I identify with the Mollies of this world. The first and only encounter I had with Molly was 16 years ago. It was late summer. My then fiancé, now husband, had just come off a literal and figurative mountain high, having, with some comrades for his “stag,” hiked The Lions Trail and camped two nights at the peak. I met them at Holy Rosary Cathedral for the evening Sunday Mass.
Afterwards, we made our way to a downtown restaurant for a late supper. Before any food was even ordered, I had to politely excuse myself from the guys. I could not stand and meet them in their light-heartedness, jubilance, and jovialness. I was in too much pain.
After leaving the group, I walked towards St. Paul’s Hospital. My father had been diagnosed that June with acute leukemia. He was there for the second of his three month-long experimental chemotherapy treatments. I would pay him an after-hours visit.
It was as I approached the McDonald’s along West Georgia and Burrard that I first saw her. Sitting on the sidewalk by the busy road was Molly, quietly begging. I was struck by her youthfulness. Thinking of her now, she resembled a Raggedy Ann doll. Molly was raggedy indeed, as to be sadly expected of one living on the street, her hair an unkempt tangle of curls, her face so sweet and round. She could have been in her twenties, but she could also have just been 16 or 17.
While I could not identify with any mountain high, I could very much identify with Molly’s valley low. In that moment’s connection, I felt prompted to reach out to her. I asked if she would like anything from McDonald’s. She surprised me with her answer, “Two milks, please.”
I had to check with her that she did not want anything more substantial.
“No. Just milk,” she replied with such certainty.
I wondered at her sweetness. I wondered over her story. She met me with such innocence, gratitude, and grace.
Molly remains with me even now. I can only hope that she has found safety, warmth, connection, and love, no matter how humble her circumstances may still be.
If I have been gifted with any charisms, it would be that of honesty and of grief, that is, of being one and with the poor banished children of Eve, we who sigh, mourn, and weep in this valley of tears, in this honestly grief-stricken exile.
Winter and darkness are upon us again. If you feel yourself out of place and unseen, especially in this culture that is so afraid and repulsed by the wretched reality that marks our beautiful humanity, in a culture that rushes at the season to be jolly, I see you.
To the Mollies of this world, I see you.
To the woman who marched into Easter Sunday morning Mass, angry and heartbroken over the death of her son, over all the injustices she has suffered, I see you.
To the disillusioned ones whose hopes, dreams, and prayers seem unheard and dashed, I see you.
To the hurt ones escaping into alternate realities and to the loved ones so desperate yet so helpless to save them, I see you.
To the son, husband, and father who cannot help but be as he is, failing try after try to meet up, I see you.
To the daughter, wife, and mother whose heart is expanding and breaking all at once over everything she is called to hold, I see you.
To the ones visibly disabled and struggling, and all the more to the ones invisibly disabled and struggling, I see you.
To all who feel as if you must mask your sorrow, I see you.
I see you all, even in the dark, especially in the dark, because I am one and with you.
Above all, let this be your greatest consolation and mine, our reason for rejoicing: God sees us. He, Emanuel, is one and with us.
Jen Spicer lives in Mission, B.C.
Your voice matters! Join the conversation by submitting a Letter to the Editor here.
