As she returned to the car, she shifted to slow, careful breaths to avoid his smell.
To her questions about the ER visit, he said, “Yeah, I was in the ER cause my leg hurt.” And to who took him there, “Why a squad car, of course.”
“Mr. Sommerfield, do you have any children?” If she could get a name, she might be able to find where he belonged.
“Now that’s an interesting story. My wife was pregnant once. But on the day that she had her appointment the doctor took me aside and said your son’s not going to live. And he didn’t. Stillborn.”
“I’m so sorry.” It didn’t matter that it had been 60 years. It seemed to still hurt.
She couldn’t see his face since she was trying to keep the car from dying, but she heard his tone darken.
“You see. My wife lied to me. She was five years older than she said she was when we first married. She was too old to have a child. I should have beat the living crap out of her for that!”
What can one say to that? Hoping to appeal to some dormant decency, she tried, “Now you wouldn’t have done that really now, would you? And why?”
“Just for the hell of it, that’s why!”
She felt sick. She wanted this to be over. This was a hateful, nasty old man, and he didn’t deserve a ride home, if he even had a home. What was she doing? It must have been that book she’d just read, “Same Kind of Different as Me”, a book that no doubt had influenced her decision, albeit subconsciously, to stop and try to help the man.
If there had been good intentions, if there had been an opening in her heart, a desire to be a vessel for grace, they ended there. All she could do was picture the poor woman with her dead baby and her husband blaming her. All she wanted was to get away from him.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
The Not-So-Good Samaritan, Part 2
“Where do you live, sir?” she asked, expecting some confusion.
He answered without a hitch, “I live at 4033 Spottswood.”
“That’s a long way from here. How did you get all the way out here?”
His answer was firm, slightly defensive, “Well, a man’s got to go to town sometimes, I reckon.”
She didn’t correct his geography. She offered to give him "a ride home, so you can get your shoe.”
“That would be mighty kind of you. And, if you don’t mind…hell, I need some cigarettes. If we could stop at Walgreens on the way.”
Realizing she'd forgotten her manners, “What’s your name, sir?” she asked.
Straightening up, he answered proudly, “Arthur Lee Sommerfield the Third! And you?”
“Terry.”
“Terry? What a delightful name! It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said with a bow. They shook hands.
This isn’t so bad, she thought. He’s a sweet old man. He doesn’t deserve to be out here wandering around in one shoe away from home, wherever that is.
In front of the Post Office, he stopped, leaned on the garbage can. “City Hall owes me $803.”
“They do?”
“Yes, but I moved and I forgot to give my new address. And that money comes in handy twice a month.”
Post office customers glanced at the suburbanite talking to the homeless man, gave her a questioning look, but none stopped. She adjusted her posture, establishing herself as the Good Samaritan, but wishing someone would join her.
He was in no hurry to leave the garbage can, so she prodded, “The car’s right over here. I’m taking you home, remember.”
“And what a fine automobile that is!” he said gallantly, as if it were a BMW instead of the shabby Mazda in dire need of a new paint job. She opened the door, wishing she had the minivan, dreading the close proximity.
“So, Mr. Sommerfield, is your wife still alive?”
He seemed to think about it for a moment. “I don’t know.” She thought he was confused, but then he said triumphantly, “She got too uppity, so I divorced her!” He made this sound like a war story in which he’d routed the enemy.
She was beginning to think he might not be so sweet after all.
Minutes later, in the nursing home parking lot, she told him she needed to go in and make a phone call. He seemed oblivious to the surroundings, and said, “Take all the time you need.”
Inside, she made her way past the maze of wheelchairs, avoiding eye contact with the people in them, thinking, “Why are they all crowded here in the lobby - people can barely get past.” Old or infirm people like that - always waiting, hoping for some kind of contact, made her feel vaguely guilty. She hurried to the reception desk.
“No Arthur Sommerfield here,” said the receptionist. But, eager to break from her ordinary routine, get in on the rescue mission, she tried to help. She found out after some calls to the hospital that he’d been released from the ER at 4:00 a.m. that day. So, 11 hours later, he was alone, 2 blocks from the ER, missing a shoe.
