Who Does That Sort of Thing?

Railway Tracks © 2010 Craig Dahlberg

She had been lying in wait for me. Lurching from her seat half a train car away, an elderly woman flailed her arms to get my attention. This was not typical behavior in my adopted German homeland.

“Junger Mann, junger Mann, ich habe ein Geschenk für dich!” My brain’s translation center kicked into high gear—Young man, young man, I have a present for you. She waved an object above her silver hair. What? This woman had a gift for me, an eleven-year-old kid she doesn’t even know?

Trying to ignore her, I stared out the commuter train window. Then I heard her second summons. As I cautiously peered her way, she waved a brown leather satchel over her head. Pointing first to the satchel, then to me, back and forth in pantomime, her arms beckoned with the precision of a German cuckoo clock.

Working her way through the train car, she finally reached me, eager and wide-eyed, like a fish jerked from the water. In her hands was a brand-new old-school style backpack, hard leather with rounded ends.

Apparently, this was not the first time she had spotted me. As an American student living in Germany, my too-short Levis sprouted white socks and tennies. I carried my schoolbooks the American cool-kid way, the stack of books and notebooks braced on my left hip. Looseleaf papers belched from wounded binders. Respectful German children carried their schoolbooks in tidy backpacks worthy of teachers‘ inspections. Not me, a proud über-cool Amerikaner. It was hard to miss me.

She must have thought, Next time I see him, I’ll give him a new backpack…this impoverished junger Mann needs one!

Embarrassed by the kindness, I sputtered a weak “Vielen Dank,“ (“Thank you”) in rudimentary German. I exited the train one stop early, choosing to walk the rest of the way.

I can only guess how many train excursions she must have taken, each time carrying the backpack with her, hoping to spot me again. Selfless and caring toward someone she didn’t even know.

Perhaps she had been there all along. How long had she been waiting for me?

My brain fumbled. “Who does that sort of thing?” 

How do you thank someone for a random act of compassion when she leaves no address, no phone number?

Our instincts for reciprocity urge us to repay acts of kindness. Or we may concoct a “pay it forward” plan.

But I learned three things about the spirit of generosity from my Commuter-Train-Riding Backpack-carrying friend. She caught something better, something higher:

1.    Listen for the Whisper of Opportunity. After a mighty wind, an earthquake, and fire, God spoke to the prophet Elijah in a whisper. A micro-Voice, the Spirit, reaches into our souls. Like a pilot light, it is ever ready to ignite. A gentle sound or a fleeting image might grip our attention; we spot the need. Ignore lethargy and embarrassment. Respond; the wild and mysterious chase is on.

2.    Wait for the Message. What is that gentle voice telling us to do? Follow its bread crumbs through the forest. How should we meet the need? Like the Nike basketball slogan, “Just do it.” Does the solution appear impractical, untimely, or awkward? Just do it. That courageous Backpack Lady on a mission “just did it.”

3.    Resist Recognition. Afterwards—be unobtrusive, silent as slipping an overdue bill into a mail slot. Don’t talk about the secret mission. Just listen. The next whisper may already be on its way.

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It has now been many decades since I encountered that lady on the train. Yet whenever I hear the clickity-clack of train tracks, I see a compassionate shotgun-riding, backpack-toting, silver-haired angel waving a book bag over her head.

And still I wonder, “Who does that sort of thing?” But then I face the real question: How can I be more like her?