I carried the bag of another teacher who had asked if she could walk with me. She was not feeling good, and wanted to meet her husband in Manhattan. "Of course," I told her and off we went, at a slower pace than usual due to her illness. She'd eaten some pineapple the night before and it was hurting her stomach. She is in regression from colon cancer. "I knew I shouldn't have eaten it, but I thought maybe I could try," she said.
We walked and I let her talk. She spoke of how she doesn't tell her grown children when she is in pain because she doesn't want to upset or trouble them. "They want to know," I told her, thinking of my own mother and father and their respective health problems, and how my daughters can smell my troubles.
"You know," I said to her, "we have these babies and then realize that they are beings who love us more than anyone on this earth. Truly gifts." She smiled and continued walking. "Yes," she said, "they are. Mine bought me an ipod this Christmas." We laughed, understanding.
We walked onward to the train and boarded. She asked me about my faith and if I was raised to have a religious belief? I told her I'd been brought up in a Fundamentalist Christian atmosphere, but now I was a "spiritualist." She looked at me, wanting to digest what I'd just said, but she had no more energy. She had to let it ride.
I told her it had taken me five decades to realize how easy life can be by simply asking God for what I need. She looked at me. I think I'd taken some of the fun of conversion from her and I didn't mean to. I, well, simply do believe. On this cold night, I believe.
"Well, thank you for holding my bag," she said, wincing as she stood up. "This is my stop." Riding alone, I thought of how thankful I was to be on my journey. The night air did not feel ruthless, anymore.
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