She headed back to the car, half-expecting, half-hoping he wouldn’t be there. But he was sitting there as normal as could be, as content as he was earlier while leaning on the garbage can, all the time in the world.
He answered without a hitch, “I live at 4033 Spottswood.”
“That’s a long way from here. How did you get all the way out here?”
His answer was firm, slightly defensive, “Well, a man’s got to go to town sometimes, I reckon.”
She didn’t correct his geography. She offered to give him "a ride home, so you can get your shoe.”
“That would be mighty kind of you. And, if you don’t mind…hell, I need some cigarettes. If we could stop at Walgreens on the way.”
Realizing she'd forgotten her manners, “What’s your name, sir?” she asked.
Straightening up, he answered proudly, “Arthur Lee Sommerfield the Third! And you?”
“Terry.”
“Terry? What a delightful name! It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said with a bow. They shook hands.
This isn’t so bad, she thought. He’s a sweet old man. He doesn’t deserve to be out here wandering around in one shoe away from home, wherever that is.
In front of the Post Office, he stopped, leaned on the garbage can. “City Hall owes me $803.”
“They do?”
“Yes, but I moved and I forgot to give my new address. And that money comes in handy twice a month.”
Post office customers glanced at the suburbanite talking to the homeless man, gave her a questioning look, but none stopped. She adjusted her posture, establishing herself as the Good Samaritan, but wishing someone would join her.
He was in no hurry to leave the garbage can, so she prodded, “The car’s right over here. I’m taking you home, remember.”
“And what a fine automobile that is!” he said gallantly, as if it were a BMW instead of the shabby Mazda in dire need of a new paint job. She opened the door, wishing she had the minivan, dreading the close proximity.
“So, Mr. Sommerfield, is your wife still alive?”
He seemed to think about it for a moment. “I don’t know.” She thought he was confused, but then he said triumphantly, “She got too uppity, so I divorced her!” He made this sound like a war story in which he’d routed the enemy.
She was beginning to think he might not be so sweet after all.
Minutes later, in the nursing home parking lot, she told him she needed to go in and make a phone call. He seemed oblivious to the surroundings, and said, “Take all the time you need.”
Inside, she made her way past the maze of wheelchairs, avoiding eye contact with the people in them, thinking, “Why are they all crowded here in the lobby - people can barely get past.” Old or infirm people like that - always waiting, hoping for some kind of contact, made her feel vaguely guilty. She hurried to the reception desk.
“No Arthur Sommerfield here,” said the receptionist. But, eager to break from her ordinary routine, get in on the rescue mission, she tried to help. She found out after some calls to the hospital that he’d been released from the ER at 4:00 a.m. that day. So, 11 hours later, he was alone, 2 blocks from the ER, missing a shoe.
She headed back to the car, half-expecting, half-hoping he wouldn’t be there. But he was sitting there as normal as could be, as content as he was earlier while leaning on the garbage can, all the time in the world.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
The Not-So-Good Samaritan, Part 1
She was proud of herself for holding her tongue. She hadn't said a word when he told their son to take the minivan to school, so he could try to fix the 15 year old Mazda. She didn’t go out there at 8:15 to remind him that she needed to leave for work by 8:25 at the latest. She didn’t say what she was thinking, which was, “Why in the world are you attempting to do this NOW?”
She was good. She held her tongue. She also held her “thank you” and her kiss, giving only a cool good-bye as she hurriedly backed out of the driveway, leaving him with wrench in hand to watch her go, to feel her disapproval without her having marred her resolve to not say anything.
The car still wasn’t fixed. So it was back to the old routine. At red lights, she had to shift into neutral and gun the gas to keep the car from dying. No. She wouldn’t call and tell him. She was going to make it to work on time after all. Her heart softened as she thought about how eager he was to get the car fixed; how disappointed he would be. Nonetheless, at each read light, she still grumbled about his timing.
