Theology of the Taxi

I hustled out to the cab this morning, hoping the cabby hadn't been waiting for me with the meter running (even though barely five minutes had passed since the concierge called it for me!)  The smallish driver, with bristle-brush, salt-and-pepper hair sprouting from one edge of his pale orange turban to the other, rushed to grab my suitcase for me.  I clambered in to the backseat, freeing my jacket from the seatbelt's grasp.

"Oh, I hope I didn't make you wait!" I exclaimed.  "You must have been close-by!"

"It is not a problem" the gentleman said, pulling away from the curb.  "I do not mind to wait.  Every moment in life, it is good; wait or no wait."  His eyes smiled back to me from the rear view mirror.

"Well, thank you" said I.  "I would hate to have you miss other customers because of me!"

"It is no worry" he said.  "Every day that we wake up, sun or cloud; it is a good day.  We are thankful."

I nodded with approval from the back seat, peering forward at the meter.  He had not charged me any additional fare.

"It is all good" he said.  "God is good.  Every day you breathe and walk and wait, it is all good."  

"Yes" I muttered.  "That is so true."

Once he realized that I was a willing ear, he expounded; waiting a bit each time to sense my response before continuing.. "Sometimes people do not wish to talk" he said.  "They may say 'good morning', and that is fine.  I  just leave them alone.  But other time, people they like to talk.  I am thankful to God for everyone he brings to me."

"That's terrific" said I.

"Everyone they are different" he said.  "Like those trees, (gesturing to the boulevard), those leaves.  All different.  All made by God.  Like my thumb (he stretched his hand back towards me between the seats), my fingerprint.  All different.  Thousands of millions of people, all different.  All made by God."  His dark eyes twinkled back to me in the rearview mirror.     No  doubt he was gauging my response, perhaps to see if he could go on without risking offense.

"Yes" I said.  "It's quite amazing, isn't it?"

"Oh yes"" said he.  

The conversation continued for the duration of the ride, he giving calm but impassioned soliloquies a twixt the bumping cobbles of M street, the zipping cars, and the passing trees and leaves, which are, truly, different - yes each one.  We talked about faith, and prayer, and God, and love, and the amazingness of life and all creation.  We talked of seeing the God in people, of prejudice, of racism, and how, in all of our differences of color and culture, we are truly all God's beings.  We talked about the common joy of life in all people, even those who don't call God God.  We spoke of happiness and love and wonder, and of things working out for a reason.  We talked about the government shutdown; my relief that it ended in time to allow me to visit a museum; his relief that it ended in time to allow him to make his house payment, albeit late; that somehow it had all worked out well.

As we pulled up to the terminal, he thanked me and apologized over again for his English.  "I did so enjoy to talk to you" he said.  "God bless you and keep you safe."  "You as well" I said.  "You are quite a philosopher, and I so appreciate how happy and blessed you are!"  We wished each other the mutual safe travel and nice day, and I ambled from the cab, smiling.

It mattered not that he was from Maryland; me from Duluth.  Nor that he was born in India and I in Minnesota.  It mattered not that he wore an orange turban and I a green scarf.  Nor that he was a Sikh and I a Lutheran.  What mattered above all in that enchanted taxicab was that we both shared a reverence for the wonder of breathing, being and living.  And that, he would say, is everything.

