Note: Hope is something we cannot live without. It is one of the three theological virtues, and enables us to put our trust in God even when things seem hopeless. The following story is about a mother who never gave up hope and was providentially led to find her abandoned son.

We live in a rural town in Montana – small enough for everyone to know his neighbors. When some friends in Southern California invited us to visit them, my brother Steve and I decided to take that “once-in-a-lifetime” trip. Our mother, a first grade school teacher, asked if she could join us. This struck me as odd, since my father showed no interest in our plans and, understandably, preferred to stay home. For the final day of vacation, I told my family that I wanted to venture out on my own to see Los Angeles. I would get there on the city bus and see the sights. When Steve was about to drive me to the bus stop, I saw my mother running toward the car. She had originally planned to stay with the others, but now, suddenly, she wanted to spend the day with me. I said: “Mother, that’s not a good idea. More than likely we’ll get lost and accidentally end up in some rough part of town.” We continued to argue, but she would have none of it. There was no changing her mind, I had to concede, and she joined me on the bus ride. When we reached the last stop, the bus driver noticed our concern. “You’ll be all right,” he said. “You’re only five minutes from downtown.”

We stuck closely together and started around the block in search of a store or restaurant that might possibly have a restroom. Upon leaving the store we turned to the right and quite suddenly, we came face to face with the shock of our lives. Before us was a homeless man. His hair was long and dirty. His beard nearly reached his belt. His stained clothes hung loosely on his thin frame. I couldn’t look at him. But I had to. He was my brother, Doug. He was my mother’s first child. Gone was the star high school athlete. Gone was the college graduate. Gone was the Vietnam veteran. He had never recovered from that terrible experience. He was now a schizophrenic. His only words to us were: “Hi, what are you guys doing here?”

This unexpected encounter was our first contact with him in years. Now I realized why my mother had to come with me on the bus that day. She had a mission, and she completed it. When my mother and I left Los Angeles, we both felt, understandably, that we would never see Doug again. Happily that did not prove to be the case. Doug, on his own, returned a few months later to Montana, where I helped him get situated at the Rescue Mission in my town where he now is able to work a few hours each day in the mission’s thrift shop. In short, he has come to have a life of his own that he considers satisfying and useful.

Mom and Dad live two hours away, but they visit Doug every other month or so. About twice a year he boards a bus – not to drop out of sight as he originally had done – but to go back home again and spend a few days with his parents. Because Doug is at peace with himself in his special world, I now realize that this never would have happened but for the fact that my mother and I made that providential journey to Los Angeles by bus.

— Dave DeBoer