That afternoon all was forgiven. Work had gone well, she’d left a few minutes early, the weather was beautiful, and she was looking forward to a long walk when she got home. Skillfully navigating the red-lights, she felt grateful and optimistic. He tries so hard; he'll get it fixed, she thought.
Driving down Park Avenue, she noticed an old man standing on the sidewalk, stopped, as if lost. He was wearing a coat, blue pants, but only one shoe. Thinking he’d wandered off from the nursing home down the street, worried that he might be disoriented and wander into the busy street, she turned right, found a parking spot just as the car died. She hurried to find the man, still standing in the same stop, staring alternately at his feet and straight ahead at the poster on the side of the bus stop.
Aware of the cars driving past, aware of herself in her bright red coat stopping to help an old man, she asked loudly, “Sir, is everything okay?”
He looked up; their eyes met. He looked back down. “Well, no. It seems I’m missing a shoe. It looks like I’ll need to go to Florsheim’s and buy a new pair.”
“What do you think happened to your shoe?” She guessed he was 80 something. He had two pre-historic looking teeth, was wearing gloves and a hat, but carried nothing else. The blue sweat pants were stained, but he didn’t have the look of someone who lived on the street. He smelled of cigarettes and grime.
“I was at a party at my lady friend’s, and it went way into the night. Everyone left about 2:00 a.m. and when I woke up, my shoe was gone.”
This will be a good story, she thought, already visualizing the telling at dinner that night.
She was good. She held her tongue. She also held her “thank you” and her kiss, giving only a cool good-bye as she hurriedly backed out of the driveway, leaving him with wrench in hand to watch her go, to feel her disapproval without her having marred her resolve to not say anything.
The car still wasn’t fixed. So it was back to the old routine. At red lights, she had to shift into neutral and gun the gas to keep the car from dying. No. She wouldn’t call and tell him. She was going to make it to work on time after all. Her heart softened as she thought about how eager he was to get the car fixed; how disappointed he would be. Nonetheless, at each read light, she still grumbled about his timing.
That afternoon all was forgiven. Work had gone well, she’d left a few minutes early, the weather was beautiful, and she was looking forward to a long walk when she got home. Skillfully navigating the red-lights, she felt grateful and optimistic. He tries so hard; he'll get it fixed, she thought.
Driving down Park Avenue, she noticed an old man standing on the sidewalk, stopped, as if lost. He was wearing a coat, blue pants, but only one shoe. Thinking he’d wandered off from the nursing home down the street, worried that he might be disoriented and wander into the busy street, she turned right, found a parking spot just as the car died. She hurried to find the man, still standing in the same stop, staring alternately at his feet and straight ahead at the poster on the side of the bus stop.
Aware of the cars driving past, aware of herself in her bright red coat stopping to help an old man, she asked loudly, “Sir, is everything okay?”
He looked up; their eyes met. He looked back down. “Well, no. It seems I’m missing a shoe. It looks like I’ll need to go to Florsheim’s and buy a new pair.”
“What do you think happened to your shoe?” She guessed he was 80 something. He had two pre-historic looking teeth, was wearing gloves and a hat, but carried nothing else. The blue sweat pants were stained, but he didn’t have the look of someone who lived on the street. He smelled of cigarettes and grime.
“I was at a party at my lady friend’s, and it went way into the night. Everyone left about 2:00 a.m. and when I woke up, my shoe was gone.”
This will be a good story, she thought, already visualizing the telling at dinner that night.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Hunger for God
When I was 17, I had a summer job as a secretary at The Memphis Country Club. In the elegant, old-world dining room with starched white linens even at lunch, I learned to love lamb and mint jelly, grilled cheese with bacon, quiche and other exotic foods. One of my duties was to decipher the chef’s handwriting and make daily menus, requiring frequent trips to ask him to translate. (The girl who took my place when I left wasn’t so careful, so one day when the president of the club sat down to peruse the menu, he saw, “Chicken Crap.” She was fired.)
