Encounter

There was no other room left on the bench. I had no choice but to sit down beside her. I had walked far that morning, so the bench looked inviting – but that woman. . . . Well, perhaps the bus would soon appear.

She looked me over and then, as if wanting to break our silence, ventured forth. “Where did you get your pumps? I’ve been looking for some for years.”

“Oh, these,” I replied, thinking to myself that “pumps” was hardly the proper name for my fashionable shoes. “I purchased them in Ontario.” Then, wanting to avoid further conversation, I turned to watch the cars.

She wouldn’t be put off, though. Perhaps she sensed that I, like others, found her unattractive, unkempt, much too large for her frame, with teeth missing and broken English. “My young sister, she is pretty.” She was trying hard to bridge the gap between us and used her sister. Maybe that’s what she had always used – her sister.

A guilt pang made me shift my position, and I half turned to her. Delight registered in her face. She showed me her new mitts. “Yellow angora, cost me four dollars.”

“Pretty,” I mumbled, but where on earth was that bus?

By this time, a fairly large crowd was gathering, but she spoke more loudly. “I don’t walk well. I had a stroke, and I take pills to get rid of the fluid.” Then she proceeded to give a full description of the symptoms and the pills.

While she chattered on, I looked at her toothless smile. Someone had thought her lovely enough to give His life for her, but what difference did that historical fact make as we sat on the bench that Monday morning? I don’t suppose she knew, but then how could she when no one came out of their own little world to tell her?

Just then, the bus came. I got on and forgot her – that is, until later that evening when I spoke to my Heavenly Father in private.

Esther McIlveen lives in Richmond, B.C.