The Line at Jersey Mike's

A guest post from Makita Schichtel, a parent in our community, shared with her permission. Her words are her own.

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 I noticed the woman standing ahead of him who had just said his name. Her voice was a gentle balm that resonated with the love of a lifetime of gentle moments. It was his mother, I was sure. 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.

And then I realized I knew this young man.

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

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 craving and fighting it in that moment. But he was trying. Here he was in a sandwich shop with his wonderfully warm mother, doing his best to appear normal.

But he was hurting. And I knew him.

I walked quickly back to my car and 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 pain, 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, "Mom, 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 at that critical time.

So maybe you weren't there that day. But you've seen this young man, at gas stations, sitting on porch stoops, lingering in city parks, maybe even sitting alone in church. You've noticed him — shying away from the public, poorly put together, maybe unfocused, often anxious. And always, always sad.

Once you really look, you can't not see him. And tragically, he is everywhere.