train hopping

10:30. Cold night. Our breath swirls in crystalized, fanciful designs. 

The icy air dances as we glimpse another, colder, harsher world. A conductor rattles into the train station and kicks out a daddy and his children looking for a warm night. I feel helpless. Sad. “Mommy. Where will they go?”

I’ve lived this mommy life long enough to know that I should have an answer. I’ve lived this Eastern European life long enough to know that I don’t. A shrug is impotent to wipe the furrowed brow from my 11 year old’s forehead. It is impotent to change the reality of a daddy and his kids searching for home. Where is their mommy?

A piercing whistle and our night train breaks the barrier between arrival and departure.

Quick hugs for Roberta. All aboard. We are journeyers again.

Two girls to each parent. Split family. Different compartments. Beds made quickly in the hush and dark of an already sleeping stranger who is our cabin-mate for the night.

Toss and turn. Roll and rock. Passports in two different languages that I barely speak in groggy tones.

And then, Keleti Station. We are home. 

Jesus knows my wandering heart, I think. He is always beckoning to me for a good meal of his Word, a long rest in his arms, and ageless wisdom that I cannot conjure on my own.

HOME.