I didn’t notice her at first. She was sitting silently behind a press of people on packed subway car and besides, I was being distracted by our gregarious little grandson. I had been in New York City for a few days on business and had spent a delightful evening in Central Park with our daughter, her husband, and their 10-month old son. For the trip home we boarded the uptown “1” train at 72nd street which, given the evening rush, was a standing-room-only affair. It took several stops for the crowd to thin enough for us to find seats.
After a stop or two I noticed her. She was sitting across from us holding an oversized handbag in her lap. She was perhaps in her mid-thirties, dressed as a professional, with dark hair and a swarthy complexion. She had her eyes closed and was leaning her head back against the window. She was shutting out the cacophony around us by listening to an iPod Shuffle MP3 player clipped to her collar through the attached ear buds. Her face was impassive and she was, on the whole, unobtrusive—invisible.
What made me notice her at all was a single tear rolling down her cheek which flinched almost imperceptibly. She made no attempt to wipe it away and it hung there along with the glistening track it had made on her face. Behind that tear was a story; perhaps a sad story of unspeakable sorrow but there was no screaming or whining—just a tiny terrible tear. In her quiet anguish she seemed so devastatingly alone despite being surrounded by a jostling milling mob of humanity, all of us rushing about with hardly a thought for the lives loves and losses of our travelling companions.
In that moment I felt a deep impulse to cross the aisle and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. That was of course impossible. The strict social codes of our modern western society would have made that inconceivably awkward, rude, and even frightening. Nevertheless it was maddening that even when I finally recognized her need the powerful societal constraints of propriety and politeness prevented me from even approaching. I was afraid she would be afraid of me so I did nothing but watch and pray. After several more stops she got up and shuffled out of the car and was lost in the milling crowd. I was left hoping she had someone at home with a listening ear and a kind heart.
I wondered what Jesus (or even Leo Buscaglia) might have done. The tear resulted from her personal pain, but it was emblematic of all the sorrow surrounding us. Every person on that subway had a story. Each had suffered loss or disappointment. The world is indeed a difficult place to live and ironically what we all need is what we cannot or are too afraid to give—understanding compassion and a helping hand.
I suppose the best place to be encircled in the arms of love is in families, but given the prevalence of family dissolution too many people are certain to struggle alone. I’m left to ponder what will happen to me if I’m in an hour of need among strangers. What if I’m hungry, thirsty, a stranger, naked, sick, or in prison. Will someone care enough to take the social and perhaps personal risk to give me meat, give me drink, take me in, clothe me, or visit me? Maybe someone braver and more compassionate than I.
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