Wanderlust, Words and Views

Walt Whitman wrote of the "call of the open road", and I like to think that I know exactly what he was referring to.  Those landscapes that just keep unfurling ahead of you; that road ahead like a long stretched piece of gum that you had to look at but aren't done chewing just yet.
It's amazing to experience this by one's self, but remarkable to do so with a loved one.  With Bertha, there is interest and history in virtually everything, peppered with a genuine sense of intrigue.  This has to be where I inherited my own wunder/wander/wonder-lust...
"Antelope!"
"Look at that one cow in the water.  Don't you wonder what the other cows are saying?  He looks pleased as punch."
"Oh my God - look at that red - Buttes?  Canyon - mesa?  What do you call that, anyway?"
"Do you think that crop is beets?"
"You know, we had a windmill like that; it ran the pump for the well.  You don't see many of those anymore."
From time to time, the conversation wanes and slows, like a cloud shadow passing over the distant mesa; then radiates once again.  There are places where the words sometimes take corners, like boxers in a fight; particularly when certain political or religious ideas may emerge.  The sentences sort of square off of each other; and more often than not, decline to take the first punch.  Rather than point to our own interpretations of these ideas, we stick to the intrigue of the places in which we walk hand in hand, see eye to eye.  Sometimes, we acknowledge the differences with humor and then let them rest.  Like "Mom, I know you are NEVER going to like my hair.  And that's ok.  I've made peace with it."   For example.
Words, really, are a lot like landscape.  They roll, spontaneous yet eternal.  Sometimes you stop and think, and sometimes you just go and don't look back.   As much as we gravitate towards the "presets" of Red and Blue, Dem or Republican, White or Black, Evil or Good; those words are only a single post in a long line of fence.   And there's a whole lot more there to see, over every hill and curve.
We gravitate towards "presets" in our traveling this planet, as well.  We all peg ourselves to places on the globe that we hold near and dear:  disney, hollywood, the Mall, etc. etc.  Yet the places in between, around, behind, and across are, in all probability, far more interesting.  They are changing all the time, challenging us to see rather than having someone show us.
Like 85 South out of Dickinson to Belle Fourche.
Like conversations with my soon-to-be-93-year-old mother.
There's a grace to that, but no app for it.

Til we - will we - meet again....

Two folks at a 1960's kitchen table, in Hankinson, ND.  One is soon to be 92 years old, the other a month away from turning 93.  Distance cousins, counting off other cousins to see 'who's left'.  Matter of factly.
I remember being in Israel, in 1979; in a Bedouin emcampment.  The custom, when greeting someone, was to greet as though you never expected to actually see them again.  The custom when saying goodbye was to wish them well as though you would never see them again.  The desert has some harsh realities.
So, back to the ND prairie....
I have those pangs of emotion in watching these interactions; talking about things that happened 40, 50, or more years ago.  About Adeline's husband whose arm got caught and ripped off in farm machinery.  About how Pearl kept in touch with everyone.  About Edward, who's still alive but pretty crippled up.  About the 640 acres that the Hohenstern's used to farm, with horses first and later with tractors.  About how my dad had marveled over the number of pigs, wondering how the guys could possible tell if they'd all been fed or not.  About the 11 'or so' kids that Aunt Bertha had, and how many of them didn't make it.   An accounting, so to speak, of time and space and people.  About how Donald doesn't mow the lawn anymore, and is seriously thinking about an assisted living apartment in Breckenridge.  About how Pearl died so suddenly, in the night; and how much of a shock it was to all who relied on her to keep track of everyone.  About the apples on Donald's tree; that sometimes get ripe before winter.  About Donald going to war for his brother Elmer when Elmer got drafted, so that Elmer could go through with his planned marriage.   How Donald just doesn't feel good going out in the heat any more.  How Bertha's knees just hurt.
As I watched these two beautiful eloquent human beings, a world full of life experiences sparking between them, I couldn't help but tear up.  How do you say goodbye?  When you're 92 and 93?  Do you say "see you on the other side?"  Do you say "well, see you next time" - when the odds of a 'next time' are very tenuous?   Or do you hug, and stand in the doorway for a long goodbye?
I will always fondly remember my mother standing in the door when I'd leave.  Watching and waving until my car faded out of sight.   Til "it's place remembers it no more."
An Old Testament verse came to mind:  
 ...He knows how we are formed,
    he remembers that we are dust. 
The life of mortals is like grass,
    they flourish like a flower of the field; 
the wind blows over it and it is gone,
    and its place remembers it no more.
These nonagenarians know, undoubtedly, that sooner rather than later their "places will remember them no more".  If that bothers them, it certainly doesn't show.  It bothers me - tears in my eyes as Donald stood in the doorway, grinning.  Perhaps there is a wisdom and acceptance at 90+ years that we 50-somethings are sorely lacking. 
If their places don't remember them any more, I certainly will.