It
used to be that missionaries, when they left for their assignments, would buy a
wooden coffin, pack it full of all the belongings they could fit, and sell the
rest. Then they’d get on a boat
and (hopefully) survive the months-long journey to wherever it was God had
called them, weeping and waving to their mothers as they left because they knew
they’d never see them alive again.
I,
however, got to come home for Christmas.
So yeah, I’d say my life is pretty good.
How
excited I feel about Christmas varies from year to year. And when I say that, I
mean it varies from “Yeah, I’m pretty excited” to “LITERAL SWEET BABY
JESUS.” I like Christmas. It
brings out my six-year-old excitement.
Every year since I can remember, my family has spent Christmas Eve at
church, where we are all (despite our best efforts) heavily involved in the
services, and then spend Christmas day opening presents, and ABSOLUTELY NOT
EVER getting out of our pajamas. I am generally more excited about Christmas
than the rest of my family. Last
year I got fed up the day before Christmas Eve when we didn’t have a tree, and I
decorated the whole thing by myself in a sullen yuletide rage, glaring holiday
guilt into the souls of my brother and sister. And that’s how they learned the
true meaning of Christmas.
This
year, possibly because I knew I’d get to go home and possibly because I started
the season off with a visit from the Boyfriend and the most perfect Christmas
tree ever, my Christmas excitement levels were really high. Really.
And
since this kind of excitement about Christmas is supposed to be reserved for
six-year-olds, I did my best to repress the childish version of myself and be an
adult about the rest of life. This
was difficult for me, as adulthood is a scary place full of bills and weighty
life decisions. But I did my best.
I
researched travel options months in advance. I compared prices.
I chose to leave on the 2:00pm BoltBus from Vancouver to Portland.
I
pre-packed. I packed. I
unpacked. I re-packed.
I
cleaned my apartment. I paid next
month’s rent.
I
printed my ticket.
I
was READY! I WAS AN ADULT!
Joan
drove me to the train station (I WASN’T EVEN LATE!), where I deposited my
suitcase (I ONLY HAD ONE!) and presented my passport (which I DID NOT FORGET!)
and my ticket (which I printed out WAY IN ADVANCE!).
TAKE
ME HOME, BUS DRIVING CITIZEN!
And
then…
“Hold
it,” said Bus Driving Citizen, “Did you get the schedule wrong?”
What?
Did I what? What do you mean, did I get the schedule wrong? I showed
him my ticket (which I printed out WAY IN ADVANCE! LIKE AN ADULT!)
“This
ticket is for the 6:30am BoltBus from Vancouver to Portland,” said Bus Driving
Citizen, “That bus left like eight hours ago.”
What? It most certainly did not. That was absolutely not possible. Obviously no, I did NOT get the
schedule wrong. I am an ADULT, and
adults don’t do that. Also are you not
looking at my cape, sir?
I
tried to tell Bus Driving Citizen that there must be some mistake, but he just
pointed to my ticket.
...
........
...............................
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.”
And
just like that, I crumbled from Adult Amy to six-year-old Amy, who knows for
certain that the best way to deal with a situation like this is to crawl under
your bed with a box of cereal and never come out again. Which was a problem, because my
Vancouver bed was now 20 miles away and my Portland bed was like 350 miles
away, and I was here with one adult suitcase, a wasted eighty-dollar ticket, no
cereal, and definitely no way to get home for Christmas.
Don’t
cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry
Adult
Amy rallied for a little bit, and I got the sense to ask, “please, is there any
way, any way at all, that I can ride
stand-by? Are there any empty
seats? Anything?”
“We’ll
see,” said Bus Driving Citizen, “This is supposed to be a full bus, but stay
here and we’ll see.”
Then
six-year-old Amy got the better of me for a second, and I got a little sniffly
and tried to think of a plan B. I
watched as people kept coming for the bus. I called my sister, who called my brother, who then called
me back. We arranged that Brother
could pick me up in Seattle. THERE
IS HOPE!
By
this time, the bus is nearly full.
To my dismay, another guy has joined me in the stand-by line.
The
Dude
He seems upset, and is grumbling
stuff like “why aren’t they ready?
I called the place and they didn’t tell me anything about how this
works. They just told me to be
here and get on.”
I
try to have compassion for this guy, but can’t. He is DEFINITELY young enough to know how to use the Internet.
