What keeps you watching a television show week after week?
Why do you read a novel by your favorite author? Why do you go to parties and
social gatherings? What intrigues me are peoples’ stories. I want to hear about
what people are doing, where they’ve gone—their story. I think many of us are
curious about other people’s lives.
When I visited Austria and Germany, I didn’t speak German.
Well, truth be told I still don’t speak German or French or any other language,
just West Virginian.
My friend, Kathy and I navigated our way through buying
train tickets for a five-hour ride from Vienna, Austria to Innsbruck, Austria. Unfortunately,
our Ger-English didn’t get us the private cabin that we had hoped. Our luggage would
not fit on the rack above us and we crammed it around us into the small seats
next to a woman who was already settled in. We spoke to her and she nodded,
obviously not understanding English. Shortly after we moved into the cabin, she
hailed the conductor and said something that included the word “obergefreite.” My
translation dictionary indicated that she was asking to move to first class. I
guess this was not what she had expected either.
The light turned to darkness as we traversed the beautiful
Alps. Kathy and I were not able to communicate with others, so we created
stories about the lives of the people seated around us, where they live, who
they knew and why they were on this train, on this day.
About an hour into the trip, Kathy pulled out red licorice
candy. The woman who had been sitting stoically in her tiny space, amongst our
luggage, took notice of it. I offered some to her. She shook her head no. Then
Kathy asked her if she knew what it was. She indicated that she didn’t by
shaking her head again from side to side. We attempted to explain using our
arms and hands. The woman took a small piece, ate it, smiled and asked if it
was a custom in our country. She introduced herself as Marion. She had been
entertained by our stories and began telling us her story in a broken English-German
conversation.
We learned that she lived in a very small town at the end
of the train track in western Austria. She had been in Vienna as a visiting
professor at a University teaching teachers how to instruct. She explained train
protocol is to offer seats to those who have unassigned seats, but our luggage was
occupying the other seat. She became our biggest ally by explaining to the
conductor that we didn’t speak German and telling people who wanted to sit in our
cabin that there was no space. She taught us German words that we’d need to
know to survive for the next week, as well as, she told us when it was our stop
to exit the train. We took photos of us with our newfound friend, Marion. Our
stop came, we said good-bye and left her some licorice to snack on for the
remainder of her trip.
Today, in the grocery store I noticed someone who probably
had a story. The clerk had a tattoo of writing on her forearm. At first I was
going to ignore it. Then it occurred to me that what she had tattooed on her
arm must be very important to her, because she would see it every day, all day
long. According to her nametag her name was Cassie. I asked, “Cassie, what does
your tattoo say?” She read it to me,
God,
grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change
The
courage to change the things I can
And the
wisdom to know the difference
I said, “The Serenity Prayer. What a great reminder.” She
brightened up and smiled at the acknowledgement. I’m not sure what her story
is, but can only imagine the pain she may have gone through with addiction or
recovery. What I do know is that she is taking one day at a time and seemed to
enjoy my gift for today—acknowledging her by name and what was important to
her. Next time I see her, I will call her by her name again. I want to continue
recognizing people for who they are because . . . everybody has a story.
In Giving,
Robin
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