Though I enjoyed the lunches as much as anyone, I despised the office talk. For 8 hours the women talked of two things: food and TV. Just beginning to think seriously about God, eager for learning, passionate for meaning, I wanted to scream, “Wake up! Don’t you know there’s more to life than eating and watching TV?”
Today I not only can’t recall my former indignation, I’ve become those women, I’m ashamed to say.
For some time, I’ve been sleepily aware of a dullness in my spirit, an inability to muster up much enthusiasm for spiritual things. This is not a state I am comfortable with; my lips confessing but my heart far. One reason I sing in the choir at church is that I want the truths we sing to find resonance in me; if not, to expose to me my hypocrisy. And, of late, I’ve sensed that the words and the reality don’t match.
So when I heard a quote from a book at church on hunger for God, I raced to check it out from the library before anyone else could snatch it. I was providentially deaf when the speaker mentioned the subject of the book and too much in a hurry to read the front cover, or I wouldn’t have bothered. Fasting was the last thing on my mind.
But, it was what I needed. I’d already been ruminating on the sisters of Sodom; their arrogance, lives of careless ease, and unconcern for the poor. In an earlier post I talked about pride; here I want to talk about being overfed. This quote from Piper’s book sums up his thesis well.
“The greatest enemy of hunger for God is not poison but apple pie. It is not the banquet of the wicked that dulls our appetite of heaven, but endless nibbling at the table of the world….The greatest adversary of love to God is not his enemies but his gifts. And the most deadly appetites are not for the poison of evil, but for the simple pleasures of earth. For when these replace an appetite for God himself, the idolatry is scarcely recognizable, and almost incurable.” John Piper, "Hunger for God".
He makes a compelling argument for fasting which I won’t relate here; if your resistance is like mine was, you’ll need to be tricked into reading it, too. I won’t be able to convince you. But, from the first page, I knew this was a message for me, that I felt no desire for God because my soul was stuffed “with small things”, leaving no room for the great. Jesus warned that “the pleasures of this life” and “the desire for other things” would choke out the word.
C.S. Lewis said our problem is not that are desires are too strong, but rather are too weak. “We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.” (The “Weight of Glory”, an essay.)
I have been far too easily pleased. Give me a good book, a bowl of ice cream, let me snuggle before the fire; I can’t think of much better. And because I’m a rich American, I can do that or any number of pleasurable things every single day. And I have.
But, by God’s grace and prodding, things are changing. Fasting is a time when, for just a few hours, I stop indulging. I set my heart and my mind elsewhere. I listen. I hunger. I even cry. I identify with “want”. I do believe I am waking up again.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Embarrassing Story #1
Having just bragged to my sister about adding the subscription link to my blog, I cut our conversation short so I could practice more computer wizardry by sending out one mass email to everyone in my address book to let them know. Within seconds of hitting Send, I realized that somehow I had sent out 6 of the same email to every person.
I called my sister back, laughing so hard I couldn’t get it out at first. We then laughed together, as we often do. We love to collect and share the funny stories of our days, phoning each other for the sheer joy of laughing together.
But this was very embarrassing. It is. Having cleverly confessed in my email to feeling self-promoting, (so they wouldn’t think it first), I then blew it by barraging their email boxes with 6 annoying messages. I felt a little better when my sister told me that she once hit the Reply All key, sending her lunch order for a Reuben from Bogie’s Deli to the entire faculty at Collierville High.
This reminded me of another embarrassing story, and, desiring a little levity in the midst of my sack-cloth and ashes week, I’ve decided to post it here instead of dealing with the second sin of the sisters of Sodom (previous post), though I’m working on that one.
It was 1982. Newly married, we had just moved to a NATO base in Germany. We had a couch, a bed, a few dishes and cooking utensils, and a beat-up dinette on loan from the Army, so our apartment was cold and depressing, as was the weather. A few visits to the base had revealed to me the hierarchy inherent in the military. The Air Force had word processors, the Navy had IBM Selectrics, but the Army was still using manual typewriters.
So, when we were invited to attend a planning meeting for Vacation Bible School volunteers at an Air Force officer’s home, I was just becoming aware of rank and position, things of little consequence to me until marrying an Army Lieutenant.
