Sharing the ride on the journey of life

Pendleton was strangely dressed — so you'd notice. Black hiking socks to his knees over camo pants, boots, long dreadlocks with red braids. In his black gloved hands he held a transistor radio with a built-in, crank-up flashlight. Sitting near me on a bench in Portland's Union Station he played his radio loud enough for the whole room to hear. He was a tall, young Black man, moving in place to his music.

Security stopped by to tell him to shut it off. As soon as the agent was gone those were wasted words. Said he was on his way to Connecticut — but didn't seem to know what he was going to do there. It was obvious he lived in his own world.

We talked about his unusual name. I told him about Pendleton wool shirts. He hadn't heard of them. He thought maybe he was named after the Marine Corps base, Camp Pendleton. When my connecting train arrived he reached out his black glove and squeezed my hand. Glancing at my demure navy knit jumper he blew me away when he said, “Nice dress.”

Walker was a short, bearded White guy in a baseball cap across the aisle on the ride from Portland down to Klamath Falls — where he debarked while I continued on to California. He carried a tall brown walking stick and a large backpack. Had recently done a major hike and then found himself working on an organic vegetable farm.

He was 25, getting ready to fine tune his future. From a Catholic background he'd been invited to an upcoming discernment retreat at a local monastery — a time to listen for God's calling on his life. Would he study for the priesthood, or opt for another position in the church serving others.

Walker and Pendleton seemed complete opposites. One wandering aimlessly, one seeking purpose. I liked them both.

The train is a journey filled with people each on a journey. Even children. Chugging over Oregon's Cascade mountains on the return trip the summit had significant snow along the tracks. Riding in the last car I helped lift an excited little girl to see out the back window.

“Haven't you ever seen snow?” I asked. “Not on the ground,” she answered. “Where are you from?” She smiled up at me with her rosy cheeks and jet black hair. “The Philippines.” That explained it. Her grandmother had died and the family was on their way to Seattle to say their goodbye.

My tattooed sixties friend along with me, and I, were also on a journey. My uncle's got five years until he is 100 years old. I'd wanted to see him — because I still could. Lori just lost her second, and last, child in June. This trip was a reach toward healing. She'd never ridden a train, never been to California, never seen the ocean. She told me it was a “miraculous” time for her.

Life's a train. Everybody on a journey. We're meant to share the ride. To be companionable. Listen. Offer encouragement … ”put on a heart of compassion.”

Our train trip circled around when Lori's driver picked her up at midnight in the Spokane depot. She introduced her as Journey. “Nice name,” I said.