The house that stands majestically atop the rocky coastline was built in 1910, carefully designed to accommodate a growing number of members hailing a social club initiated twelve years prior. Called The Reading Room, early years of the club were structured around archaic by laws that welcomed dress-code attired men of stature and wealth and limited the entrance of women to a small room during clearly defined hours. 

I began working at the club in 1993. In many ways, the by laws had, thankfully, matured with the growth of the country and women were most welcome in any room at any time of day. Membership however, due to the exorbitant yearly dues, continued to favor only the wealthy families of the quaint seacoast town of York, ME, many carrying surnames dating back to original members.

It was a beautiful place to work, framed by the sparkling waters and rolling waves of the Atlantic. There was, however, a strong undercurrent of status that defied any hope of connecting with members and often left me questioning whether the stunning view was worth the reserved and stoic interactions and occasional reprimand when various protocols were not perfectly executed.   

There was one family in particular that, quite unknowingly to them, left a significant impression; my observations of their interactions with one another resulting in an unexpected formative life lesson. The husband and wife may have loved one another in the early days, but I suspect their union was one encouraged by the right match of status. Regardless of how things began, even the most rookie observer could see the current state of their marriage was forced and uncomfortable. While none of my assumptions are based in fact, I saw the wife as quiet yet intelligent, strong in spirit yet submissive and lonely. The husband played the role of superior, yet anyone could see his strength lay only in his surname and its accompanying position in high society.

This couple had a son. He was a kind-spirited young man who had significant special needs and was unable to communicate verbally. He was, however, fluent in sign, as was his mother. His father, heart-wrenchingly so, was not. While I don’t know the full back story, I was told it was the father’s choice not to learn sign and bridge the gap that would have allowed for a sincere connection with his child. 

I visit the beach that sits just below this club frequently and every time I look at this building that holds such mystery and prestige, I am reminded of this young man and can’t help but give thought to the desperate failings of a society whose foundation is built on such shallow pilings. I wonder what became of the family and question whether this father ever came to see the incredible worth of his son. These musings are especially poignant for me as I now have a daughter with special needs who, mercifully, is verbal but has had to fight for every word in her vocabulary. This child’s desire to be heard is matched only by our desire to understand her.

For any parent, the art of communication begins with a blank canvas for each child and the medium needed to bring the picture into view is vastly different from one child to the next. I find some days are easier to communicate with my daughter and her limited vocabulary than with my ever-evasive teenage sons. In the end, I always retreat to the one person I can trust to listen to me any time of day, no matter what mood I’m in or how many questions I have. I absolutely count on this guy (and His mom) to accept my words in any form they come and help me sort through the emotions that often want to swallow me whole.

Even the most rookie observer can see this world is in a state of turmoil and unrest that seems to be growing in intensity each day. If only, I often think, we could all see the incredible worth of the Son. Unfortunately, there is a misunderstanding among so many that these conversations have to be had within the by laws and boundaries of a specific religion, attired in our Sunday best or exists only for those who fit within a worldly defined hierarchy. When really, we all need to see Jesus as the vulnerable young man desperate to be accepted, longing to communicate and worthy – so very worthy – of our attention.