Revelations on the South Shore, PART 2

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.

Revelations on the South Shore

Yesterday afternoon, September 6, 2010
When I begin reading a book, I immediately check to see the number of pages. Then I continually monitor my progress with percentage-completed updates in the back of my mind. I do the same when traveling interstate highways. Milemarkers are noted, divided, as I track the fractions of my journey completed. I always know how much vacation time is gone, and how soon I will return to my life. ("3/14ths--Only 11 days left!" In this way, I manage to strangle the joy from many of life's endeavors.)

I am convinced of two things: First, these measurements are unhealthy. Like thieves, they steal my moments and my living. And second, they betray a lack of focus on and faith for the moment...the living that is at hand.

As I live this time away, I'm seeking to receive each day as a gift, and not as another thing to be accomplished. I want to capture each scent, smile and joy as they enter me. And I have already been brought to understand that I will experience pains and disappointments. But each only when and where I meet them.

I'm sitting still on the South Shore train in the South Bend Station. In moments, this train will leave for downtown Chicago. I have refused myself the option of studying the timetables...of looking ahead at how many stations we'll pass, or of how long the journey will be. I plan to live this journey as it comes to me.

We're rolling now.