Bus
Driving Citizen asks if Dude has a ticket. Dude does, but doesn’t have it. The people on the phone didn’t tell him
anything about how this works.
They just told him to be here and get on.
“Ok,
but you definitely have a ticket, right?” asks both Bus Driving Citizen and
myself.
Dude
seems very confused about how busses work.
I
would make fun of him, but I apparently have the same problem.
Both
Adult Amy and six-year-old Amy understand this as a moral dilemma. Suppose there is only one seat
left? Should I, as a follower of Jesus
and long-time lover of random acts of kindness during Christmastime, allow him
to have my seat and spend Christmas away from church and pajamas and my
family? Who will angrily teach my
siblings about tree decorating?
Who will play the violin at the service? And (puke noise) what would Jesus do?
Bus
Driving Citizen must now call the bus company to confirm Dude’s ticket. Adult Amy would like to point out that
I can definitely confirm my ticket, since I printed it out way in advance LIKE
AN ADULT, but does not do so because that’s obnoxious.
Bus
Driving Citizen is put on hold. He is becoming disgruntle, because we are now
late for our departure. Dude begins biting his fingernails and spitting them
onto the sidewalk. All versions of Amy are having a hard time thinking about
Jesus.
Bus
Driving Citizen, still on hold, asks where I need to go.
“If
I could just get to Seattle.
Please, just get me across the border to Seattle, and I PROMISE I will
not get back on the bus. Please,
anything.”
Bus
driver says “We’ll see,” wand we all wait another 10 minutes while he’s on
hold. At this point, everybody on the bus is as stressed out as we are.
Finally, Dude taps Bus Driving Citizen (still on hold) on the shoulder, and loudly says, “So, do I pay you now or later?”
Finally, Dude taps Bus Driving Citizen (still on hold) on the shoulder, and loudly says, “So, do I pay you now or later?”
He
repeats: “Do I pay now or later? How does this work?”
Bus
Driver voices the opinion of both of us: “Do you mean to tell me…that YOU DO
NOT HAVE A TICKET?”
“Well,”
says Dude, “I haven’t paid or
anything…”
Bus
Driving Citizen cuts him off. “So you need to ride stand-by? You both need to
ride stand-by? Look, I only have 1 seat left.”
Dude
and I look at each other. That
seat is rightfully mine. I already
paid. But no, I can’t help
thinking this guy was probably just trying to be an adult, and got all ready to
go home, and just missed one tiny little detail. And it’s Christmas.
Dang
it, Jesus.
So
Adult Amy takes a deep breath and starts telling six-year-old Amy to calm
down. After all, most missionaries
don’t even think about getting to come home for Christmas. It comes with the
job. I’ve never had to pack all my
belongings into my own coffin, and that should probably be enough to make me
thankful. Compared to most people
in the world, this doesn't even classify as a problem.
But
six-year-old Amy takes one more chance, tears and all.
“So…there’s
really nothing else? Just one more seat?”
Bus
Driver sighs. “Look,” he says, “I
don’t normally do this, but if you’re just going to Seattle, there’s a shelf in
the back of the bus where people put their extra carry-on luggage. I guess one of you could ride on
that. It’s not a real seat,
though.”
And
that is the story of how I rode on the BoltBus luggage shelf from Vancouver to
Seattle because a kind bus driver saved my Christmas. It’s also a story about how God works things out for me,
even though I never seem to do things right. The luggage shelf wasn’t so bad. Even though it wasn’t the most comfy, curling up between the
suitcases was the same kind of cozy as curling up under my bed with a box of
cereal, and the six-year-old in me really enjoyed that. Plus, once I got to Seattle, my fabulous brother picked me up, and we listened to awesome indy music all the way home (If you know my brother, you should probably ask him about music. He knows.) And really, it was a comfort to sit
back there and thank Jesus that I’ve never had to wave goodbye forever to my
mom from the deck of a boat or ride a smelly donkey through a desert to find a
shack in Bethehem. Maybe one day,
He’ll ask me to do one of those things.
And it will be scary. But
when I’m sitting on the shelf in the back of the bus, finally on my way home, it’s
easy to remember that He never sends me anywhere without giving me what I need.
I think it will be okay.
Please consider donating, because I really need to get groceries. Merry Christmas, y'all. See you next year.