Complicated Hope

If Anyone Asks

My life is a game of hide and seek. At fifty years old, I am on a constant quest to find my glasses, my keys, my purse, my phone, my book, my pen, my earphones, my jacket, my tickets, my bag – everything seems lost. I try to not be frustrated but see it as my own unique, personalized weight loss plan. Three flights of stairs before my first cup of coffee? Done. Twenty trips down the hallway? In my sleep. Second floor to basement and back again before bedtime? Easy. All this searching keeps my step-count high.

In truth, I wish I were not so “high maintenance.” There was a time I only thought of myself as high maintenance for other people. My husband, for instance. He had chosen to do life with me and that brought with it a certain amount of maintenance responsibility. Later, my kids took on some of these responsibilities, helping me find lost items and remember where I was going, what I was doing. But now, with my children grown and living their own lives and my husband traveling more with work, I find myself responsible for myself. And it is exhausting!

Traveling with me is perhaps the most challenging experience for anyone, and yet, my family still willingly does it. I love travel. I love seeing new places and people. New foods and places I’ve only read about. The history of a building or country fascinates me. The customs of the people teach me so much about each cultures search for God. In each face I meet, I see a potential friend. I’m great at the research for a trip and planning tickets and details. The issue lies in the physical act of traveling. Planes, trains and automobiles.

Example, I’m not good at sitting still. Long car rides are frustrating for me. Unless I’m driving or sleeping. Otherwise, I twist and turn in the seat and sigh and generally annoy other passengers. The same is true on a plane. Long-haul flights, well anything over 4 hours, I feel sorry for the poor people seated around me. I prefer aisles seats if I am alone because I will getup anywhere from 1-5 times. I will drop items. I will loose things. And I am likely to ask for assistance from an attendant. And I will, in all likelihood, spill something. On a resent flight to London, I spilled tea on my husband. Hot tea. Early in the flight. So my wonderful David got to sit in wet pants for 6 hours. And every time I got up to dig in a bag or use the restroom, so did David. In doing so, he was reminded of his wet pants as cold air hit the back of his thighs.

So accustomed to the perils of sitting with me, not once did he sigh, roll his eyes or complain. At least not while I was present.

The hazards are not always big things like spilled beverages. Simple acts like charging my phone often lead to me being caught between seats, or seat cushions sliding off their frames. On yet another flight to England with a missionary group, I lost a neck pillow. Not a cheap one. An expensive one. Had it on my lap. Put it under the seat in front of me. Ready to sleep, I reached for my new pillow. But it was gone. Gone! I ask around me. No one had seen my pillow. My daughter looked. The stewardess looked. The steward looked. By the time we turned off the lights, I had been given 5 extra pillows. Apparently those around me began to question my memory of having my own plush, black neck pillow and were simply offering anything they had to make me be quiet. I didn’t want any more pillows, I wanted MY pillow. How did it just disappear? The mystery remains to this day.

On the same “tea spilling” trip to the United Kingdom, David and I took our first long train ride. We had planned to travel from London to Edinburgh, Scotland, stopping first to visit with new friends in Stoke-On-Trent. I was so excited for this ride! I had found a coupon that allowed me to purchase first-class train tickets at a basic class fare. We arrived from the airport at Paddington Station, found our train, stowed our luggage and settled into comfortable seats at a table with fresh pressed linens and enjoyed a warm luncheon and the amiable conversation of best friends and life partners. The countryside was beautiful and we marveled at little towns and the canal boats. When we arrived at the station in Stoke, we were at the doors ready to leave. Only one problem, though David and I have been married 28 years, he is still a novice at traveling with me. My children and I have traveled much more together. As children, I took them on many road trips to visit grandparents and family and we have made Missionary trips together as well, including trips overseas. They know the questions to ask at each stop. David asked about my backpack. He forgot to ask about my purse.

My last-minute pat down at the train door included checking for my Phone and Backpack, my Bag and Purse – an adult version of Head and Shoulders, Knees and Toes. This quickly revealed my purse was still at my seat. Having chosen seats at the front of the car, I was gone no more than 7 seconds. As I stepped forward to leave the train, a swish brought the doors closed before me. I pushed the Door Open button. Nothing. I pushed again frantically. No movement. Looking out the window, I watched my husband turn around, look to his left and right then quickly look to the ground – in fairness, I trip a lot and me falling was not out of the question – and then David looked up at the train door window where I stood forlornly waving at him.

A pantomime began, understandable only by those who have lived 30 years of their life together.

David: a shoulder shrug – translated, “what happened?”

Me: pushing button repeatedly – translated, “door closed and it won’t open”

A kind traveler stepped from his compartment to help me. He pushed the button. Again and again it was pushed. Nothing. The young British man heard my American accent, sensed my panic and assured me that someone would be along shortly to help me. Meanwhile David had found an attendant at the station and was talking to them, apparently assessing why the door would not open.

Then, my heart stopped. The train was moving. My husband began to move from sight. A surge of panic ran through me and I thought, “Who left me alone? This is not a good idea!”

Suddenly, I saw it from the corner of my left eye. A tiny yellow beacon of hope. Without thought, I reached up and pulled down the emergency handle. The train suddenly stopped. I swayed. Passengers swayed. David’s eyes showed a slight panic that translated, “what has she done?”

It was not long before a conductor, whom I am sure is a pleasant man on a regular day, found me and began to chastise me that my failure to get off the train in time was not an emergency. I explained that the doors were open less than 30 seconds and had shut in my face. I had not been delinquent or derelict in my duty. Again, he insisted it was not an emergency and I said, in a South Texas accent that signifies a time of crisis, “It is an emergency if you are standing here and your husband is standing out there!” The tear in my eye may have also helped his decision to contact the engineer and they agreed to open a door to let me out.

However, it was not the door I was standing at – that would be too easy. Nope. I had to carry my bags and make the Walk of Shame from the back of the train through 4 passenger cars in order to reach the exit at the front of the train. Following the conductor as he walked briskly through the trains, talking on his radio, my short legs were at a speedy trot to keep up with him, lifting my bags over legs and animals and children. Passengers glared and grumbled at me. People holding screaming babies swore at me under their breath. A dog soiled my boot. It was not a pleasant sight. The dog is a literary stretch, but the passengers and parents were quite irate. I was sure they muttered “American!” under their breath.

Later, we learned the incident was not entirely my fault. The train was running late and apparently they had greatly shortened the disembarkment time in order to return to their schedule. Fail. They had not counted on me, a high maintenance traveler, being aboard.

Though I was embarrassed at the time, I was relieved to know I would soon be reunited with my husband. Today, there is a little spark of pride in being able to say I single-handedly brought the British railway system – a railway system that moves 1.7 BILLION trips a year on over 11,000 miles of track with a 91.5% efficiency rating – to a complete stop.

At least on one line. For 30 minutes on Monday in December.

But if anyone asks, I’m Canadian.