The baby begins to cry. Most of the passengers cast perturbed looks at the young mother. She tries to dodge the eye daggers by leaning in close to the infant's face. But the child grows exponentially more upset. Nothing seems to work. The woman's steely resolve begins to melt as the tears form in her eyes.
Please. We're almost there. Hold on just a little longer.
A middle-aged woman gets up out of her seat and steps over to the mother. She puts a hand on the younger woman's shoulder. She smiles gently before speaking.
Here, sweetheart, let me help you with your things so you can feed your baby.
Gratitude radiates from the young mother's face. Her Good Samaritan lifts the bags off her arms and shoulders. The mother finds her way down to the bench. Her hand bracing beneath her almost as if she expects the seat to be some sort of mirage. She drapes a cover over her child and begins to nurse. The screaming stops almost immediately and a breath of relief escapes the mother's mouth.
When the infant has finished, the mother gets up just as the train pulls into the station. She looks at the woman who has helped her.
Thank you so much. This is my stop.
She reaches for the bags. But the other woman shakes her head vigorously.
This is my stop too. I'll carry it for you a bit more.
The mother smiles even as she holds back tears. The two woman exit the car. People pour in. People pour out. The doors close. Then you see the tile. The blur. The darkness.
I have a new office in our home and one of the things I am enjoying is decorating the space. I have placed books, Lego sets, and Funko Pops on the shelves. My wall has photos of family, places that I have traveled, artwork my siblings have given me, diplomas, etc. Across from my desk on the wall, hangs a cross that we got from a church in Reykjavik and a small colorfully-painted tile depicting Assisi. On the floor beneath them is the one item in here that I haven’t yet put up: my certificate of ordination.
I was ordained as a minister ten years ago today. It was a step with which I struggled for awhile. My Baptist roots fostered in me a firm belief in the priesthood of all believers. If you say that you are a follower of Jesus, then you are a minister. So the hierarchy implied by being called “Reverend” made me feel a little uncomfortable. I did not use the title for myself often unless I was writing my Congressperson. Despite these qualms, I did ultimately pursue ordination. I am glad that I did. I am just not totally sure what to make of it now.
I don’t serve as a vocational minister anymore; not in a church, not as a chaplain, not in some sort of parachurch organization. I am an Administrative Assistant in a hospital Spiritual Care department. In fact, I haven’t even attended a church service in maybe a year and a half save an Ash Wednesday service that I snuck off to at the beginning of Lent. I did officiate a wedding in a church over the summer; an experience that I loved and was very meaningful for me. But I don’t really know what to do about that ordination certificate. Or church.