Post #10--I'll Be Home For Christmas

 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.

     

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            “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?”

            

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.