The Train Delay on Wednesday

I looked at her for only a few seconds, but I had already categorized the woman sitting across from me in my mind based on what I saw: a dirty camouflage jacket, a plastic bag full of food hanging from the same arm that cradled three torn books she probably found at Salvation Army. Thin, dirty blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, sunglasses. Tan, almost leathery skin, and a missing front tooth. She was either homeless or preparing to be homeless, I thought.

We were on the Frontrunner in the morning, nearing the stop at Salt Lake Central, when she asked what book I was reading. It was a Church book called "Remember," a book about remembering important things in the gospel and life. 

She smiled and patted the scripture bag sitting on her lap, the strap slung across her free arm.

“I take these with me every day—this is my shield,” she said about her scriptures. 

I nodded politely and went back to reading, but she continued.

“They’re all worn out. My daughter got me a new set for Christmas, but I said, ‘No, I like these.’ This is my shield, this is my best friend.”

I decided to listen, because she had more to say.

“My tooth got knocked out last week,” she spontaneously admitted. “These guys pushed me, and it just came out.” I asked for the story, and she told me how some men literally pushed her to the ground in downtown Salt Lake. She said her dentist wasn’t too happy. This explanation, coupled with her shield, made me start to feel guilty.

It seemed spontaneous again, but she told me she was working on her Master’s in healthcare administration—this explained all the books. She thought getting her Master’s would be easy, but she had to produce completely original research. She had done so much research, in fact, that a counselor told her that she could also get her Master’s in social work, which she was considering. This woman was not bragging or prideful in any way—she was saying things that came to her mind. 

She transitioned topics from her education to her father when she said, “My dad up in Heaven, he’s smiling down on me, thinking, ‘Wow, you’re doing more than you’re asked.’”

She then said her father died from a fatal mistake during surgery, causing him to be placed on “tubes and monitors” in the hospital for two months. She topped that by saying her mother also died, and the news of that tragedy came to her via a doorstep visit one day.

“I think my father’s death was worse—we had to watch him for two months on these tubes. My mom’s, well, that was a slap in the face, a knock on the door, but my dad’s may have been harder. This is his jacket I like to wear.”

The train stopped, and she stood up to leave. I told her good luck with her Master’s work.

“Oh, I’m Irish, we don’t need luck. Give it to God, that’s the only way to do it. It’s all for God. Bless you.”

I went back to my book and learned a whole lot more about “Remembering,” mainly, remembering that I was so wrong, that listening to strangers makes them no longer strangers at all, and that a mark on me, that will certainly last for as long as I live, can be made in a moment. I will always remember this woman—this nameless, camouflaged woman who met me in the morning to help me remember.