Hebrews 5:11 About this we have much to say, and it is hard to explain, since you have become dull of hearing... 14 But solid food is for the mature, for those who have their powers of discernment trained by constant practice to distinguish good from evil. (esv)
I am trying to make some sense of something that happened yesterday on my bus. In the About section of this blog I explain the nature of my job and how I approach it.
On one of my last trips to Steveston Village a little old lady of my Mum’s height and weight, got on, she looked to be about 80’s or so. I was bored in a happy kind of playful way. She’d been waiting at the bus stop in the cool wind a bit too long and was shivering. I told her how these new buses only have an on/off switch for climate control, otherwise I’d turn the heat on for her, she wasn’t worried though, now that she was out of the wind.
From there I confessed that I’m a bored bus driver after 28 years, and we could play my spelling game. She was intrigued. In all my years as a driver only one passenger has gotten the answer correct, and it’s because of the way people pronounce the word that it’s spelling alludes most of us.
paraphernalia is usually pronounced parafinalia
She noted that’s why she likes spell check, you don’t have to worry about knowing how to spell anymore.
From there I picked my next favourite topic,
“What books have you read?” I asked,
“none for a long time” she said… “but I use to read a lot”
“What about author’s, I added,
“None come to mind, but remember some poetry,”
“like what?” I said
“The Cremation of Sam McGee”, she said, then added, “by Robert W. Service”
I pulled my bus over to the side of the road and began digging around for my little briefcase, opened it, and withdrew two sheets of paper, that were folded in two, and handed them to her. Without missing a beat, she immediately began reading the poem I’d printed off the night before, intending to start memorizing it while at work that day. It was of course, “The Cremation of Sam McGee”. She read it beautifully, with such meaning and expression, you could tell she’d heard it many times before, and that she loved it as much as I did.
“My father used to read it to me” she offered.
The night before, in the middle of my crib game with wife, Cheryl, I’d gone to my computer, looked up the poem on-line, copied it into MS-Word, printed it, and put it in my briefcase.
I asked for the paper I’d handed her, and on the back I wrote The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, by T S Elliot. Which was the other poem I had in my briefcase. She told me of another poem by Robert W Service, My Madonna, and began to quote it from memory, it was so beautiful as she recited it. I scratched the title of it into my little notebook that I carry with me.
“What’s your name,” I asked,
“Dorthy” she says,
“Do you know what your name means?”
“Yes,” she says,
“A gift” I said,
“A gift from God” she corrected… and then added “But i don’t think so”
Well you’re a gift to me today, Dorthy and I bid her goodbye until we meet again. And off she walked alone into the little town of Steveston alone, to look through the shops.
Now that’s all I know for sure, which surely is enough to make one wonder. But I suppose she’s a lonely lady, and given her age, there are many who were once in her life that have gone on ahead of her, and on this cold windy day, it seems even more interesting that poem in particular came to her mind. Sometimes when I feel lonely it’s my Mum and Dad who come to mind, and how they’ve passed on, and that I’m alone after all.
That’s the kind of listening I’ve been taught by God. I have many stories like this, I’ll have to tell you another one sometime, maybe about that day would play the game where I cover up the farebox and ask the passenger about to pay why I should give them a free ride.
