Day 7 | Talk to Strangers Pt. 1
"I need to learn my lesson," I told Kaki as I hastily as I made my way out of the apartment. Could I make it uptown to St. Mary in less than eight minutes? Kaki assured me that I could, so I put on lipstick— it always makes you look far more put together than you actually are. I felt like singing out loud on my way to mass, but I kept passing people, and well I am bold. I am not bold though. the shower and the car with my windows unrolled are my concert halls.
Between my world speed walk competitions and concerts, I wrote in my head on my way to St. Mary. I keep finding that whatever I write is meant for at least one person.
I was going to dive into a piece I wrote about talking to strangers, but I cannot help but laugh that God made the time to pray and write right now. I had made record time in my trek uptown, but upon my arrival I learned that I was over half an hour early. Frankie? On time? This cannot be the same girl.
Now these random thoughts and anecdotes might not seem like classic "Dear Jesus" prayers, but something I need to do is pause and read the stories. Are these real?
At breakfast, Kaki asked me I had always eaten a whole onion in my eggs in the mornings, and this simple question spiraled into a series of hilarious tales about junior year in Kokomo and confessions about Ketchup consumption.
I find stories in everything, so when I sit down to write I do not know where to begin. Do I begin at the beginning of the story or the beginning of the question to lead to the story?
I once accidentally lied to a Scottish lady in Uganda during a flood. It all spiraled out of control when she asked, "How's it going, lass?" I had forgotten to think about how it was probably not the best idea to climb into a strangers car in the middle of Africa, so I just responded with, "Oh, it is grand, don't you know?" I am not sure where it came from, but the following eight minutes proved to be incredibly stressful because my accent wavered between London, Glasgow, Cape Town, and Chicago. Thankfully, Isma, the boda boda driver came to the rescue right when I had backed myself into a corner of trying to explain where I lived in London when I was fourteen. We moved around a lot, so it all just blended together in my memory.
Random Scottish Lady,
I am actually a random girl from Wheaton, Illinois, and I sincerely apologize for telling you I was from the UK. Thank you for the ride across the intersection.
The Random American Girl in Your Back Seat
"That would happen to you" some have said...
A Midmorning Metra | Chicago, Illinois
June 24, 2016
I climbed the mountain behind our seaside beach house in my tennis shoes. I had full intentions to summit, but it is unglazed and rather mossy. I decided that right here, three quarters of the way up is the perfect place to sit.
I was on the Metra right after I returned from the Dominican. My friend Abby was moving into a new apartment, so I was inbound to help her move. New to my Bible, the pages were still crisp, and some color had been added to the pages throughout the summer. I sat on the train, ready to write in my Moleskin and read Jesus Calling for that day.
The conductor punched my ticket and lingered inquisitively. I suppose it was a little out of the ordinary to see a nineteen-year-old reading her Bible on a midmorning Metra ride.
He never asked me my name, but he somehow began talking to me was reading the New Testament, I said. The conductor, with a light in his eye, told me that that I need to read about David in First and Second Samuel and his prayers in the Psalms. I remember that light. It was so bright.
I did not see the conductor ask any other passengers about what they were reading, and after that I never saw him at all. I have taken many midmorning Metra rides but have never seen that conductor since.