The Kindness of Strangers
I awoke at 7am amidst dim lighting, unfamiliar surroundings, and much snoring. My back ached from the stiff cot even after only 3 hours of (broken) sleep. I slipped from under the blue blanket, sat on the edge of the cot, and bent over to touch my toes. When I stood to stretch I saw before me the serried ranks of two hundred others in the huge gymnasium, curled up on cots or mattresses in various stages of sleep. Military personnel and Canadian Red Cross workers walked the hallways, where a few of the stranded roamed carrying white bath towels, evidently to-and-from the showers. Where would I eat, how long would I be here? We had been allowed to bring only our carry-on bags to the Base and I was already regretting that my Norelco electric shaver was stashed there. Come to think of it, what would I do for clothes, a tooth brush, tooth paste, deodorant, a hair brush? I heard a television in the distance and remembered my wife cautioning me, when we were finally able to connect by phone, about the images I’d be seeing. Pretty unbelievable. But here we were. September 12, I realized, had dawned. What do strangers stuck in crisis do? They can make their situation worse, or they can try to make it better.
And so had something else. Although I’ve been a Christian for a long time, I’ve never been able to imagine heaven’s life. Truth be told, I stopped trying to picture it because there’s not much I’ve ever come across that has ever captured my imagination on the subject. Besides, earth life can be pretty cool itself. Sure, images of cloud-sitting harpists and streets of gold are cool, too, but I’m a failed musician and never had any gold. (Mind you, I have given some thought to the gold standard there: what we treat so dearly in this world is valued as paving material? What’s that all about?) Neither have Christian eschatologies been very helpful. Some carry too much of an evolutionary feel and some remind me of “global evacuation” myths touted by UFO believers. And they all contradict each other on some basic points, so which one is right? I think you get my point.
Even in the Bible itself it’s pretty confusing, like when the Book Revelation mentions the “leaves of trees being used to heal nations.” Now that is very cool, indeed. But where are these trees and nations located? In heaven? If so, why have I never heard even one sermon preached about heaven’s nations? But perhaps these trees and nations are on Earth. If so, why do they appear in what appears to be a description of heaven? It’s Oh too much. So years ago, along with all sorts of other things about the faith, I shelved the idea of heaven. Earth life is mysterious and demanding enough. But then I lived in a crisis on an Air Force Base and had an awakening.
What do strangers stuck in crisis do? They can make their situation worse, or they can try to make it better. Somehow we went for the latter. In Christian terms, we gave grace to one another. It began on the plane and kept spreading it spread exponentially at Shearwater. Military personnel provided beds, cots, mattresses, hot showers, even earplugs! We had free roam of the huge Base and use of it televisions, recreational facilities, and movie hall. They fed us three superb meals a day from a large buffet-style restaurant. On our second day there they opened the officers’ mess to us, where chefs grilled steaks and barbecued chicken outside in a terraced courtyard.
The morning of September 12, parents, teachers, and schoolchildren from the Tallahassee Community School of Dartmouth began arriving very early at the Base with dozens of large cardboard boxes: toothpaste, toothbrushes, deodorant, shampoo, underwear, hair brushes, mousse, razors. You name it. “Take what you need. It’s our gift to you.” This neighborly grace got to me. I was going to write that life became more normal. But something was dawning on me. Life was becoming heavenly.
Navy personnel, brought in just to open up more of the Base and help run it during our stay, gave us lifts into town when they got off-duty. I only had my dress shoes, and by Thursday my arches were aching so terribly from meandering the Base hours a day that I copped a ride to WalMart to purchase some tennis shoes. Others got lifts to Halifax to stroll the harbor or shop for gifts. Even the weather was a grace to us. With the exception of a couple hours one afternoon, blue skies and delightful temperature were the norm. I remember some of joking that “the service” was so good that, if we were now offered a hotel room, we’d decline and stay put. Here were no strangers, just good neighbors. Open lives, open resources, hospitality, freely given. Jesus’ Good Samaritan no longer seemed mere story.
Here were no strangers, just good neighbors. Open lives, open resources, hospitality, freely given. Jesus’ Good Samaritan no longer seemed mere story. Kathy from Salt Lake City put it this way: “It reminds me of Jesus saying, ‘I was a stranger and you took me in and fed me and clothed me.'” I thought about a time in the Book of Acts, chapter 4, where communal Christian living is described as being that of “great grace” because everything was shared and so no one in lacked any needed thing.
