It’s Friday, which means it’s one of two days most weeks that the kids and I trek to the bus stop near our house, ride public transportation into the city to pick up the van my husband drove to work, and drive back to our house so they can catch the school bus and I can go to work.
Every time I explain this to someone, it sounds like a chaotic way to start the day. I won’t lie: it makes me anxious every time. So much can go wrong, and I am not the kind of person who likes things to go wrong. Especially not on school mornings. Especially not before I have to embrace the unpredictability of my work day. I can only handle so much uncertainty. Most days, our morning adventure is no big deal. We walk. We board. We ride. We drive. We make it back with time to spare. Some days, though, it’s anything but easy.
Photo by Hope House Press on Unsplash
One time, the bus running our route had to be exchanged for another bus. This happened well before our stop, but it messed up the predicted arrival time on the bus finder website. Another time, the bus was super late, made more late by the driver exhibiting some odd behavior at a stop that caused us to lose a few minutes. (And minutes are crucial in our plan going according to, well, plan.) That particular day gave us all a good dose of adrenaline before 9 a.m.
Relying on public transportation means there are circumstances beyond my control. And other people’s actions affect my own. This is not something I enjoy, as an independent, first-born, American woman. I don’t like being caught in other people’s messes, especially if it means my so-called plan for the day is altered. Sure, if the kids miss the bus, I can take them to school on my way to work, but that’s not the plan, man. In truth, we have so many options. When the weather has been particularly harsh, we have opted for the rideshare plan, where I put the kids on the school bus at the normal time and call a rideshare driver to pick me up and take me to the city to get my van. This has been its own kind of adventure.
Americanism (I don’t even know if that’s a thing) tells me we should just have two cars like everyone else so we don’t have to rely on public transportation. Or so my husband would never have to drop me off and pick me up from work. (Sometimes, those seven minutes in the car are the most conversation we have without the kids present. Why would I miss out on that?)
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The last time we rode the bus, there was a boy sleeping at the back, where we usually ride. None of the other passengers seemed to be “with” him as we rode into the city. My heart started beating faster. I imagined scenarios where he’d been left behind by a rushed parent. Likely, he belonged to the driver, I thought, but just to be sure, when our stop came, I ushered my kids to the front of the bus so I could mention it. The driver smiled and said that was his son, and my relief was probably visible. I didn’t have to save or fix anything, but it was good to be reminded that my heart is alive and well, that I can do the right thing even when it turns out to be nothing.
I didn’t used to be a person who got involved in something that didn’t seem to be any of my business. Mostly, I’m scared because getting involved often means talking to strangers or doing something that requires more energy than I think I have or could cause conflict (which I try to avoid at all costs, usually). I think that I don’t want to be bothered, but I almost never regret when I do.
One night when Phil and I were out on a date, walking through the city, I noticed a credit card on the ground. We weren’t directly outside a restaurant or bar or anything, so I picked it up. We looked at the name. Phil wondered if he knew the person because he sees a lot of cards and people at his job in the city. I wasn’t sure what to do. What if the person came back looking for the card? Would they freak out? I would freak out. But what if someone else picked up the card? Someone who had no intentions of being honest?
I kept it and after we put the kids to bed and I drove the sitter home, I did a search for the name on the card. Then I Facebook messaged the person I thought it was and tried to be as non-creepy sounding as I could. I gave the person my phone number and said whereabouts I lived so that maybe this person would trust me more. (I can be wary of strangers, but not everyone is.) We connected right away and made plans for me to return the card the next day. I met the cardholder in the parking lot of a grocery store and returned the lost item. The whole thing, including the google search and the messaging, probably took less than half an hour, and who knows what it might have prevented? It was worth the extra effort.
Photo by Gwen Weustink on Unsplash
I need to remember these things when I’m reluctant to get involved. We just heard a sermon at church about the Good Samaritan, and sure, it’s a familiar story, and those of us who have been in church for more than a few years probably know it by heart. But I was reminded that when I can’t be bothered to get involved, I’m missing out on something. I’m missing out on being a neighbor to someone. I’m missing out on following Jesus, who told that story and said, “Go and do likewise.” Jesus went out of his way to meet people and heal people and get involved when others thought he shouldn’t. This didn’t make him a meddler, and I don’t remember anyone telling Jesus to mind his own business. (Spoiler alert: It was all his business anyway.)
If I want to be like Jesus (and I do, I desperately do), then I will do like Jesus. I’m increasingly convinced that the world is God’s business and He wants me to participate in it. And sometimes that will mean getting involved, depending on someone else, or abandoning my well-crafted plan. (This will not always be neat and tidy, either.)
The question Jesus was asked that prompted the Good Samaritan story–“Who is my neighbor?”–could easily have been stated, “That’s none of my business.” How easily those words slide to the front of my brain and roll off my lips. It is the fruit of a culture that values independence more than dependence. (Except at tax time, for some us, when we can claim our dependents.)
We have idolized independence as a virtue while demeaning dependence as a vice.
Photo by Lautaro Andreani on Unsplash
I think this is one of my main complaints about the Church today. In my experience, we don’t need each other enough. We need each other in a crisis but not so much on a regular basis. Maybe I’m missing out on something because I am too independent. (Translation: Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me the church is more interdependent than I think.)
But how do we do it? I’m not totally sure. All I know is what it takes for me: time. Time to notice. To see. To consider. To decide. Getting involved in something that I want to say is “none of my business” isn’t second-nature to me. Maybe with enough practice, it will be.
