A Bus Ride by Luke Campbell

The following is a journal entry by my son, Luke (17)

On my journey home from practicing some hoop, I once again, had the pleasure of riding on the bus home. As per usual, it was filled to its bursting point. I was pressed against the wall while several people breathed down my neck. The bus, with all of its patrons and various articles, assaulted my ears with all manners of noise. I shut my eyes and drank deeply from the ever growing pool of sound. The flavors differed in their extremes, some a hot jalapeño and some a cool and soothing sip of lemonade. A young man, exclaiming loudly for all to hear as he answered the phone. He was planning a party with a friend, making sure that we are all aware of his plans. Behind me, a young mother giving instructions to her daughter on the phone. “Put the food in the oven in about 5 minutes.” She was calm, her voice likewise. A grandmother, sitting next to her granddaughter who was chattering away like a chipmunk exposed to a half full can of Redbull. The bus itself, a machine that had seen many loyal years of service to Sofia, emitted sounds that were evidence enough that this giant, two-sectioned bus was a veteran. The rattle of the windows, the cough and choking of the engine as it pressed on through the crowded streets, seeking out each bus stop in the cold. This is bus travel, a loud exposer to life. 

In the same ride, once we left the centre and came closer to the final stop, the noise slowly, person by person, waned. What remained after the departure of the primary sound creators, was much more of a simple sound. Simply the bus. The sounds of all the old parts clanking together. The old ladies, gossiping quietly in the corner. This was the quiet time on the bus. An old man’s breathing, bearing the wounds of years of smoking. The car alarm shouting its protest in the distance. All very calming, when compared to my earlier experience. This is bus travel, simple solitude.

Tolstoy's Clock

“Tik tok, tik tok,” goes the clock. Second by second, hour by hour, day by day, this old friend orders our existence. We seldom take notice of this mechanism or recognize the truly significant place it occupies, but it is always there. By it we schedule our lives and evaluate our usefulness. But what if it is wrong? How can we know? As long as the hands are moving it is impossible to evaluate the accuracy of a clock without another reference. What if the impression given by its face is not correct? Do we continue to orient our lives by its guidance? What if our clock is inconsistent and can be trusted in some moments, but not in others?

Emotions are a mystery. I know there is chemistry behind the way I feel, but I am largely ignorant to the way it all works. Why do smiles feel good? Why does stress wind up my innards and try to steal my joy? Like a clock orders my day, my emotions determine how I experience life. The value of each moment and the beauty of each soul is more often a function of my own sentiment than a reflection of the genuine situation. And, like an erroneous timepiece, I find it impossible to know when my emotions provide an inaccurate picture. Indeed, without an outside reference, maintaining the correct bearings is unattainable.

How can the situation be improved? In his essay, “The Lion and the Honeycomb,” Leonard Tolstoy compared the physical and spiritual sides of human nature to a clock. He pointed out that a clock can be changed by adjusting the hands, or by moving the inner mechanisms. Taking this a step further, while we can correct the time by moving the hands of a clock, we cannot truly fix an errant timepiece without changing it internally. In my own life I realize how I often want to correct my emotional situation without digging deeply in my spirit to repair the brokenness within that is producing an improper view of life. Instead of just accepting my emotions, I must take time to analyze “why” I am feeling the way I am. 

In this process placing blame comes easily. Something or someone is at fault. The problem with this approach is that I often have disturbingly little control over my circumstances and even less on people around me. And since I can’t change them, I am left with the arduous prospect of changing myself. When true internal metamorphosis comes, I gain remarkable freedom to live above my circumstances and to keep true time in the rhythm of life. 

So let me ask you, as I ask myself, are your emotions keeping true time? Are they providing an accurate view? Often the task of correcting erroneous emotions requires an outside reference. A good friend is necessary. Not a judge, or someone with answers, just a listener, . . a friend. For a Christian, faith also provides a critical anchor. Love and hope pour from a genuine, examined, and malleable trust in God.

Tik tok, tik tok. . . how are you keeping time?

The Sofia Effect: A Haunting Gaze

A Haunting Gaze

We saw the tragedy of the two boys as we approached. One was around 11 and I would guess the other was about 9. Laura and I had been to a movie and were walking back to our car through an outdoor mall. It was a little after 9pm.The boys were passing a plastic bag back and forth. They took turns deeply inhaling the fumes they had sprayed into it. Unfortunately, this is not an unusual sight in these parts. Boys at the lowest social level begin inhaling glue at an early age to escape the misery of the days.

When the two spotted us they rushed towards us like missiles. Their approach was not surprising. Beggars are commonplace and we encounter them on a daily basis. The economy here leaves little choice for a large segment of society. Jobs are non-existent for many. There are none to be had. Those lucky enough to receive social assistance from the government receive only $30 a month, barely enough to buy a loaf of bread, much less heat or medicine. But there is a darker side also. Often babies and toddlers are drugged to make them easier to control as they are used as props to make the pleas of their handlers more convincing. Children are often pimped and have to give their take to a “boss.”  These beggars make us uncomfortable because we don’t know what to do. Giving money is not always the best thing. Laura and I usually give something. Maybe they will actually buy food with it. Perhaps that dollar we give will keep that child from being beaten by his pimp. Who knows? I hope we never grow complacent to this vexing issue.

But these two boys were different. They approached with a tenacity I have never witnessed. They began pulling on me, ferociously begging. They were fearless and relentless!  Their hands were all over me. I felt them reaching into my coat pockets. I pushed them away, softly at first, but they keep coming. I yelled at them in my best and meanest Bulgarian voice with no result. It was all happening so quickly and yet seemed to last forever. They refused to stop. How physical was I willing to get? Their faces were wild from the effects of the glue. Emotions and thoughts ran through me like a metal ball in pinball machine. I was filled with anger, vulnerability and pity all at the same time. They were just boys!

As quickly as it all started, it was over as they seemed to give up in unison. The only thing that they had stolen was a parking ticket that ended up costing me $10. The emotional impact was far greater. Laura and I were left empty of feeling.The pair wasn’t quite big enough to pose any real physical threat, but if they were a few years older the story might have been different. My greatest desire is to love and protect children like these, and yet in the rush of the moment I wondered how forcefully I was going to have to fight them off. I am disturbed by the possibility of what I might have done if they had not stopped. There was so little time to think. Three hours have now passed since the encounter and my thoughts are on those two. I can still see the younger one’s face; his crazy eyes, haunting gaze, and his nose covered with dried snot and mucus from the glue. The temperature is well below freezing and I wonder if they will spend the night on the street. Are they passed out somewhere? Where are their parents? Has someone else taken advantage of them? My family and I are now safe and warm in our beds with full bellies, but does anyone give a damn about them?

Sometime we become insulated from the pain in the world. We callously believe that people get what they deserve. But these two boys deserve better. They deserve to be well fed and warm. They deserve someone to protect them from the harm around them. They deserve someone to love them enough to lead them away from sniffing glue. They deserve to be loved. They deserve for someone to give a damn!

(I hope the use of the word “damn” is not offensive. I apologize if it is. I wrote it and then replaced it with the word “hoot.” But “hoot” just does not communicate the weight of the message. Pray for these two boys.)