They lived “on the economy”, which meant they could take their money and choose. The apartment was decorated with new Scandinavian furniture, artwork, Belgian rugs, fresh flowers. The formal dining table was set for six, the candles were lit. Even the aroma of the food made me think of success, permanence, home, things I felt keenly bereft of.
The other guests were in the Navy. The wife was incredibly beautiful; tall, elegant, but naturally so, with long, perfectly straight, sun-kissed hair. Her husband, a pilot, was just as stunning. I had an awful haircut that made me look like a cross between the little sister on Happy Days and Janet on Three's Company. Pat was wearing some crummy tennis shoes with grass stains I’d somehow failed to intercept.
At either end of the table, during the meal, the hosts dazzled us with their college fraternity and sorority stories. Like spectators at a tennis match, we turned our heads to the right, left, right, left, as they virtually monopolized the entire evening, obviously thinking they were master hosts and conversationalists.
It was the wife’s turn. She was to my right. I can’t remember the story; in fact, none of them were memorable; only what happened next. As she was talking, I saw her eyes fix on my husband, then widen, as her mouth dropped. I turned to look at Pat and saw that his entire chin was covered in broccoli cheese casserole.
He had dropped his napkin on the floor. Wanting to maintain the appearance of being interested in yet another story, he had reached down to retrieve the napkin without taking his eyes off her, but had unknowingly dipped his chin in his plate. We all laughed heartily, including the hosts, for which I was grateful.
I was also grateful when it was time to go home to our grim apartment, to sit close on the green Army-issue sofa and reconstruct the evening. As newlyweds just getting our feet wet in things societal, we experienced Solidaritat. We hashed out together what it means to be hospitable, how to treat guests, how not to dominate conversations, what it is to feel inferior, how to work past that. We decided we probably wouldn’t be invited back.
We weren’t.
I called my sister back, laughing so hard I couldn’t get it out at first. We then laughed together, as we often do. We love to collect and share the funny stories of our days, phoning each other for the sheer joy of laughing together.
But this was very embarrassing. It is. Having cleverly confessed in my email to feeling self-promoting, (so they wouldn’t think it first), I then blew it by barraging their email boxes with 6 annoying messages. I felt a little better when my sister told me that she once hit the Reply All key, sending her lunch order for a Reuben from Bogie’s Deli to the entire faculty at Collierville High.
This reminded me of another embarrassing story, and, desiring a little levity in the midst of my sack-cloth and ashes week, I’ve decided to post it here instead of dealing with the second sin of the sisters of Sodom (previous post), though I’m working on that one.
It was 1982. Newly married, we had just moved to a NATO base in Germany. We had a couch, a bed, a few dishes and cooking utensils, and a beat-up dinette on loan from the Army, so our apartment was cold and depressing, as was the weather. A few visits to the base had revealed to me the hierarchy inherent in the military. The Air Force had word processors, the Navy had IBM Selectrics, but the Army was still using manual typewriters.
So, when we were invited to attend a planning meeting for Vacation Bible School volunteers at an Air Force officer’s home, I was just becoming aware of rank and position, things of little consequence to me until marrying an Army Lieutenant.
They lived “on the economy”, which meant they could take their money and choose. The apartment was decorated with new Scandinavian furniture, artwork, Belgian rugs, fresh flowers. The formal dining table was set for six, the candles were lit. Even the aroma of the food made me think of success, permanence, home, things I felt keenly bereft of.
The other guests were in the Navy. The wife was incredibly beautiful; tall, elegant, but naturally so, with long, perfectly straight, sun-kissed hair. Her husband, a pilot, was just as stunning. I had an awful haircut that made me look like a cross between the little sister on Happy Days and Janet on Three's Company. Pat was wearing some crummy tennis shoes with grass stains I’d somehow failed to intercept.
At either end of the table, during the meal, the hosts dazzled us with their college fraternity and sorority stories. Like spectators at a tennis match, we turned our heads to the right, left, right, left, as they virtually monopolized the entire evening, obviously thinking they were master hosts and conversationalists.
