The Most Beautiful Sight

The Most Beautiful Sight

Last weekend at one of my favorite spots I witnessed one of the most beautifully moving sights ever. Something that stood out as extraordinary in the midst of some of the most ordinary of circumstances.

It wasn't the canopy of trees shading the the wooden deck sprinkled with chairs and tables at Central Market.  It wasn't the playfulness of the Lindy-Hoppers dancing to the gentle rhythm of  live swing music.  It wasn't even the scores of kids tangled up together running and climbing over every inch of the playscape in  full view of adoring parents enjoying the evening, the company of friends and family while talking, eating and laughing. 

Though all of these are infinitely precious in their own way, the one that moved me to the core was a particular scene unfolding on the other side of the deck.  Above the seated crowd a tall man, perhaps in his early thirties, stood holding and bouncing a baby the way we do when they are fussy and need to go to sleep, but can't without help.  After a few minutes, infant settled, they sat down and in minutes fell off my radar.

That is until my friend and I crossed over to the same side in our desire to find more comfortable seating and that's when I noticed them again.  Sitting quietly at the table now just in front of us; alone in the crowd except for the deliciously plump infant sprawled out across this parental lap.  Face up, cocoa skin collected in rounds on innocent arms stretched overhead; plump, dimpled thighs just barely long enough to extend beyond his perch. With a jaunty cap of dark curly hair peeking out from the other side of this human resting spot.

For more than two hours, the person I assume to be his father had loving provided a soft platform for this sleeping beauty to lay across without moving.  No rest-room break, no food purchase, conversation or any other discernible activity or shift in position beyond scrolling through a hand-held e-reader.  

And all I could think was that this must be the most loved child on the planet here in this moment of suspended time.  I wondered about what this little boy would grow up to be like for having been rooted and grounded from his earliest days in such a strong, sturdy, protective love.  What would his character and nature be like - and what would he do with such a profound gift?

And I wondered about who this man was and what was he like. Did he love generously because he had been loved that way - or perhaps because he had not been.  I also wondered where the mother was and was curious to know the rest of the untold story here in front of me.  I thought about the way moms and dads love differently - hers is often about comfort, cuddles and snuggles while his is designed to encourage strength and independence.  And I thought about the way media speaks about the breakdown of the family, particularly African-American families and how it made the scene in front of me even more precious; hopefully a declaration that the news is wrong.

I also thought about my own story of love - the ways it has come to me and the ways it hasn't.  All the twists and turns life has taken, and how at age 48 I still long with every part of me to find a love that is true and will last.  And how it is not possible to live present to that kind of longing, so busy activity gets used as a band-aid.    How hard it can be to overcome fears, old, untrue messages and hurts - to take relational risks.

And in the midst of all my unfinished pondering, this perfect baby stirs awake, refreshed from his nap.  He is lovingly placed into the stroller designed for people who run, strapped in - snapped in - and off they went leaving a trail of unanswered questions in their wake.  And I am left alone in the crowd, seated beside my friend; alone with my longing and desire.  What will I do with all of it?  Write.  Write about what I saw to capture the moment like a photograph; turn to my friends and loved ones, not away.  And determine to be brave enough to keep hoping that someday the love I long for will come true for me.