The woman sitting in front of me on the bus kept repeating herself: “I wish it was Friday. I wish I could sleep another hour.” Again and again. She seemed to have some mental health issues. Geez, shut it down, I thought to myself.
The bus pulled up at a McDonald’s in West St. Paul and as she gathered her things and got off, I saw that she had the golden arches logo on her shirt so must work there. Normally my world and hers would not intersect.
Except that this wasn’t just any bus. This was Metro Mobility, one of those white vans you see everywhere, often lifting people in or out as they sit in wheelchairs. Given the huge post-surgical boot on my foot and the fact that I am using a wheelchair for six weeks, I humbled myself (why should it feel that way?) and signed up for some rides.
It certainly didn’t feel normal. Usually I whiz around in my trusty little Saturn whenever and wherever I want to. I often drive too fast— over the speed limit at least; I am sometimes distracted by a compelling story on Pubic Radio or a fetching window box full of purple petunias. On one trip I might make multiple stops doing errands in Midway, Roseville, at several garden stores, and then meeting friends at Café Latte for lunch. And of course, I drive to work. Riding on Metro Mobility—and the concessions you must make to do so – does not feel normal.
“Normal” seems to be eluding us all this lost spring. It’s not only our own endless rain and cold, but violent, mile-wide tornadoes in Oklahoma and throughout the Plains states, and the fact that it’s too late now to plant a significant part of the corn crop – due to the weather. That’s just eerie. High school sports teams have lost most of their seasons. It gets to you, especially the lack of sunshine
It is ironic that we consider “normal” to be when things are going well. However, Old Testament writers reference times of plagues and famine that seemed to often visit the Israelites, and it is in these times that they most experienced (eventually) the saving grace and presence of God.
When normal is disrupted, your attention shifts to coping, understanding, adapting. Perceptions change. The search for God may become more urgent and allow things in that we would usually keep out.
So I am learning a lot riding the Metro Mobility bus several times a week. For example, since MM is usually picking up and dropping off riders, and it’s never a direct route to where you’re going, I’ve found that it’s quite relaxing to be driven around the city for thirty minutes to and from work. Yesterday on the way home, we visited my old neighborhood in West St. Paul, then South St Paul, and some beautiful residential neighborhoods in Mendota Heights. Since I wasn’t driving myself, I could pay attention to the lilacs, the azaleas, cozy homes with sweet little patios and cats peering out of the windows. It’s bumpy, but I imagined myself on a stagecoach.
I saw what people I don’t know about do during the day: they were being driven to and from jobs, community centers, libraries, fitness centers. Many of the riders were elderly and all were women. Their disabilities sometimes weren’t evident, but I knew they had them since that’s how you qualify for the three-buck ride right to your door, along with help getting in the door which, for me, includes being pushed in a wheelchair up a perilous, winding, narrow wooden walkway through the yard to the deck.
I witnessed an astounding level of courtesy and care from the drivers, a panorama of races but few Caucasians. No impatience; no under-the-breath comments; no rushing anyone. Over the bus intercom, I could hear directions to other drivers throughout the city. These things go everywhere – from Brooklyn Center to east St. Paul. I had no idea.
It hit me that that there are countless other wonderful public and private programs who serve people who need them and most of us have no idea how important they are. I realized that, if I had to depend on MM all the time, terror would strike me if I heard this program might be cut.
That’s the thing: I had no idea but I do now. The big understandings, the small blessings, the quiet grace moments were clear because I had the time to see them, as normal gave way to need.
See you in church (I’ll be the one getting out of the white van).
Barbara
Barbara I’m so sorry to hear of your misfortune. However, after reading “The Bus” I’m not so sure it is misfortune. You always have a way of looking into things that changes the perspective and spins a positive outcome different than what one would expect. Get well soon. I always enjoyed your writing and still do.
Fondly,
Sherry Christiansen
Beautifully said. This experience has been rather like getting lost. Lost in unknown, new territory that you would not have chosen pre-surgery. And you are seeing, hearing new things. And doesn’t need bring us to those sacred spaces to know anew. To see.
Barbara, how I enjoyed reading “The Bus.” Thank you for reminding me (and everyone else) that God’s grace is so often to be found in the least likely place and at the least likely time as we “do” each day with its ups and downs, challenges and blessings, normals, not-normals, and new-normals. Please take good care of your healing foot and don’t overdo the healthy one; you only have the two!