Under the Tree: A Moment with Lawrence

Under the Tree: A Moment with Lawrence

This morning, as I arrived at St Bart’s, I saw a man I’ve noticed many times before — tall, grey-bearded, often sitting under the large tree across the road on the vacant block. We’ve exchanged waves and smiles in passing, but today I stopped.

At St Bart’s, we know that people who are experiencing homelessness or vulnerability often feel invisible. We know that feeling unseen can deepen the trauma. So this morning, I chose to stand still. To acknowledge. To listen, if he wished to speak. And he did.

Lawrence is 70. His presence is striking — strong yet weathered, with a face carved by decades of stories, and a head of grey curls tucked into a beanie. His voice is clear and grounded as he shares flashes of a life shaped by hardship, resilience, and deep connection to land and horses.

He grew up on a Mission outside Geraldton. His memories of childhood are fractured — some were buried by his mother’s silences, others returned as painful flashbacks in his 50s. He recalls being punished with electricity to the head for not falling in line. Later, it was bottles and sticks. He says he was often targeted, taking the blame, over and over, for things he didn’t do. Too much jail time, “mostly for nothing,” he says.

Despite it all, he tells me he was a stockman — like his father — and known as a horse whisperer. “I’d just whistle,” he says, “and the horse would know.” He learned to break horses gently, with trust and instinct. Education in the formal sense never worked for him, but when he was expelled, he says, it was the best thing that happened. It led him back to the land. Back to who he really was. “Who says school is for everyone?” he asks, and I can’t argue.

These days, his memory plays tricks on him. Recently, he went walkabout and when he returned, the staff at St Bart’s asked where he had been. He thought it had only been four days. It had been months. His sight is failing — the result of old injuries, he says. His eyes look like glass, and he waits patiently for cataract surgery that will, hopefully, allow him to see more clearly.

I spent most of our conversation simply saying, “I’m so sorry.” Because what else is there to say, when someone tells you:

“My life has been rough. My whole life.”

I couldn’t stay long — work was calling — but I let Lawrence know I’d return. I’ll stop by again under his tree. The one where he sits with his radio and his big mug of tea, quietly watching the world arrive at St Bart’s.

How much has he seen in 70 years?
How many stories live inside him?
How much healing could begin, if we simply made the time to listen?