Many years ago my husband and I visited Bern, the charming capitol of
Switzerland. One evening, we had a night free of planned activities.
Feeling liberated from itineraries, we wandered through the Medieval streets
into the heart of Bern. The warm evening breeze had lured swarms of people into
the town's square. Old men played checkers at cement tables amid musicians,
jugglers and other assorted street performers. Frank and I paused to drink in
the carnival of sights and sounds.
An American accent rang out above the bustle. I grabbed Frank's hand and pulled
him toward the sound of home.
"One' Two' Three!" A burst of laughter erupted from the crowd around a juggler.
I moved in closer, drawn in by his act and familiar accent.
After a finale of quick-handed magic tricks, appreciative onlookers threw coins
and moved on.
As the juggler bent down to collect the loose change, I felt compelled to
connect.
"Excuse me. Uh, I liked your act."
The Juggler looked up with a surprised expression, as if he didn't expect anyone
to stay around.
"Hey, thanks! You sound like an American."
I laughed, admitting that I'd been drawn to speak with him, maybe because of his
Yankee accent too. As travelers tend to do, I politely asked him what part of
the States he was from.
"California." The Juggler replied. "And you guys?"
I responded in the same general way. "Pennsylvania. Outside Philadelphia."
The juggler stopped picking up coins. "Oh! Where outside Philadelphia?"
I was slightly taken aback. Why did the name of the town Matterif he was from
California? Feeling silly, but strangely compelled to talk, I answered.
"Havertown."
The Juggler's jaw dropped and his bearded face softened. He spoke barely above a
whisper. "I went to Haverford High School."
Now Frank caught the compulsion to talk.
"But I thought you said you were from California?"
The Juggler got up off his knees and sat on the edge of a concrete flower
container. He drew in a breath and poured out a story he'd long locked away.
"I discovered I loved to perform while I was in high school. I wanted to study
the Arts in college but my stepfather felt I should study a serious subject --
like dentistry or something. I felt I had no choice, so I went to college in
California, but I couldn't study what I didn't love.
Rather than go home and face my stepfather, I left the States to travel around
Europe. I haven't seen my mother in 7 years."
After further discussion, Frank and I learned that his mother lived three
minutes from our house. In fact, I drove past her home every day on the way to
work. We stood in awe of the "coincidence" of our meeting.
The Juggler broke the silence. "If I give you my mother's number, would you call
her for me when you get back home? Would you tell her I'm okay?"
As a mother of two, I ached for this woman who was separated from her son. I
nodded a tearful yes.
I tucked the number away and the three of us parted, forever changed by a chance
meeting thousands of miles from home.
On the plane ride back to the States, I worried out loud to Frank. "What if his
mother is angry? What if she doesn't want to hear from me?"
Frank squeezed my hand and said, "You already know the right thing to do."
Once back in Havertown, I picked up the phone and put it back in the cradle
countless times. But, I couldn't ignore the strong inner voice that urged me to
call. After taking a deep breath, I dialed the number on the crumpled piece of
paper. A woman answered the phone. I spoke quickly -- before I lost my nerve.
"Hello. You don't know me but..." The story of our trip to Bern spilled out,
rapidly reaching the part where we met the Juggler in the town square. As I
relayed her son's greeting, the woman cried. "Oh, Thank God!"
In a voice thick with emotion, her questions tumbled out one after another. "How
did he look? Was he well? Is he okay?"
I found myself in the peculiar position of describing a son to his mother. I
assured her that he was healthy, making a nice living and seemed to be doing
fine. I described the Juggler's hair, his beard and his request that I make
contact with her.
The Juggler's mom spoke between sobs. "My son sent me a letter last year saying
he was thinking of coming home. He said the next time I heard from him would be
a sign that he'd be home soon. Thank you! Thank you so much for calling!"
After I hung up the phone, I wondered about the odds of meeting the Juggler at
just the right place, at just the right time and at just the right moment in his
life. I smiled through tears of my own and knew that chance had nothing to do
with it.
Signs, coincidences, accidental meetings, inner voices -- all the mark of God at
work.
Author unknown. If anyone has a proprietary interest in this story please
authenticate and I will be happy to credit, or remove, as the circumstances
dictate.
Thanks to chaplain@bdadvertising.com
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