On Thursday, I remembered that I had the phone number of a pastor in Halifax whom I had met a year earlier in Romania. I wondered if he was around. He was surprised when I called and immediately asked me asked if I needed anything. Are you kidding, I said, this place is like a four star hotel. On Friday, he showed up at the Base with his Norelco electric shaver. Bless you, brother. His gesture was indicative of the ethos of Halifax, Dartmouth, and Shearwater those days, a givingness that seemed so normal that it judged the way I did “normal” life back home. We were responding to something so durable in the image of God in us: the ability to respond with great grace even in the wake of great evil.
I also noticed that we strandeds seemed to have entered a curious new relationship to time. I’m tempted to say that it was as if time had stopped, but that’s too cliched, besides being inaccurate. It was a subtle change. Time was going on, but somehow had altered. Yesterday, we were busy westerners. Today everyone had time. And for this we must thank the FAA, for at Shearwater, the days of the strandeds departure kept getting pushed into the future — each day we were told that no one could say how long we’d be there. For us there was no future. Just today. And within that novel existential period it really was quite remarkable.
Here’s a for-instance. When people’s paths would cross, and repeatedly they did — in or outside the gym, in the mess hall or the lounges, at the shower lockers, on the paths to and from the barracks — we had time. Time to say “Oh, hi, again,” and then pick up a previous conversation. After all, what else was there to do but to get to know each other?
Narrative abounded, and between the unlikeliest persons. A shy 19-year old student from Oxford kneels beside the cot of a lonely 40-year old Kenyan woman, befriending her. A 25-year-old designer from Germany gets into an animated discussion with a 60-year-old CEO from England in the lunch queue. A middle-aged man from the States strolls the grounds chatting up a twentysomething au pair from France. Reverend Matthews and his wife comfort young newlyweds from England; their honeymoon had been interrupted. A knot of strangers from different nations and races share their histories while seated on uncomfortable gray plastic chairs in the sun outside the gym. A lone soul emerges from the cafeteria line carrying a tray of food but can’t spot an empty table; two Canadian Navy Lieutenants notice and invite him to join them. Evidently, this new relationship to time was a necessary part of the glimpse I was getting at what heaven’s life must be like.
There was no disconnect, either, at least not that I noticed. What I mean is, we arrived as who we were. That baggage couldn’t be left on the plane. Here I can speak only for myself. I, the entire me, had arrived, and I found that I carried a mental habit that was hostile to the new time. I would be pleasantly lost in someone’s narrative and suddenly think I’ve got to get going now. I’ve got to go. But then I’d realize I don’t have anyplace to go, nothing to do, I don’t have to do anything, I’ve got time. Here was time to get to know people. Where are you from? How are you getting on here? Need anything? No? Where were you headed before your got here? Heaven must be like this t the very least, I thought, as much time as you want to get to know all sorts of people. “Oh, there you are again. Remember when we were talking about….”
At Shearwater, selfish interest and alienation were transformed into opportunities for self-denial, cooperation among the different, unity in our diversity. A depth of compassion and caring had been awakened in us that I don’t think we knew we carried within, amid our wood, hay, and stubble. Heaven broke in and walls broke down between races, professions, classes, nationalities. Human suffering tasted something sweet of the saving grace of God as strangers became neighbors.
In all those days, there was no more stunning symbol of the transformation than during our three-hour flight from Halifax to Atlanta on Saturday, September 15. The dark blue curtains that separate the economy/business/first class sections were never pulled. The no-longer-strandeds automatically returned to their previously assigned seats when they boarded, but they were free to meander the plane without hint of reproof regarding status or class, but relationships had been formed at Shearwater between people of all classes — the neighborliness begun on the ground between the well-heeled, the pedestrian, and the flight crew quite naturally sustained itself in the air. I’m a frequent flyer and I’ve never seen the ritual “pulling of the veils” suspended before. I really believe that it just never occurred to anyone to revive the old barriers. We’d been changed by grace.
And so there I was peering out a porthole in first class after we were airborne. It was another gorgeous morning, bright and clear. Captain Williams took us down the Atlantic Coast. Time slowed to a a crawl as we passed over New York City and saw, even five days on, plumes of smoke spiraling to reach us from the huge gray crater; ground zero; nee: the World Trade Center. I snapped a photo and then I stared until I could no longer see the ascending trails of tears. So, it really had happened.
(Shorter versions of this essay were published in Third Way, Sept., 2002, and Crosspoint, Fall 2002, for the first anniversary of 9/11.)
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