Stranger at Union Station

Stranger at Union Station

 

I found this short story while browsing. I thought when I read it, that you can’t tell what Father is up to sometimes. Although, He is always working in somebody life… 

It was a small aluminum cross, not much to look at. A message was inscribed on it crossword-puzzle fashion, with GOD stamped on the crossbeam so that the O was in the center and LOVES YOU ran vertically through it. 

            I started carrying the cross in my pocket, the way I had carried a “good deed coin” when I was a Boy Scout. Every time I helped someone, I moved the cross to the other pocket, just as I had done with the coin. After a few months the cross became a reminder not to do good deeds arbitrarily, but to watch for what God wanted me to do, consciously, each and every day. 

            Then I was called back home to Indiana to see my ailing grandma. As usual, I traveled by bus. In the past I had transferred in Chicago for a bus to South Bend, but this year I decided to avoid the hustle and bustle of the Windy City, even if it meant taking the long route through Indianapolis. My trip became even longer when my bus pulled into Union Station five minutes after my connection to South Bend had left. There wouldn’t be another bus until seven the next morning. It would be quicker for someone to come get me. I called my sons in Elkhart and asked them to pick me up. 

            It would take them a few hours, so I decided to stop at the station’s all-night restaurant. At least I could people-watch. Inside it was quiet, no surprise considering the late hour. There were a few other customers, waiting half asleep, as I was. I took a table by the entrance and sipped my coffee.  

I noticed a middle-aged woman slip into a seat at the table catty-corner to mine. There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary about her, but for some reason she caught my attention. She was wearing what I’d call a Hoosier conservative outfit: a nondescript jacket and a plain dress. She sat quietly, swirls of steam from her coffee drifting in front of her. She wore the same bored, tired expression most of us travelers did. Still, I found myself looking up at her again. 

Then I heard something: Give her your cross. 

The voice seemed to come from inside me, but the sound wasn’t in my ears or my mind. It was just there. I shook my head, puzzled.

Give her your cross. The same words. 

I glanced around to see if anyone else had heard the voice. But no one was even looking in my direction. I didn’t want to give my cross to a complete strange. It meant something to me. Besides, she didn’t need my cross. She looked fine to me, not like some of the obviously-down-on-their-luck types I had tried to help in the past.  

This is ridiculous, I thought. I got up to leave when I felt a firm pressure on my chest, as if a huge hand were holding me in place. 

The voice came again, strong and sure: Tell her it’s from me. 

There was such unmistakable command in the words that I didn’t think to disobey. I reached into my pocket and dug out my cross, its lightness feeling familiar in my grasp. Then I strode directly to the woman’s table, thinking I could deliver the gift and escape quickly. 

Close up, I noticed her eyes were vacant. She had her hand positioned awkwardly, halfway in the purse resting on her lap. I laid the cross on the table and heard myself say, “God wants me to give you this.” 

The woman read the inscription on it and started to cry. “Are you okay, ma’am?” I asked, taken aback.  

She nodded and slowly withdrew her hand from her purse. Shock hit me full force when I saw what she was pulling out – a .25-caliber pistol. 

“I came here to have my last cup of coffee,” the woman said. “My daughter was killed a few months ago, and my husband just left me. I thought God had abandoned me too.” 

“You made me realize he’s still with me.” She cradled the cross in her palm and read its message once more. Then she looked down at the gun. “Please, take it away. I know I’m going to be all right.” 

I removed the ammunition clip. “I’ll take this. But I think you need to get rid of the gun yourself,” I answered carefully, looking her straight in the eye, “so you know you’ll never be tempted by it again.” 

For a few moments her gaze locked with mine. Then she nodded once in understanding and returned the pistol to her purse. 

“Thank you,” she said, wrapping her fingers tightly around the metal of the cross. “I have never needed these words more.” 

Clutching the cross to her chest, she walked out the door. I watched as she disappeared into the night. Sometimes you can figure out when another person is in need. Other times you are called to the spot where God and love intersect.  

Perry Roll