A Lot Like Me - Redrawing the Lines

My son was dating a beautiful girl recently, and he laughed one day, saying, “She’s so much like you!” I smiled and agreed. In a lot of ways, she really was—funny, opinionated, full of energy. Then I saw a picture of the two of us. I’m tall, middle-aged, with wildly curly blonde hair and blue eyes. She’s petite, Asian, with sleek, tamed hair and a sweet, quiet presence. I chuckled. She is like me—maybe enough to be mistaken for my daughter—but probably not if you saw the photo first.

Over 20 years ago, I was on a mission trip to Rwanda. I remember the moms. The grandmas, too. I remember watching a young American man who came with us on the trip. He was from the South, a world traveler, interested in many of the same things I loved—music, culture, people, languages. Light brown hair. Blue eyes. Familiar.

Most people would have seen him and me, and assumed we were alike. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the lovely pastor’s wife who served as our host. She was over fifty, I was in my twenties. She didn’t have a college degree, a cell phone, or a Walmart down the street. She was softened by age and motherhood—and by the trauma of surviving genocide just eight years earlier.

She was wise and calm and always seemed to know what to do with my fussy baby. I was young, nervous, and tightly protective of my pale, wide-eyed child in a land that was new to me. But she saw me. She understood the exhaustion and the fear of strangers, and waited until I was ready. She held out her arms. She settled him. She helped me. And we loved her from the first moment.

She was like me.

She felt like someone I’d known forever. Protective but not controlling, patient with my different ways, curious about me and our life. We had very little in common on paper. But had I seen her in action with a child or quietly caring for others, I would’ve picked her out in a crowd as someone like me.

Not long ago, I met with a group of nursing students about to begin a semester that included diversity training. I encouraged them to set aside, for just a moment, the pressure of saying exactly the right thing all the time. Our cultural approach to inclusion is often too focused on terminology, and not focused enough on staying present, loving well, and taking good care of people.

I told them this: When you walk into a room, you may meet someone who seems entirely different from you—different race, background, accent, worldview. Pause. Connect. Look for common ground. You don’t know how much you might have in common until you’ve seen a glimpse of their story. Maybe they’re like you. Probably they are.

I’m not the most daring person. I cringed for a full month over a speeding ticket—15 miles over, no less. But oddly enough, some of the strongest patient connections I’ve had were with prisoners. It’s astonishing how much that shackled young man reminded me of my own messy, lovable kid.

He was angry, resisting care, refusing a bath from the pretty CNAs. I barged in with my bandage scissors and told him, in full Southern mama mode, I’d cut off his urine-encrusted clothes and bathe him myself. He calmed right down. There were armed guards at the door. We were fine.

Later, I brought him pudding and sat with him. We talked about his life, his choices, and his future. He cried for the mess he was in—and for his mother. And in that moment, I was his mother. He loved me, and I loved him. He promised he’d think of his mom when he was tempted again. That he wouldn’t wait to make things right—he’d choose the right thing now.

It’s easier to love someone who is like you. So maybe it’s time to redraw the lines of similarity. Maybe you’ve been using the wrong markers.

Love them. Be in their world. And you might just discover—they’re like you.

🎧 Listen to the podcast here: https://creators.spotify.com/pod/profile/transformationship/episodes/A-Lot-Like-Me--Redrawing-the-Lines-34-e37vnn3