She sits on the bus, automatically stepping around and tuning out the Christian missionary who wanders up the aisle on tired feet. Even without being able to hear him, her eyes are drawn to the easy way he moves, to the certainty and conviction that is evident even in a stride hobbled by the small dimensions of public transportation. People bump into him, the bus stops short, his feet are stepped on, and he apologizes and continues his pacing and his speaking, up and down, up and down.
The repetitious motion settles into her very bones, and suddenly she finds herself more attuned to his movements than to the movements of the drummer nestled in her earbuds.
An old woman settles into the seat beside her and mutters a heartfelt "hallelujah" that somehow is heard over the thumping bass of rap music turned too loud.
The atmosphere of the bus suddenly seems more calm, yet more focused. Startled by the change, she looks around, yet can note no physical changes. In facing the front again, her eye is caught.
Outside of the bus, on the back of a tow truck, is hoisted the original Ghostbusters mobile, complete with lights and "no ghosts" sign. The odd rarity of the moment gives her pause, and she removes an earbud to fully appreciate it.
At that moment the old woman speaks. "You're beautiful!" Glancing over at her seat mate, she nods and smiles a thank you. In this moment, the other earbud comes out. Her mother raised her to respect people, and keeping earphones in while someone obviously wishes to speak to you is not a mark of respect.
It does have the unexpected effect of making the missionary perfectly heard, every word.
Realizing that the old woman has nothing more to say and is just staring at her, She moves to put her earbud back in.
"A just man doesn't NOT fall, a just man falls perfectly."
The line gives her pause. Never before has she heard anyone preach that it is okay to fall, in such straightforward words. The words illicit strange feelings within, soft, comforting feelings like the brush of a mother's hand on the hair or the understanding of a friend.
She feels no need to put her music back in. Now she is listening, and listening hard. A hunger for more comfort, for more uplifting words flares bright within her, and she can't imagine tuning this man out for another second.
Words fall from his lips and wrap around her like a security blanket, and for once she feels that it is truly alright for her to be the way she is. She's never been a very religious person, always thirsting for the devout, blind faith that others seem to be able to grasp. She'd always been unable to take an interest in the posturing and loud gestures of the most dedicated members of the church, loving instead the quiet calm relationship that one has with a father.
Although she had always thought of God as her savior, as "the big guy", the "one", it never occured to her that she would stand up under His scrutiny. A fear she hadn't even fully realized gnawed away at her psyche in the quiet moments, or the loud ones involving other members of the faith.
Tears come to her eyes as she continues to listen, finally feeling as if this man, this preacher, this person is the firsthand experience that always seemed to happen to everyone else. In that moment, it isn't some random man rambling on a bus. In that moment, her father is speaking to her. In that moment, a silent worry is lifted from her shoulders, and she is told that her flaws are truly okay. In that moment, she feels more fulfilled than she has ever felt in any church, more comforted than she has felt in any arms.
For once, it is okay that she doesn't want to stand up and sing.
In that moment, the tears in her eyes and the song in her heart are finally loud enough.
