January 5, 2018:
The frigid cold that Friday morning made every second outside a second too long. Everyone moved quickly down along the train platform, and, one-by-one, disappeared into their chosen car, traces of exhaled breath disappearing in the air right behind them.
I typically choose a seat in one of the middle cars of the train. My rationale: It’s a safer location than one of the front cars in the event of a head-on collision, and, I felt, provided a smoother, more anchored, ride than a car in the rear of the train. On that particular day, I’m sure I made a beeline for the closest car, collisions and anchors be damned.
After hoisting my suitcase onto the luggage rack, I made my way to a forward-facing window seat near the front of the car (interesting fact: forward-facing seats out of Harrisburg become rear-facing seats—and vice versa—when the train pulls out of 30th Street Station in Philadelphia and switches tracks before continuing on to New York City.)
Settled into my seat, I sent a text message to my sister. “I’m on the train. Tell mom and dad I’m on my way!”
My cell phone rang only seconds after I hit “send.” It was Carrie calling with wonderful news—she and one of the aides had gotten dad freshened up. “He’s ready for company!” she said.
My muscles relaxed with relief at the news. I could feel myself settle deeper into my seat. I had made the right decision about hopping on a flight and would get to see my dad one last time.
The train started a slow roll out of the station. We had no sooner cleared the platform when I became aware (it was impossible not to) of a cell phone conversation going on one row behind me, in the aisle to my right. An older gentleman, looking tired and rumpled as he held the phone to his ear, was obviously not happy, and was spelling it all out for the party on the other end as to why and who was to blame (besides the bomb cyclone). He didn’t seem to care whether all of the forward- or rear-facing passengers heard him. It went on like that until we arrived at the next stop, in Middletown, about a ten-minute ride. And then, finally, quiet.
What happened next, I can’t fully explain.
I turned around in my seat, looked up at this stranger and said, “Sounds like you’ve had a rough day so far.”
He looked a bit startled by a voice being directed at him, and embarrassed by the realization that he hadn’t been speaking in his “quiet voice.” Then, the corners of his mouth turned up into a slight smile. It was a look that said, “Busted.”
“I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation (might as well own it). You sound upset,” I said to the loud-talker. Then, patting the empty seat next to me, I added: “Would you like to sit down and talk about it? I bet it’ll help.”
Whoa … where the heck did that come from?
I have to make something absolutely clear: Although I do consider myself a nice person, I am notusually the assertive type who will be so out-front and offer help so publicly. I’m quiet and low-key. The person who had just uttered those words to the loud-talker … that’s not generally who I am. So I was startled, too, by the words that came spilling out of my mouth.
“No … thank you,” he said. “I’m sorry I was so loud. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Why don’t you sit down. I’d really love to talk, and it’ll make the trip go by faster for both of us.”
And he did. And we talked … for about forty-five minutes.
His name was Tony. Looked to be in his late seventies. He had been traveling by rail (his flights canceled by the storm) since the day before, working his way home to New Jersey following a visit with family in Texas. He was diabetic, so traveling by train and through train stations made meals a challenge. Had some heart problems, too.
“Where are you headed?” he asked.
“I’m going to Scottsdale, Arizona, to visit my parents and sister.” No need to get into the whole story.
When Tony said that he going back to his seat—he had already taken up too much of my time, he said—it was so that he could eat something, he was hungry. The only food in his bag, he said, was a piece of chocolate cake that he had picked up at Union Station in Pittsburgh.
Chocolate cake! I imagined Tony finishing half the slice and then starting to shake or fall unconscious from diabetic shock in the seat right behind me.
“You can’t eat that! You’re diabetic. Here … take this banana.” The ease with which I pushed food on Tony was a sure sign that we had become friends.
He gratefully accepted my offering and returned to his seat. I turned back around in mine and gazed out the window at the passing fields, strip malls, and gas stations. I guess that’s my mitzvah (good deed) for today, I thought.
Being able to listen to Tony and see him relax had relaxed me as well. Yet, there was also something unsettling about the randomness of my interaction with him. We were two people trying to get to opposite coasts. He was heading East; I was heading West. But, for a two-and-a-half-hour pocket of time on January 5, 2018, coincidence, or fate, brought us together aboard an Amtrak train bound for Philadelphia. Why, I wondered.
As I stared out the window, I heard a ping sound from my cell phone, alerting me to a new text message. An hour before, I wouldn’t have picked up the phone so quickly, fearing a dire message regarding my father; Carrie’s earlier call had soothed those concerns. Which made her text message all the more jolting.
“Tess, dad passed about ten minutes ago. He went very peacefully. I’m so sorry you weren’t here. I just can’t talk right now. I’ll call you soon.”
What? Was I really sitting alone on a train and being told that my father had just died? I was stunned by how quickly everything had changed. Wasn’t he “ready for company” just an hour ago? It was his time, I tearfully told myself. His soul did have other intentions.
And then I remembered Tony, my new friend, sitting right behind me, and having the same name as my father’s lifetime friend and the Best Man at his wedding. Although not a blood relative, we kids called him “Uncle Tony.” Maybe it was my father who had given me a nudge to say something to my new Tony. Maybe that’s how dad wanted me to remember that day … by helping Tony.
The train continued rolling toward Philly, and I sat in awe of God’s designs.
I had not been alone when my dad took his final breaths; Tony was sitting right beside me. When my dad was in his final moments on this earth—moments that I couldn’t share in—I could listen to Tony. I could be present to him and try to comfort him. I could be a chaplain again.
Today, as I send this storyletter out to you, I’m back in Scottsdale with family to mark the one-year anniversary of my dad’s passing. I can think back to January 5, 2018 and not be overcome with sadness, because I also think of my friend, Tony, and how he came into my life at just the right time. That is the joy and wonder of God’s ways.
There are many more “Tonys” out there. Let us always be open to the gentle spirit who nudges us to welcome them into our life.
(I never did tell Tony or anyone else on the train that my dad had passed away. I just wanted to hold that close.)