by Dick Weaver
Was I a college kid, or was I in my mid-twenties when I took that bus ride?
More people rode buses then—there were more buses to ride, and flights were still seen as a bit exotic. I boarded sometime in daylight hours, going from somewhere to somewhere. Maybe it was from Minnesota to Kansas. Maybe it was from Nebraska to New Mexico. I know it was in the early 1970s, and the bus was full. A mix of students and low-income people, filling the overhead racks with bags of food and snacks, Christmas presents, and the other stuff that wouldn’t fit into the checked luggage. Younger people, older people, a quiet drunk or two in the back.
I took a seat next to a young woman with an infant in her arms. Likely the only seat left, or the only one that wasn’t next to someone that looked like trouble or someone who would talk me to death. I was a bit timid in those days. She had her baby resting in the crook of her left arm, wrapped in an old quilt. There was some stuff shoved down by the woman’s feet—baby stuff, diapers, and a worn paperback, cramping the space she had. She was dressed in a white button shirt or blouse, a bit spotted with food and milk stains, a bit rumpled. She smelled faintly like spit-up. Her winter coat was draped over her back but out of the way. Her light blonde hair looked rumpled, too, and her face sagged with fatigue. Maybe she’d been on the bus forever.
I don’t know how much time went by. We said “hello” and I asked how old her baby was, and what his or her name was. “Six weeks. It’s Mary. She’s a girl.” She giggled quietly. The baby was a little fussy when I first sat down, but fell asleep soon. I don’t know how long it took me to see that little Mary was a lump of weight in this tired young woman’s arms, and that she was both dedicated to her and feeling the need for relief.
Not knowing how she’d react, I offered to hold her baby so she could use the bus toilet and have a nap or just to give herself a break. Not even knowing who I was or what kind of man I was, after a thoughtful moment she agreed, with a sigh of relief. She passed the baby to me, and I held her the same way, gently, in the bend of my arm. Baby Mary never noticed the transition. Mom scrambled over me, then a few minutes later scrambled back. Tried to settle in for a nap.
I looked at the baby in my arms. Six weeks old. Looked well-taken-care-of, enough to eat, and so forth. All babies are cute when they’re asleep, and this one was. She twitched her lips and her tongue stuck out for just a second. The little stocking cap on her head was light green, with a little angel embroidered on the front.
Mom couldn’t settle down in the seat. I invited her to put her head on my shoulder if she wanted; so daring on my part, so forward. But she did. And she slept.
On into the growing dark we rode, all of us. The lights of oncoming traffic occasionally illuminated the cabin of the bus, where most people were trying to sleep, or reading by the tiny beams of light overhead. We read books, in those days. Occasionally we’d see the lights of a farm house or a barn, and wonder about who lived there. I sat with the baby resting in my arms, a woman of about my own age, whose name I did not know and who I would never see again, sleeping with her head on my shoulder. The drunk in the rear was talking in a flat, nasal monotone but not really bothering anyone, beyond just wishing he’d go to sleep or be quiet.
Was it purely altruism on my part, this gift of rest and peace for a young mom traveling lonely miles with her child? I know I remember it still, and remember wondering, too, about what kind of man I was, about what kind of person I was still becoming. I gained respect for myself, and an appreciation for the struggles we face. I looked out the big window and saw Christmas lights shining on the snow in a farmyard as we passed. It felt good.
— Rev. Dick Weaver currently serves as Supply Pastor for Pilgrim Church