Not the End of the Line

I'm pretty picky about the graphics I use when I write a blog post. If we don't already have a photo in our collection that is suitable for a particular post, Tom or I may take one that illustrates the story or turn to Google to help me find something suitable. Sometimes the perfect photo pops up in just a matter of minutes; other times I search and search before I find a picture that is, at best, adequate.

So when I wrote about my experiences on the city bus in the 50s and 60s, I scoured the internet in hopes of finding the perfect picture. I looked at dozens of pictures before deciding on the painting of the great red bus from years ago, bus 132.

The post was published before I realized where the bus was headed -- to the cemetery! Look closely, and you'll see it on the front of the bus in big white letters.

Indeed, aren't we all on the bus for the cemetery?

At present we are updating our will. We've got our pre-arrangements cared for and the family knows what to do when we're gone. I don't mean to sound maudlin, but if you are alive now, one day you will die. I didn't learn this from a Gallup poll or a library book. It's just reality. We live as if it weren't true, that we are immortal, but we aren't.

Most of us pursue life with gusto. We love life. We pour ourselves into it and work hard to accumulate the goods and experiences that will fulfill us; we relish the relationships that bring us joy. We cram as much into life as we possibly can, not wanting to miss out on anything. We live like this life is all we've got.

But that isn't so. There is eternity, and that lasts a long, long time.

I was in a Sunday School classroom the other day and my friend Ginger, who, with her husband, teaches the 4th and 5th graders at church, pointed out a 1x2 inch paper taped to the place where the wall and the ceiling of the room meet. She said that it represents our lives, and she held her fingers two inches apart. "That's all the longer our life is, compared to all eternity," she said, as she moved her arm in a motion that circled the room two or three times. "We need to live with eternity in view."

That's for sure. This little breath of time that we have is really just a shadow anyway. It is to prepare us for what's next.

I realize our bus is headed to the cemetery, but, as a follower of Jesus, I know that when it arrives I will meet Him face to face and spend eternity with Him. I want to live my life with the joy and gusto that He offered when He said, "I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full" (John 10:10). And I want to keep my focus on eternity. After all, the cemetery isn't the end of the line.

The Wheels on the Bus

I took the bus yesterday, for the first time in many years. It was just a short trip and the sun was bright. I should have walked, but I took the bus instead.

When it was time to pull the cord that would notify the driver I wanted off at the next stop I found myself getting just a bit giddy, just like when I was a kid. Growing up, I usually rode the bus with other people so I could never be sure this responsibility would fall to me. But yesterday I was alone. Pulling that cord was sweet.

There were about 50,000 people in Everett when I was growing up, not a huge city, but no village either. Life was simple in those day. As we lived just south of the city limits, we often relied upon the bus to get us to town. I usually traveled with my brother Tom. He was a year older than I, level headed and dependable, so I just trotted along behind him and he always got us where we were going.

We signed up for swimming lessons the summer I was seven. I put my clothes on over my swimsuit and we walked down to Taylor's corner store and boarded the bus for Silver Lake. The teachers walked us into the lake, told us to form a circle, then instructed us to put our faces into the lake and blow bubbles. I was indignant. My face? In this dirty lake? No Way! All I wanted to do was get back into my safe, dry clothes and go home. But when I returned to the dressing room, I couldn't find my undies. I had to put my clothes on over my wet bathing suit and get back on the bus.

It was during the two block walk from the bus to our house that I found the undies on the sidewalk. Oh, the humiliation!

I sometimes rode the bus with Tom when he went to his Saturday morning violin lesson. Mr Nastri was a fine musician and he saw promise in Tom. As I remember it, his studio was on the second floor of an older downtown building. The studio was smallish, filled with printed music and magic. It was always an adventure to take bus trips with my brother.

One summer day between 8th and 9th grades, I got to go downtown by myself to pick out fabric and a pattern to make a dress. It was a huge opportunity for me, and I was very proud of myself.

When I finished my shopping, I realized that I didn't know which bus to catch to get home, and Tom wasn't there to help me. I was just starting to panic when I saw two girls from school, with some little kids in tow, queuing up for a bus. I didn't really know the girls, but I did know that if we went to the same school, we lived in the same part of town. When the bus door opened, I, too, climbed on.

The bus pulled away from the curb and headed due north, far from where I needed to go. I spoke to the girls from school and discovered that they were babysitting and were delivering the kids home after an outing to town.

It was clear this bus was not going to take me home; I needed a back-up plan. Then I remembered that my great-uncle Lewis and great-aunt Nellie lived on the bus line in the north end of town. Just before their stop, I reached up confidently and pulled the cord, notifying the driver of my intentions. Gathering my bags, I walked with head held high, dropped my coins in the money box, and stepped off the bus.

What I lack in planning skills, I make up for in resourcefulness.

Quietly Caring

Our friend Betty joined us for Thanksgiving dinner at my parents' house.  We've been friends since school days.  When I graduated from high school and set off for college, she made me a card that was three feet tall and had the youth group sign it, and she had them chip in to buy me a gift -- a wonderful bedspread for my dorm room.  It was perfect.

In a few months Betty will have completed 30 years or driving bus for Snohomish County's Community Transit.  She's driven the bus well over 2 million miles, and she's never left the county!  She says it takes twelve years of 40-hour weeks to accumulate a million miles.  That's a lot of driving!

She thinks about others.  Whether it's clipping a news item out of the paper for someone she thinks might enjoy it or keeping tabs on her friends' children, she aware of those around her.  And she accepts everyone -- she likes you just because you're a human being!

She goes a step further and takes care of others, too.  She's steady, quietly meeting people's needs.  Nearly every day for ten years she looked in on Alice, a widow from church who lived in her own home but no longer drove.  When the house next door became available, she bought it!  She continued to visit Alice daily and help her out as needed for the next eight years.  She'd cook Sunday dinner at her house and her dad, Alice, and anyone else who'd like would come by to eat with her.  Seems she seldom goes anywhere without at least one other person riding along.

No one has to tell Betty when she is needed; she just shows up!  She seems to know intuitively that you are hurting and need someone to sit with you, or you're happy and would like to have someone laugh with you.  When my brother Tom died in 1967, Betty, a teenager herself, spent hours at our house, just sitting with my parents.  

Watching this quiet, unassuming woman go about the business of caring for people without any fanfare is a blessing to me.  And I'm grateful for her friendship.