Seven years ago, my husband and I were taking our friends’ daughters to Florence, Italy, then to our home in Croatia. For logistical reasons, we traveled separately; he left first and I followed with the girls. Our flight from Memphis was delayed by storms. Our travel agent arranged a new itinerary for us; but another delay occurred, and by the time we arrived, exhausted, in Newark, the computer system said we had been cancelled from the flight we’d expected to take. Our travel agent arranged for us to stay in a nearby hotel and re-routed us again to travel the next day. We dragged our suitcases and our exhausted selves to the hotel, a hotel swamped with stranded travelers, only to learn that they had us down for the following night. The reservation had been made close to midnight, there were two time zones involved, and a computer hadn’t understood.
We were now among the stranded. This long-awaited trip, a graduation gift for the older girl, had not gotten off to a great start!
But as I stood at the hotel counter talking with the receptionist, trying to see what options we had, a young man in the foyer spoke up and said we could have the room he and three others were supposed to have. Also stranded by a flight delay, they were in the foyer because the room wasn’t ready yet. He and his friends were from Norway; the fourth fellow was an American they had agreed to share the room with, since he also needed a room.
It was a generous offer—as long as it was simply a no-strings-attached offer. The experienced foreign traveler part of me wondered if I should be concerned, but my experienced intuition sensed that he offered it freely. The receptionist said that if they wanted to do it, she would adjust the business records and allow them to sleep on the couches in the hotel lobby. They agreed that’s what they wanted to do, confirming my trust.
So we arrived in Florence a day later than planned, but we arrived with a night of sleep. And we arrived gratefully, wondering at the kindness of four young men who had voluntarily slept on couches that night.
Thinking of that story pulled up another from my memory bank. Once again, I was traveling to Florence, this time as a college student. A miscommunication with my travel companions (and Daylights Savings Time confusion) led to my missing the train from London. When I got to the station, the train was gone, and I was on my own.
A rail employee patiently listened to my story, consulted his schedules, and wrote me out a plan that would get me back to school on time, though it involved five different trains and meant I would need to stay awake through the night in order to make the changes.
I got on the first train determined to stay awake. Soon it was dark. But I kept myself awake and reminisced on my time in London and Oxford. I probably wrote in my journal. I don’t really remember anything about that night except what follows.
I exited in a small station somewhere in Germany. I’d never heard of the town, and it wasn’t a big station. I don’t remember the name of the place or what time it was. I just know that I had made it, I was exhausted but grateful not to have fallen asleep, and I found my way to the track where I would find my next train. It was already there.
I don’t know how it happened, but as I stepped up to board the train, I slipped and fell, fell all the way down until I was standing on the gravel below the train, what I now know is called the formation level. I had never had a reason to notice how deep down that gravel was, and I’ll never know exactly. Different stations had different depth measurements, I’m sure. What I know from my experience is that the distance from platform to formation level was enough that the platform was so high that I couldn’t hoist myself up. I tried several times and simply could not.
I was stuck in the middle of the night in a station with almost no people. The train would at some point start moving, and besides my concern about getting back to school, I now feared what would happen to me physically when that train began moving.
I called out to a couple of people in the following minutes, but they either didn’t hear me or they just didn’t want to get involved with a stranger in a bizarre situation.
But at some point, someone did walk near, heard me, and came to help. I have no visual image of the man’s face, just a sense of his being there and of his strength in pulling me up the side of that sheer slab of concrete, being careful that I didn’t get caught on the train steps, then making sure I made it up them safely to enter the train.
I don’t remember if we spoke German or English. I know I thanked him, and I know he responded; I don’t recall whether or not we said anything else. I will always be grateful for that man!
With these memories also came a blurry image of the large Santa Maria Novella train station in Florence, when I worked in Florence after college. Another dark night, late hour, a friend dropping me off with my suitcase and backpack. A goodbye, then roughly twenty steps to the entrance. I didn’t have a rolling suitcase in those days; I’ve thought many times since that whoever put wheels on suitcases deserves a prize.
But that night I carried it up, physically tired and emotionally filled with the feelings that come when you’re heading home after being far away. I headed to the main entry to see which track my train was on, only to learn it had been canceled.
At that hour, buses were no longer running. I had just enough money to manage getting a new train ticket, but nothing for a taxi or hotel. Walking two hours home in the dark with a wheel-less suitcase wasn’t doable. I didn’t even have change for a phone call.
As I stood explaining my situation to the nonchalant bigliettaio behind the counter, asking if he could work out another schedule for me (no, Signorina, mi dispiace), a girl behind me overheard and interrupted, telling me she lived nearby, and I’d be welcome to sleep at her place. It seemed too good to be true. But it was true, so after buying new tickets, we walked the dark streets to her apartment. I remember speaking English; she was not Italian. I remember nothing else beyond a vague image of the living room and sleeping on the couch. And toast in the morning; perhaps she was British. We talked about our Italy adventures. I thanked her profusely, I left, and that was that.
I didn’t know when I began my story search that kindness, the word, comes from the word for kin. Kindred. Originally meaning “with the feeling of relatives for each other.”
It seems fitting that in two of these stories, complete strangers offered a place to sleep, one bringing a stranger into her own home just because she could and she cared. And those fellows slept on the couch, the way you might when relatives visit and you give them the bed.
Nor did I know that my mind would pull up three stories that took place in the nighttime. That German train station was the darkest place, and that hero saw me in danger in the dark night and literally came to my rescue.
It makes me think how God in His kindness doesn’t just treat us like family; He makes us His family. And His kindness means He sees us in the dark places and rescues us. He saves us from the dark situations in our lives; He sees us through the dark night of the soul.
“Even the darkness is not dark to thee,
the night is bright as the day;
for darkness is as light with thee.”
—Psalms 139:12, RSV
“For once you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord; walk as children of light.” (Ephesians 5:8, RSV)
The featured image, “Silver Moon and Winter Branches,” is courtesy of Lancia E. Smith and is used with her glad permission for Cultivating.
Sheila Vamplin learned early to love God through words, music, and people. Her English degree, piano study, and choral singing somehow led her to Italy and then to Croatia. Landing back in the U.S. after three years of war, she earned a counseling degree. Now a licensed marriage and family therapist with a DMin in spiritual formation, she has concurrently taught piano students and has sung with the Memphis Chamber Choir and the Rhodes Mastersingers Chorale. Her current focus is translating the Italian memoir of beloved friend Tosca Barucci Chesi. As a counselor and spiritual director, Sheila has a heart for artists and those in professional ministry. She loves Gerard Manley Hopkins. With her husband she plans to return to Croatia, anticipating more surprises and trusting that the Holy Ghost will continue brooding over the bent world, even and perhaps especially there.
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Sheila, in each vignette I was there with you — it was like looking through darkened window panes on a train, each individual scene flashing by, all tied together by that theme of strength and warmth and safety suddenly piercing a fearful, panicked darkness. It made my soul reach again for the reassuring comfort of God’s hand and reminded me of His presence. Thank you!
I loved these thoughts on travel and kindness. How important kindness is in our life’s journey – the spirit of the Good Samaritan lives on! Thank you for sharing these stories!