There was a strange occurrence on the train ride yesterday. Similar to a pick-up game of playground basketball, people needed to choose partners with which to ride. The train was filling, and by the time we reached the city, none would be afforded the luxury of two seats. Those boarding the train were sizing-up potential seatmates, and wondering at the response they'd receive when making their invasive selection.
Who would choose me? White, black, yellow, brown? Male, female? What would their soul feel like? Hard, gentle; confused, clear?
My ears were filled with Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds, and my spirit musing midst the searching lyrics. And when she sat down, I noticed her city-honed grit. She asked me to hold her seat while she paid her fare and visited the toilet. I felt grateful for a way to give.
When she returned, I noticed she carried only a small, clear plastic pouch. I saw dental floss inside, and paid no further attention. I'd say she was in her fifties, yet had a teenaged daughter who'd taken a seat in the front of the car. She works in the city, but today she was traveling to buy her girl a dress. (I learned this from a phone call she had received from a new co-worker. She reassured the new girl of the kindness of her boss, despite indications to the contrary.)
Looking to me, after her phone call, she said something. I pulled an intricate guitar solo from my ears. She repeated: "What do you do?"
"I am an writer. An author." (It is true enough. I had a dozen copies of my book in my hand bag to deliver to the bookseller at the conference to which I was headed. I write sermons every week. I've even attended a writer's conference where I wore the nametag: "Hi, I'm David, and I'm a writer.")
She responded, "Are you a minister?"
All manner of thoughts exploded in my psyche. Can I not escape this identity? Not even for an anonymous train ride? I stammered some response...some mixture of weak admission and curious questioning. "How did you know? Is it that obvious?"
She began to speak, answering with language in which I am fluent, "My spirit knew from yours. I can read people. I knew you. You care from a deeper place. You are a minister of Jesus. I recognize you because that's what Christians do. We know Christ's Spirit in one another...don't we?"
The train moved on toward, and finally into, its station--the dark, subterranean end of the line. I hoped to walk with her and with her daughter until we came up onto city streets. Perhaps she could give me directions. She vanished like smoke into the flood of souls.
And, having heard from her, I knew my way a bit more clearly.
