.

I knew he was in a fight for his life. I would have bet he had just come out of detox, or rehab. Or maybe he was fighting a craving in that moment. But he was trying. Here he was in a sandwich shop with his wonderfully warm mother, doing his best to appear to care about lettuce and tomatoes.

One thing for sure, he was hurting. And I knew him. You know him/her too. Maybe you didn’t see him that day in line, but you’ve seen him, or maybe you know him personally. The numbers of our hurting youth are skyrocketing. A small way to help is to really look at these hurting humans and find compassion.

I walked quickly back to my car, shut the door then grabbed my phone to call my son, who lived 1,300 miles away. Before he could even say hello, I launched into a speech from the center of my soul. I told him how honored I was to be his mother, how deeply I loved and admired his spirit, how he had the most beautiful, melodic voice I’d heard, how much I had learned from him. I told him that I had watched his suffering for years and understood his painful journey, and how profoundly honored I was that he had fought—hard—for so many years. That he had done it for us.

I poured out my soul.

His response startled me. He said, “I love you so much, mom. You know you’re my favorite person in the whole world. And don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt myself.”

True to his words, he did not hurt himself. And yet, we lost him shortly afterward.

That was the last time I spoke to my son.

I am so grateful that I truly saw that young man suffering quietly in line, scratching innocently in front of me. He will never know the gift he gave me—the inspiration to call my own son and sooth him with my own motherly love.

I think of that phone call when I’m in the depth of grieving, and it brings me some peace. I believe I was able to help buoy his earthly spirit until he was brought into the presence of his Father’s perfect love. I visualize God holding his hands out to Brady, who is standing straight and tall, and welcoming him home.