A week ago I got back from my trip to the East Coast and decided to write about some of the people I saw.  Here’s part one: 

~~You sat across the aisle from me on the plane.  I noticed that you had a bandaid on your big toe and that your sandals were cute.  I noticed that your heels were cracked and that wasn’t so cute.  You reminded me of a friend from my church. (Your face, not your heels.)  Almost as soon as the plane took off, you and your seatmates – husband and wife from the looks of it – introduced yourselves and got to talking. I couldn’t hear what you were saying, but it was animated and punctuated with laughter. “How cool,” I thought, “to see people connect so quickly.”  It gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling. 

Behind me, two men started talking to each other.  Conversation ran the gamut of jobs and favorite movies and sports.  After awhile, they were quiet.  You were not.  You and your seatmates continued to talk, through the movie they showed in flight, through the passing of the drink and snack cart.  

The warm, fuzzy feeling was gone.  I wanted you to be quiet.  No, I wanted you to shut up!

What could the three of you possibly have to say after almost four hours?  You spoke more words on one plane trip than I speak in a week.  Too many words!!  Were you like this at home, I wondered?  Were you a believer?  Did God ever get a word in edgewise? 

You needed to be quiet; I was sure of it. 

I needed to be kind in my thoughts; I was much more sure of that.

Finally the time came to put our seats and trays in the upright and locked positions.  This didn't slow you down vocally.  At last, we deplaned and my ears got a rest.  I felt like a victim of audio assault.  Shhh! 

~~You kindly offered me your seat on the subway in NYC.  We were headed to Central Park and I was standing and holding onto the overhead railing and you asked if I wanted to sit down.  I politely declined, enjoying the swaying of the subway as I stood there.  A conversation was struck between us: one middle aged woman, three twenty-something young adults and an elderly British man.  You had lived in New York a long time, and considered it your home.  We let you know that we were from Montana.  That raised your eyebrows and you graciously welcomed us to your city.  When we got off at the park, you wished us an enjoyable stay and we thanked you, and I liked it that my first subway experience was so pleasant, other than the not-so-pleasant smell of urine in the tunnel.

~~You are going blind and there is nothing the doctors can do about it, except for something experimental that may or may not work.  Your world is getting darker and the simplest tasks, like making a cake to take to the church potluck, have become difficult.  You have to hold the measuring cup right up next to a bright light to see if you’ve got the right amount of oil poured in it.  You like to keep busy, but so many activities and hobbies are simply out of sight for you now.  And yet, you have a positive attitude and you don’t complain.  You don’t complain about the lack of vision or the lack of ability to do things.  We talked about it briefly, at my initiation, and you admitted that it was hard, but ended by saying, “It’ll be alright.”  Your continued good spirits inspired me.  I wanted to take you home with me and told you repeatedly to come visit.  I thought of the logistics of you flying all that way, changing planes and finding gates at different airports and it seemed so daunting.  But you could do it, with some help, and it would be alright.

~~“Is Beehive still at the church?”  I don’t know your name, so that is what I call you, in reference to the impressive mass of teased hair that you wear piled on top of your head.  It’s an outdated style, but it suits you, accented as it is with the large bows you attach in the back.  (I try to picture you with “regular” hair and it doesn’t work.)  And, yes, you are still there at the church.  I saw you that Sunday, playing the piano, just as you did the last time I visited there so many years ago.  You are the only accompanist during worship, as the pastor stands at the pulpit and leads the congregation in song, waving his hands in that way that some people do when they lead others while singing.  I sang the hymns and watched you play and watched him motion like a traffic cop and wondered what you would think of our electric guitars and drums in our church worship.  I looked around at the small congregation that you and this pastor minister to, not more than 15 or 20 people on any given Sunday.  My thoughts wanted to veer in the direction of why your congregation continues to shrink instead of expand, but I forced them away and thought instead of your continued dedication to this flock.  Week after week, year after year, you are there playing the piano and he is at the pulpit.  You are faithful, and that is a praiseworthy thing.