![]() I don’t even want to hear their witness, however moving their tales might be. I avoid their eyes because when they see what I’m reading they invite me to their neighborhood Bible study groups, and although I admire their commitment, this morning I don’t want to hear their textual analysis. There are Bible readers with black, well-thumbed books, passages circled and underlined in multicolored ink. Read Prayer Works: A Lifetime Spiritual Journey by Rick Hamlin His prayer book is a mystery to me, the pages going back to front, the words right to left. There’s the young Orthodox Jewish man with a thin brown beard barely covering his pink cheeks and chin. There’s the woman with the red chapped hands who takes a rosary out of her frayed overcoat pocket and fingers the beads with one hand while holding on to the pole with the other (unless she, fortunate one, has found a place to sit). I’ve come to know them by sight over the years. Without even gazing around, I know there are others here too. Where two or three are gathered in my name, I’m there with them. I can make out a few words about God and prayer. She says something to me in Spanish and indicates by her gestures that she doesn’t mind standing. But that would mean stopping my prayer time for a moment, leaving off the meditation that I desperately crave. And if I really believed in the integrity of this devotional time, I would get up and offer my place to someone who probably deserves it more than I do. I avoid looking up, wary of meeting the gaze that will say, “Give me your seat, please.” I avoid noticing how old they are by focusing on the small book in my lap or by closing my eyes and thinking about God. ![]() ![]() Looking down, I can see their tired feet, the women in hose that bunch at the ankles. Old people who can barely reach the bar above my head. Old people who get on at 168th Street or 145th Street, after I’ve settled into one of the few seats. Old people standing on a crowded subway while I sit are the worst distraction of all. All I get from where I sit are drums and bass.Īt least the kids are easier to ignore than the old people. Others have music playing in their earbuds. One lone soul in baggy pants with the crotch at his knees is doing his homework, scratching the answers to algebraic equations in a workbook while trying to contribute to the conversation around him about girlfriends and teachers and music. Who was killed? Who was maimed? Who won the lottery? The kids sitting next to me and standing above me are talking about school. The tabloid headlines scream out in boldface.
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