The Kindness of Strangers

I loved Johanna Eurich's blog post on Alaska Dispatch today (courtesy of WitchVox). It's a rare piece that managed to inspire simultaneously a gleeful giggle, a touch of jealousy, and even some small bit of pity for the poor, protocol-laden Catholics of her area. I hope her article gives those church-folk a much-needed poke in the ribs.

I know it poked at mine. In some respects, I've not been very charitable lately, so it's good to be reminded of my duties now and then.

Last week, I had my own encounter with a stranded foreigner. When I boarded the shuttle bus to our parking lot at the end of the work day, there was an unfamiliar young lady sitting near the front with a huge backpack that was itself about half her height. With a lovely Irish accent, she asked if any of us had any water -- unfortunately no one did. By the time we reached the last stop, she and I were the only passengers left.

The young lady had a rather forlorn look on her face as we disembarked, clearly searching for something, so I asked if she was lost. Apparently our kindly shuttle driver had told her she'd be able to catch the city bus near that stop; however, to do so, she'd need to hike over to the library, which doesn't precisely look like a library -- and anyway the bus stop isn't visible from the far corner of the lot, where the shuttle drops us.

I offered her a ride to the bus station, and she crumpled into my car after stowing that huge pack in the back seat. As we chatted, I managed to glean that she was ultimately trying to catch a train to Chicago. After a quick stop at a gas station to get her something to drink, we skipped the bus stop and drove to the airport on the other side of town, where she could catch the South Shore train to Chicago -- or if that had stopped running, one of the Greyhound buses.

It was a pleasant ride. We chatted for a bit about the immigrant waves of the area, South Bend's adopted affinity for the Irish, and her looking forward to coming back to town to see a friend perform at Fiddler's Hearth. We didn't discuss religion, although we did find some amusement in her assurance that her grandmother would've been waxing poetic about the rewards I'd surely receive in Heaven for my kindness. Like Eurich, we agreed it was far better to enjoy the tiny contentments of this life rather than to hold out for mansions of gold.

Heck, I'm pretty sure Maeve -- a self-confessed "itchy foot" -- would be off in search of more interesting venues within days of finding herself holding the keys to such a celestial abode.

Maeve, it turned out, was an actress and director, mostly of small stage productions; she had been in Paris before coming to the US. She'd just come from New Orleans, and was planning to spend a little time in Chicago before heading back to NYC to work on a new project with some friends. I was honestly (and pleasantly) surprised, though, when she said that she loved America. Apparently she'd been impressed by the kindness of strangers during her travels, and declared she'd happily dispute any snarky comments about American hospitality once she headed back to Europe.

I'm okay with that plan. I imagine we Americans need all the good press we can get, these days ... though I'm wondering whether we're currently ranking higher or lower than the Brits in, say, Latvia and Greece.

In any case. As Maeve struggled to pull her enormous pack from my tiny backseat, I invited her to stop by my office if she found herself on campus again -- to refill her water bottle, if nothing else. She agreed that she would, and stowed her bottles of water and juice in the pack, and disappeared into the train terminal with a cheerful wave.

I hope the strangers she meets -- Christians, Pagans, or whomever they may be -- continue to treat her well. And here's hoping, too, that there will always be another Maeve (or perhaps a stranded Polish priest, or a sassy Alaskan journalist), the next time I need a reminder that a little kindness goes a long way.