It was the wife’s turn. She was to my right. I can’t remember the story; in fact, none of them were memorable; only what happened next. As she was talking, I saw her eyes fix on my husband, then widen, as her mouth dropped. I turned to look at Pat and saw that his entire chin was covered in broccoli cheese casserole.
He had dropped his napkin on the floor. Wanting to maintain the appearance of being interested in yet another story, he had reached down to retrieve the napkin without taking his eyes off her, but had unknowingly dipped his chin in his plate. We all laughed heartily, including the hosts, for which I was grateful.
I was also grateful when it was time to go home to our grim apartment, to sit close on the green Army-issue sofa and reconstruct the evening. As newlyweds just getting our feet wet in things societal, we experienced Solidaritat. We hashed out together what it means to be hospitable, how to treat guests, how not to dominate conversations, what it is to feel inferior, how to work past that. We decided we probably wouldn’t be invited back.
We weren’t.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Arrogant, Overfed, and Unconcerned
As long as you think Sodom and Gomorrah was incinerated because of certain sexual proclivities you don’t happen to be guilty of, you can safely skim past that story, believing it has nothing to do with you. Until the day your pastor tells you straight out that the judgment wasn’t about sexual immorality, and you read in Ezekiel 16:
The guilt of Sodom: she and her daughters had arrogance, abundant food, and careless ease, but they didn’t grasp the hand of the needy.
No sailing past these words in your self-righteous Hovercraft. Well, you could, as I did. For a while. Especially the first one. Arrogance. That’s the Pharisees, right? Or the people building the Tower of Babel. King Nebuchadnezzar. Pharoah. There’s nothing of them in me.
Then I read a chapter in "The Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All" by Alan Gurganus in which the pride of the South is reduced to ashes in Sherman’s wake. The lady dressed in white silk, her charm, her Latin, her music, her European antiques, her china and silver, her garden parties, her charity work. All is burned, even herself, as she stands too close, in denial that she in all her glory would come to such an end. Only the slaves escape.
She had no idea of the vanity that all her servants secretly made fun of. She was blind. Until it was all burned up and, “for the first time, she began to live her life from the inside out.” Reduced to crawling on the ground, digging for roots from the slaves’ garden, all that had made her beautiful and superior was gone. But the slaves had known all along it was a sham.
The slaves’ cutting assessment of her and her incredible self-delusion made me nervous. I could see a bit of myself in her, a pride in my love for books, for knowledge and beauty, for my way of life. All that she had was given to her; it was unearned, but she, like most in the privileged class, saw it as a sign of God’s blessing, favor. Could I be blind, too?
God has graciously used the Ezekiel passage, the above-mentioned book, two other books, my pastor’s sermons from Hosea, and life itself to wake me up recently. My thoughts aren’t well-organized yet, but bear with me. More later.
The guilt of Sodom: she and her daughters had arrogance, abundant food, and careless ease, but they didn’t grasp the hand of the needy.
No sailing past these words in your self-righteous Hovercraft. Well, you could, as I did. For a while. Especially the first one. Arrogance. That’s the Pharisees, right? Or the people building the Tower of Babel. King Nebuchadnezzar. Pharoah. There’s nothing of them in me.
Then I read a chapter in "The Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All" by Alan Gurganus in which the pride of the South is reduced to ashes in Sherman’s wake. The lady dressed in white silk, her charm, her Latin, her music, her European antiques, her china and silver, her garden parties, her charity work. All is burned, even herself, as she stands too close, in denial that she in all her glory would come to such an end. Only the slaves escape.
She had no idea of the vanity that all her servants secretly made fun of. She was blind. Until it was all burned up and, “for the first time, she began to live her life from the inside out.” Reduced to crawling on the ground, digging for roots from the slaves’ garden, all that had made her beautiful and superior was gone. But the slaves had known all along it was a sham.
