I rode the bus with two 12-year-old girls recently _ one was my daughter, one was not _ and when I placed my fare card on the scanner, I discovered I had run out of money. I had enough to cover my ride, but not the girls'.
I held up my phone and promised the driver I would reload the card using an app, and he waved us along to find seats. After a few minutes of trying to remember my Ventra password, I gave up and walked to the front of the bus to put a $5 bill in the fare collector.
"That's too much," the driver said. "Don't worry about it this time."
"It's the only cash I have," I told him.
"Don't worry about it this time," he repeated.
It was a small gesture, but I was immensely grateful. It was 90-plus degrees outside and I didn't want to pull the girls off the air-conditioned bus. We were late to pick up my son as it was, and I was happy not to hoof it to a CTA station or other site to reload my card the old-fashioned way.
In short, I was ill-prepared. And a perfect stranger bailed me out.
It's not the first time, and it won't be the last. It got me thinking about all the times, in fact, I have been saved by grace I hadn't earned _ grace that was delivered to me in my imperfect state, when I hadn't followed the rules, when I cut some corners, when I screwed up.
If you haven't made up your mind about whether immigrant children should be taken from their parents, I wonder if you can think of a time when you benefited from similar grace.
When your child wandered off in a store and a fellow shopper, rather than kidnap her, returned her unharmed. When you left your garage door open and a neighbor, rather than ransacking your belongings, closed it for you. When you lost your wallet and a stranger, rather than stealing your cash and your identity, delivered it to you untouched.
A time when you didn't follow the rules, maybe even committed a crime _ drove too fast, drank underage, took something that wasn't yours, snuck in somewhere without paying _ and you skated. Didn't even get caught. Or got caught and suffered very little in the way of consequences. Didn't watch your life and your family torn into unrecognizable pieces, in other words.
We've all had moments, haven't we, when someone's grace, someone's gut instinct, someone's split-second decision, kept our lives chugging along when they could have unraveled?
I wonder if one of those moments might allow you to pause before you decide these immigrant families are getting what they deserve. Break the law, pay the price.
It's not the same, you could argue. What does speeding on the Dan Ryan have to do with sneaking across a country's border? What do teen exploits with alcohol have to do with illegal immigration?
Grace. Grace is what they have to do with each other.
We're reading reports and hearing audio and seeing photos of terrified children suffering, alone, without their parents, and of terrified parents suffering, broken, without their children. And too often we're justifying the immorality of it all.
The parents are criminals. President Clinton started it. President Obama did it too. They're child actors.
I've heard it all. You probably have too. But have you sat, quietly, with no one else's voice in your head but your own, and put yourself in their shoes?
Have you wondered what it would be like to live around such violence and poverty that leaving everything you know and embarking on a grueling, life-threatening, cross-country trek with your children feels like your only hope for salvation?
Have you wondered what it would be like to arrive in a strange, confusing place and have someone take your child from your arms?
Have you pictured your child _ the one you've tucked into bed and read books to and brought just one more drink of water to _ sleeping in a makeshift cage, surrounded by wailing, wondering whether he'll ever see you again?
Have you thought, honestly, about why you're not in their shoes? Is it because you've followed every one of life's rules? Have luck and grace played any part?
They have for me. I was born in the United States. My parents had plenty. Those two things, neither of which I did a thing to earn, put me on an enviable path.
I don't feel guilty about that. This isn't a column about my liberal guilt. But I do feel humbled by it. I try not to lose sight of it.
I don't know how I'd survive if I lost my children. I don't know how I'd breathe, knowing they were alive, somewhere, but not with me. Maybe never again with me.
I'm haunted by the knowledge that so many mothers and fathers are, at this moment, suffering that fate. And I hope we can find it in our hearts, in our collective conscience, to stop distracting ourselves from their suffering with partisan finger-pointing.
The families belong together. We can debate their fate and where they go from here. But they must go together.
Certainly we can muster the grace _ grace that has sustained and saved us all _ to agree on that.
