God Needed a Ride to Church

 

I was driving south on Pearl Road, in Parma Heights, Ohio Sunday morning.  I go out for a morning drive, nearly every day, to get an iced coffee.  I started doing it when this crazy covid world began, just to see what was going on out there, if the non-stop fear campaign on TV lined up with the reality in the real world. It did not, but that’s another story, or blog post.

 

There is construction on Pearl Road, with traffic down to one lane in either direction. As the saying goes, “There are two seasons in Ohio, winter and construction.”  They probably say that anywhere where that has weather.  The road construction brought the speed down to about 15-20 MPH.  Pearl is a slow drive when there is no construction and I wondered what I was thinking when I decided to drive down it from Bookpark.  As I approached the intersection of Pearl and York/Stumph, I noticed a woman standing on the sidewalk, on my left, near the entrance to the drive through for Dunkin Donuts. 

She looked troubled. As I rolled by, I saw her make the sign of the cross and stick her thumb out. “That’s weird,” I thought to myself.  “If I was going that direction, maybe I’d give her a ride.” I do that - help strangers. Not every day, I do not go out looking to be a Boy Scout, but every now and then you will have someone cross your path. Sometimes the person crossing your path is just trying to con you out of “a few dollars to buy some gas.” That is an old con, but an older woman hitchhiking in front of a Dunking Donuts at 8:30am on a rainy Sunday morning? (Did I mentioned it had been raining on and off?) Odd. Not likely to be a scam. Maybe a mugging, but not a scam. LOL

She must have seen me through the window of my truck because she walked a few steps down the sidewalk towards me and waved. I hit the button, rolling down my driver’s side window and asked where she was going? “Church! I am trying to get to church.”

I said, “Hang on, I will turn around and pick you up.”  I made a left on York, turned through the construction on York, into the Dunkin Donuts parking lot.

 

She was still facing Pearl Road as I pulled up to the drive-through exit, and said, “Where are trying to get to?”

“Saint Mary’s, in Old Brooklyn. It’s on Pearl.” 

Old Brooklyn is a few towns north up the road. I told her to hop in and I would take her.

She opened the door and stepped on into my truck. It’s a black Ram 1500, Dark Edition. It is stock, but quite high off the ground.

She said “Thank you, I can give you money for gas” as she struggled with the seat belt.

I told her not to worry about gas money and helped her buckle in. “Maybe giving you a ride to church will make up for me not going to church” I said.

We began what I hopped would be a short, uneventful journey up Pearl Road.

She told me she wanted to get to Saint Mary’s because she needed to talk to the priest there. She had started in Strongsville, which was two towns south of the Dunkin Donuts. The said the bus schedules must have changed and she got caught in the rain.

I hoped God appreciated her efforts to get to church.

There are many Catholic Churches between Strongsville and Old Brooklyn, why she had to get to this particular one, I did not ask. She probably grew up there. It is hard to move to a new church.

She told me that she was a recovering alcoholic, and had, a few years back sat in a cemetery contemplating suicide, but after laying among the dead for some time, decided not to join them. I said, “It’s probably your best choice, suicide is forever.”

I told her that being from Eastern European ancestry, I understood alcoholism and how I had uncles who served in World War II and Korea who drank. That was how people delt with PTSD before it was called PTSD.

She told me she hoped that the priest wouldn’t kick her out of the church. “Why would he do that?” I asked.

“Because I am late.”

I laughed and said, “I think with everything the Catholic Church has gone through over the past years, they would be happy to have you show up!"

“Just sit in the back.That’s the best place to be anyway.” I said.

She went onto tell me how she lived with her mom and dad and took care of them. “They are 87 and both use walkers, but they are doing okay.” I told her that my Dad had died at 87, after a short battle with cancer.

It occurred to me that sometimes we just want to tell someone our story.

My dad taught me to be kind to strangers.

We drove on, and in a short time arrived at Mary Queen of Peace Catholic Church. It’s a big, grand old church. Built back in the time when the church was the center of most people’s lives. When the whole family went to church on Sunday’s because that’s what you did. Before stores were open on Sundays. When people were praying for the lives of their sons fighting in wars in faraway lands.

I pulled into the parking lot and let her put near an entrance. She thanked me again for the ride, and I told her I was happy to do it.  I really was.

She got out and walked to the entrance, leaving behind a faint hint of a musty, Salvation Army Store smell in my truck. I pulled back onto Pearl Road and headed south.

Reflecting upon what has just transpired, I thought maybe it was a little crazy to give a stranger a ride, giving the state of the world. But is the world really any crazier than any other time? Are there more dangerous people out there on Sunday mornings, posing as desperate souls? That’s doubtful.

The news over the past 18 months has been a non-stop propaganda campaign to stay away from strangers. They have germs! You could die! You could kill them! They may be a little musty, but there is no real danger in being kind.

Today, the Face of God was a woman caught in the rain, trying to get to church.