Train Ride
During my chemotherapy treatments in downtown Chicago, I was able to travel conveniently on the Metra train. I generally enjoyed the relaxed time for reading.
One day, returning from downtown, I was one of the first onto an empty train that would pull out of the station twenty minutes later. I picked a seat for myself, and heaped my belongings conspicuously next to me. I did not want any other passenger sitting next to me and interrupting my reading time.
Seconds before the train left, the last passenger entered and eyed the last seat -- the one next to me. Breathlessly, he asked to sit there and I made room for him. He collapsed into the seat and thrust his cane into the space between us. He asked if I knew what stops the train would make. I certainly did from having ridden so often. So, I rattled them off, thinking that I would probably not read but have a conversation on this trip.
When I mentioned my companion's destination, he told me that's where he would be getting off. I asked what prompted his trip to the city. He said that he would rather not talk. I assured him that was fine with me, and I shifted my identity back again from conversationalist to reader.
But I could not concentrate on my reading. My attention was on my suffering seatmate. The book I had was Hearing God, by Dallas Willard. I pondered what it meant for me to be hearing God right at the moment on the train. I was not comfortable with either ignoring my companion, or intruding into his life. I sat there silently praying for him, and listening for any kind of whisper or inner nudge that might come from God.
It came instead from my comrade. He apologized for cutting me off when he knew I meant well. Things were going rather badly for him with the degenerative disease that necessitated the cane. On top of that, this was the week that his wife was divorcing him. So, he had wanted to be alone with his thoughts. I said that his situation grieved me especially because I am a marriage counselor who has a passion to help couples make it work. We talked some more. He cried a little. I asked if I could pray for him right then. He said yes, so I implored God aloud on behalf of my new friend's peace of mind, bodily healing, and harmony with his wife. As he rose to get off at his stop, he asked for my business card. He said maybe he would give me a call.
Lesson: As long as I was isolating myself in my seat in order to read about hearing God, my mind was too noisy to hear God. Only when I gave up trying to force my reading did I start to quiet the noise. My mind instead became a silent caring about the man next to me. Just the caring, the yearning for his life to be better, evidently communicated itself to him as some kind of availability on my part without strings or judgment attached. That was enough warmth for God to use to create a delivery room in which a remarkable conversation was born between us two men. "Be still and know that I am God" -- now there's a thought.
One day, returning from downtown, I was one of the first onto an empty train that would pull out of the station twenty minutes later. I picked a seat for myself, and heaped my belongings conspicuously next to me. I did not want any other passenger sitting next to me and interrupting my reading time.
Seconds before the train left, the last passenger entered and eyed the last seat -- the one next to me. Breathlessly, he asked to sit there and I made room for him. He collapsed into the seat and thrust his cane into the space between us. He asked if I knew what stops the train would make. I certainly did from having ridden so often. So, I rattled them off, thinking that I would probably not read but have a conversation on this trip.
When I mentioned my companion's destination, he told me that's where he would be getting off. I asked what prompted his trip to the city. He said that he would rather not talk. I assured him that was fine with me, and I shifted my identity back again from conversationalist to reader.
But I could not concentrate on my reading. My attention was on my suffering seatmate. The book I had was Hearing God, by Dallas Willard. I pondered what it meant for me to be hearing God right at the moment on the train. I was not comfortable with either ignoring my companion, or intruding into his life. I sat there silently praying for him, and listening for any kind of whisper or inner nudge that might come from God.
It came instead from my comrade. He apologized for cutting me off when he knew I meant well. Things were going rather badly for him with the degenerative disease that necessitated the cane. On top of that, this was the week that his wife was divorcing him. So, he had wanted to be alone with his thoughts. I said that his situation grieved me especially because I am a marriage counselor who has a passion to help couples make it work. We talked some more. He cried a little. I asked if I could pray for him right then. He said yes, so I implored God aloud on behalf of my new friend's peace of mind, bodily healing, and harmony with his wife. As he rose to get off at his stop, he asked for my business card. He said maybe he would give me a call.
Lesson: As long as I was isolating myself in my seat in order to read about hearing God, my mind was too noisy to hear God. Only when I gave up trying to force my reading did I start to quiet the noise. My mind instead became a silent caring about the man next to me. Just the caring, the yearning for his life to be better, evidently communicated itself to him as some kind of availability on my part without strings or judgment attached. That was enough warmth for God to use to create a delivery room in which a remarkable conversation was born between us two men. "Be still and know that I am God" -- now there's a thought.
posted by Dr. Dennis L. Gibson at 10:44 AM
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