Strangers in a Traincar

Friday night, dear Hannahbeth and I tripped again to Chicago. We had full intention of sleeping on the train ride there to make up for lost sleep the week before. When we got on the train, however, I was much more keen on sleeping than she was, as she had ingested caffeine earlier in the day (naughty, naughty Hannahbeth).
As we sat down in one of those quad seats facing eachother, the man across the aisle had a small radio with a long antennae and explained in an accent I didn't recognize that he was going to try to listen to the debate. As the train rolled on and the car filled up, we had to sacrifice one of the sides of our quad for a man named David that smelled like he'd just had a cigarette. Hannahbeth and I had a discussion recalling her resemblance to Drew Barrymore, which she then deferred to David for his opinion. He said, 'Not really.' Then I said, 'What about me?' And he said, 'Oh yeah, definitely,' then laughed.
He assumed we were from the North Side and asked us about the Sox. We explained we were from South Bend, and he told us he had a sister in Bremen, where I used to work at a church. He then told us about his work fixing roofs of mobile homes, especially in hurricane-torn areas, and of his sick brother, and of his friends that bet he wouldn't make it to twenty five, which is a sobering thought considering he's a month away from fifty. He also told us of his father, who was abusive and negligent when he was younger, who has since become a born again Christian, surprising David very much.
He got off in East Chicago, and I spied on the arm of a young man across the aisle a tattoo of the character Alice from the disturbing video game of the same name. I asked him about it, and he said it was his favorite game ever. I told the story of a dear friend who went to a college where they weren't allowed to watch movies or listen to music, but she and her roommates played that game. He laughed, and then went back to scribbling in his notebook. I asked the man with the radio if he got the debate. He laughed and said he fell asleep. The young man with the notebook (hereafter, Kyle) told us that he had caught the first half, and described it as mostly Obama on the offensive, and returned to his notebook. The man with the radio (hereafter, Brad) asked Kyle if he was a song writer, and he said yes. I exclaimed that I was also a song writer, and Brad said he was too. We then swapped styles and influences, and Kyle even gave us his demo cd, which proclaimed him as Ill Eagle, the Anti-Rapper. I told them I was a sort of folk singer with urban influences, and Brad explained that he sang traditional songs from his homeland, Belize.

I asked why he left Belize, and he said, 'It's kind of a God thing,' at which point I thought, 'of course it is.'
He told us that he believed in God, and that God speaks to us through His word, and that one day, he felt called to the United States. He asked God for confirmation and turned in his Bible to the call of Abraham: 'leave your father's homeland and go to a land that I will give to you.' He asked for more confirmation and turned to a passage in Isaiah that confirmed it. He then came to Miami, but left because of the culture and ended up in Nappannee, Indiana. I asked if he knew Nappannee Missionary Church. He said his son goes there. I told him that my second cousin is the senior pastor. We all marveled at the smallness of the world.

We parted ways after trading information and embarked into the city to meet dear Chelsea at Moody. There, we watched the improv group Informal (featuring my friend Chris), then sat in the plaza where I met and talked with Chelsea's neighbor and friend Anna, who is from France. After a while, we retreated to our residencies. I was set up to stay in the lounge on my friend Greg's floor. Greg sadly wasn't feeling well, so we were unable to talk like we'd have liked. I borrowed his guitar and played in the lounge, where young men came, introduced themselves, and left. After awhile, a young man named Justin who I'd met two years before on my first vist to Moody stopped in and talked for a while, followed by a young man named Enoch from Traverse City. I asked if he knew where Mancelona was. He did. I started explaining the significance of Mancelona Camp in my life, and said, 'Long story short...' He replied, 'no need to make it short. I've got time, and I'm interested.'
And so, I told the story of my calling and my running from it and then back to it, then the release from my improper view of God's providence that happened at Mancelona. He asked to hear a couple of my songs, then bid goodnight.

This is pretty good for a guy who a week earlier wrote a letter to a friend confessing "i'm terrified of strangers." I think I might just be getting over it.
Praise God.