I am not sure what happened before the young Japanese mother and her mini-sumo wrestler son got on the elevator. They were a study in contrast. Her alabaster skin was perfect. The complementary outfit was casual, conservative and modest, appropriate for a school day. As calm, quiet, and in control as she was, I knew two things. She could go as she was for a photo shoot and not be embarrassed. On this day, there was no chance the external world was going to know what emotions were bubbling just below the surface.
The young boy looked to be four or five years old. He was short for his age. I doubt he would ever be bullied. He had a solid, square frame, that could have easily passed for a scaled down rugby player or sumo wrestler. Even if one ignored his age, he was impressive! Short cropped hair, butch style, presented a man within a boy’s body. He had thick arms, solid legs, and a muscular tone to his body.
It was picture perfect; colors, contrast, beauty, and hope.
As the elevator door closed, the first crack in the image appears. The mini-sumo face turned up towards his mother. His lower lip was quivering with silence. His large eyes glistened on the verge of tears. The look was neither sad nor fearful. I could feel the genuine sadness, as if he was expressing a shared feeling for both of them. In a manner that seemed to be in harmony with our descent, his arms and hands slowly reached up towards his mom’s eyes.
Her perfect exterior remained intact except for her eyes. In that moment I felt as if I was intruding. I shouldn’t be there. As she struggled to lift the boy into her arms, I knew his prayer was being answered. “Get down on my level and listen, and please – no procrastination! Your granite cave a hiding place, your high cliff aerie a place of safety.” (Psalm 31.2)
As the elevator doors opened, in the silence there were three with unspoken tears.