The slaves’ cutting assessment of her and her incredible self-delusion made me nervous. I could see a bit of myself in her, a pride in my love for books, for knowledge and beauty, for my way of life. All that she had was given to her; it was unearned, but she, like most in the privileged class, saw it as a sign of God’s blessing, favor. Could I be blind, too?
God has graciously used the Ezekiel passage, the above-mentioned book, two other books, my pastor’s sermons from Hosea, and life itself to wake me up recently. My thoughts aren’t well-organized yet, but bear with me. More later.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
RESERVIERT!
Reserviert. Reserved. Already taken. Purchased in advance. Go away. Not for you. Calligraphied on white place cards at fancy dinners, choice seats roped off at church, in theatres. Every single parking space on the campus where I work. The words are music only to the intended honorees. The rest of us mutter, shuffle off to the periphery, squeeze into economy class.Junior high girls form tight circles; each spot is reserved. There are no place cards, but everybody knows. The right to be here is fragile, so the girls stand there, glancing about, always checking to make sure they don’t get nudged out. They dare not relax their stance, open up the circle to even acknowledge an outsider. To do so is to risk the unthinkable; to have to stand alone.
_________________________
It was 1982. Carol Lee and I were traveling in Europe, making our way south from Germany; destination Italy. We had met two other American girls in Munich who were also going to Italy, and who, like us, had been warned:
“Be careful when you go through Italy on the train. You know those Italians. They gas people and steal their wallets and suitcases while they’re sleeping.”
This threat was confirmed by almost every American female traveler we met. We in turn joyfully passed this information on to attractive male travelers. “Beware of the Gassers” became our slogan, causing us to dissolve in laughter.
By the time we were to board the midnight train to Milan, we were at a fever-pitch of excitement, having exhausted ourselves trying to see and do everything. The station was packed, but we four girls vowed solidarity against the gassers.
Squeezing through hundreds of red-eyed Eurail Pass holders, we were ecstatic to find an empty car. We were home free! We gallantly offered one remaining seat to an attractive American male, welcoming him into our circle and telling him about the gassers. He agreed to keep watch.
Suitcases stored overhead, seats reclined, snug, smug, and secure in our English-only car, we congratulated ourselves for finding this empty car. We pitied the latecomers still scrambling to find seats. We dared the Italians to come.
We were finalizing our plans to watch out for swarthy Italians when we were rudely interrupted by a barking German train official. “Aus! Das ist reserviert!” He pointed to the sign on the door.
Silly, stupid Americans we were. We grabbed our bags, rushed out, avoiding the sneers of the reserve ticket holders, to try and find seats anywhere. We lost the cute American. We lost the other two girls. But at least, Carol Lee and I stayed together. Grateful for that, bordering on hysteria from the embarrassment and the dash to find seats, we plopped down, talking non-stop, giggling about gassers, the cute American we’d lost, the Nazi who’d thrown us out, what idiots we were.
We did all this carrying-on in the presence of the two other occupants of the car. A shabbily dressed middle-aged Turk who sat hugging a big paper sack on his lap would steal glances at us shyly. In our vanity we enjoyed his discomfort. The other passenger was a very handsome Scandinavian. We forgot about the cute American.
In our youthful arrogance, we kept up the gasser banter, giggling at everything, secure in our assumption that the two other passengers couldn’t understand a word we were saying, couldn’t understand our giggles about the strange Turk and the gorgeous Swede.
Then he spoke. The gorgeous one. The good-looking blonde one that Carol Lee had eyed me about from the minute we sat down.
In perfect English he chided us, “I don’t think you need to worry about the gassers tonight. The Italians just won the World Cup in soccer, and they’re too busy celebrating to gas anybody.”
I’ve never been so artfully and thoroughly put in my place as on that midnight train to Milan.
It’s a funny, fond memory, evoked by a single word – RESERVED.
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Jesus said to his best friends just a few days before he died, “You can’t come with me, but I’m going to prepare a place for you.” And then he adds this gut-wrenchingly human back-door kind of statement, “If it weren’t so, I would have told you.”
A place for you. Reserved. Permanent.
If it weren’t so, He would have told us.
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