One evening several years ago I was seated on the MAX Orange Line headed out of downtown.  I could not keep from overhearing a conversation between two men seated in the row behind me.

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What’s with the coloring books?

I like coloring books.  I’ve just started getting back into them.

I like coloring books, too.  They’re cool.

The cool part for me is that I get to share them with my daughter.  I couldn’t see her for a long time because I was using heroin.  Now that I’ve been clean for two years, I get to see her again and we like doing coloring books together.

That’s cool.  I do heroin sometimes, it feels good but it’s not like it’s the best thing ever.

Good that it hasn’t hooked you.  For 99% of people, it’s “Hello, I just found the new love of my life.”  Please don’t do heroin again.

You homeless?

Yeah.  I’m staying tonight at the shelter near 17^th & Holgate.

I’m homeless, too.  I’m staying at a place in Milwaukie tonight.

So, I was serious.  Please don’t ever do heroin again.

I don’t do it much, mostly just when I have been drinking and think, “Why the hell not?”

That’s when people die.  Alcohol and heroin are deadly together.  I almost died several times.

Yeah, I died a couple of times, but they brought me back.

Well, don’t keep pushing your luck.  And there’s worse things than dying.  Do you have any brothers or sisters?

Yeah, I got a brother three years younger than me.

Well, I’ve got younger brothers, too, and they won’t see me anymore because I was a junkie.  Why should they look up to a junkie?  Having little brothers that won’t see you is worse than dying.  Please don’t do heroin again.

I’ll think about it.

Listen, I’ve got to get off at this stop, but promise me you won’t do it again.  It will be the best decision you ever make.

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As we pull into my station, the second man rises and steps in front of me to exit the train.  His arms are laden with grocery sacks holding his belongings.  I feel a nudge and, without pausing to reflect, I tap the man on the shoulder.

“I just wanted to say that I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation on the train.  I wanted to tell you that you were doing really good work back there.  I really admire you.”

“Thanks, man,” he responds.  His eyes quickly well with tears.  “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know God?”

“Umm … that depends on what you mean, but I think … yes.”

“Would you be willing to pray for me?”

“Absolutely.  How would you like me to pray for you?”

“It’s complicated …”  He trails off, begins crying more profusely.  “Do you have a minute?  Could we sit on the bench here?”

“Sure.  I’m not in a hurry.”  We sit.

“It’s like … my Dad, he lives in Africa now, I haven’t seen him in years, and I just learned he’s got cancer bad …”

“That’s really hard news …”

“It is, but …”  He stops, cocks his head, and hears a train going in the other direction approaching the platform.  “Listen, I have to catch this train, ‘cause I should’ve gotten off at the last stop … what I really want you to pray for is my girlfriend and her daughters … my daughters … they are in a really bad place right now.  Really bad.  Her name is Melissa …”

“And your name is …”

“Brian.”

“Brian, I will pray for Melissa, and for your daughters, and for your dad … and for you, Brian.  I will hold you all in my heart, and in God’s light.”

“Thanks, man—that really means a lot.”

I pat Brian on the arm, and he steps onto the train with his bags.  The doors close, and he disappears into the night.

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At the time of this story, I’d taken a leave of absence from seminary to return to full-time work, and I didn’t know when or if I would return.  As the train pulled out, I sat back down on the bench and tried to absorb what had transpired.  I’d only meant to offer encouragement, but instead I was challenged to step into a role for which I felt totally unprepared.  Having opened the door, I had to step through and trust that I could be what was needed in the situation.  As I got up from the bench, I had a deep sense that something sacred had happened, and that I needed to return to seminary to explore further.

I understand this story now as my first experience of chaplaincy.  It came to me fully formed, with all the hallmarks I now recognize.  Compassionate presence with a person in need.  Active listening to what is on their heart.  Simple words acknowledging their pain and offering wishes for healing.  No knowledge of how the story continues, just a sense that the conversation serves a higher purpose.

For me, this story abounds with questions about how God acts in the world.  What brought these three strangers together on that train?  What spirit led Brian to minister so profoundly to the other man, especially given the pain of his own struggles?  What spirit nudged me to reach out to Brian, that we each might offer the other something we deeply needed?  I don’t think of God as a master puppeteer, but I do believe God’s desire for our healing is so powerful that we can sometimes hear it—if we only listen.