“There is an Uptown train approaching the station.”

If you’ve ever lived or spent any significant amount of time in New York, you know what I am talking about.  You know the announcer’s voice.  You also know then the relief of slipping through the turnstile, running to the platform, pressing up against a stranger, and then having to tussle your bag from the clutches of the dinging doors.  You know the feeling of your lungs crying out for oxygen while you carefully monitor your inhaling and exhaling as you pretend to not be out of breath and shape.  Oh, you know.

On the other hand, if that’s true, then you likewise know the frustration of hearing the rumble down below, barreling down the station steps, running to the turnstile, and getting knocked in the abdomen with a “Please Swipe Again” flashing up at you.  You know the irritation of pressing up against the dinging doors.  Only this time, you’re on the outside of them.  Looking right and left for the conductor, you make eye contact with him as he hangs his head out of the window.  “Please, sir,” your eyes beg.

“Too bad,” his eyes reply.  Up goes his window and out of sight goes the train.

This past week, another occurrence happened to me.  I missed the train…that was right in front of me.  I wasn’t late, not at all.  There were just too many people already packed inside.  I sashayed from one car to the next to the next to the next.  Every door was still open, but every entrance was impossible to enter.  “Too bad,” the people’s eyes seemed to tauntingly reply.  They all looked so cramped and miserable.  Still, I wanted to be on that train so badly.

The doors soon closed, and just like before and always, up went the conductor’s window and out of sight went the sardine can of a train.

There on the platform, I remained. However, before I had time to even sigh at the prospect of being late, my ears and spirit perked up at the delightful announcement, “There is an Uptown train approaching the station.”  

I let out a sigh, but this one was one of relief.  Sure enough, the next train came whizzing on by.  This one, though, was empty.  Empty!  EMP-TY.  Opening its doors with a heavenly fluorescent glow, I stepped into the subway car with an ample number of seats to choose from.  My bag even got a seat.  I eventually got off a couple stops down to transfer, and the very same thing happened to me again!  The first ridiculously crowded train sped off without me, but the second one welcomed me with open arms and empty seats.

Now, I don’t know what the voice of God sounds like.  I don’t have crazy dreams and there is certainly no divine writing on my apartment walls.  All the same, it’s in the little things, the easily looked over things of my seemingly nonsensical life, in which I am increasingly finding peace and promptings.  It’s in the little things like missing trains I thought I wanted to be on where the Good Conductor looks upon me with the hard but true kind of love.  No words come from his mouth, still I hear Him say, “I am closing these doors because this is not your train.  I am closing these doors because there is something better on its way.  I am closing these doors because I love you.”  

And so with that, I close my eyes.  I breathe deeply and oscillate between offertory I trust you’s and I want to trust you’s and standing on the platform of December 2012, I continue to wait for my train.