As I settled into my usual table-booth this morning, I was surprised to hear a violin being tuned behind me, near the door of the men’s bathroom. There stood a woman in black slacks and a flowery blouse, playing a rather melancholy air in a minor key, the effect only slightly ruined by the running shoes peeping from beneath her pant-legs.

This is a random photo of the inside of the ferry on another day — not a very good picture, I’m afraid.

I am not a big fan of violin music … it takes a very good musician to make that instrument produce sounds that my ears approve; my tastes run to simple melodies rather than complex classical compositions. But I am well-acquainted with the genre; my parents enjoy classical music and such sounds were common (at least in the background) throughout my childhood.

Most of the ferry passengers ignored the musician with stony indifference … this is, after all, Seattle. Several in the immediate vicinity were visibly annoyed, packed up their laptops and moved to another part of the ferry, darting grumpy looks at the violinist. Strangely, no one was sufficiently disturbed to speak against the noise, nor did any ferry official intervene during the 35-minute voyage.

For my part, I sat and endured it … using a laptop as I do, I am most comfortable with a table; once the ferry has loaded, all the tables are taken by others with similar preferences. Eventually the violinist moved to a more cheerful tune; her skill was sufficient to limit my discomfort … it was merely annoying rather than painful. She clearly needed the practice, so perhaps I should not begrudge her any opportunity.

I wonder what would happen if I brought in a boom box and played some of my preferred music at a comparable volume. Do the passengers withhold reproof from this woman out of respect for a musician, a desire to appear cultured, or a genuine appreciation for the music? For my part, I was not sufficiently annoyed to take the risk of a confrontation with this woman. If I were to rebuke her for disturbing my peace, I would fear a hostile reaction from her as well as public censure (in the event that my fellow passengers sided with her against me). I am not sure enough of the rules of the ferry, whether explicit or social, to make a judgment; is it morally right (or permissible) for her to play in a public but enclosed place? Is it appropriate for me to assert my “right” to peace and quiet (if such a right exists) over her “right” to express herself musically? Or is this simply a case where grace should be given … neither of these “rights” need be asserted over the other since the stakes are so low (limited duration, mild annoyance).

Respect for others’ rights takes precedence, in my opinion, over any personal “right”. I would not permit my children to sing loudly or play an instrument in a public place unless the people in that place were specifically gathered to hear them. There seems a default condition of silence which is morally superior to any non-silent expression, with a possible exception given to the public reading of scripture. Paul wrote, in his letter to Timothy and the church at Ephesus:

“Until I come, devote yourself to the public reading of Scripture, to preaching and to teaching.” I Timothy 4:13

Strangely, reading scripture aloud is something I really like to do. One of my favorite things to do in church, or especially in a wedding, is to read the scripture. There is something really profound about participating in the public proclamation of God’s Word. While I was still serving as a Deacon at our former church, I was frequently asked to read scripture from the pulpit — it was probably the best part of that job, and something I really missed once I was no longer asked.

Maybe I should start reading from the Bible out loud on the ferry … I’ll bet THAT would generate more than stony indifference.

Or maybe I should emulate this Tai Chi man, who seeks to “foster a calm and tranquil mind” (or something) through a series of intricate slow-motion forms, or movements.

As I watched him, I could barely restrain myself from shouting, in memory of the ungainly stork pose in the 80′s movie, The Karate Kid: “If properly done, no can defend!”

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A strange thing happened to me last week, as I traveled between my home in the Duckabush and my office in Seattle.

I brought my camera along that day, and I decided to take a few pictures, including one of the commuters as they exited the ferry terminal, shown below.

I noticed a Hispanic woman traveling with a small girl … I remember wondering if she had chosen a day-care facility in Seattle so that she and her daughter could spend the commute together. By chance, I captured the daughter in the bottom right corner of the picture I took of the commuting horde.

That evening, as I boarded the homeward ferry, I noticed the unusual duo again. I was intrigued by the appearance of the little girl, who reminded me of my own little sister, adopted from an orphanage in Vietnam some 32 years ago.

I left the ferry and boarded the bus, taking a seat in the back. As always, I checked with the driver to ensure I had selected the correct #90 bus (there are three, and they vary their destinations and departure times from hour to hour in maddening confusion). Toward the end of the ride, I moved forward to the seats usually reserved for the elderly and handicapped … it is always a good idea to remind the driver that I am still there, since my stop is the last on the line.

I noticed the woman and her daughter still on the bus, about the same time as the driver. He asked her where she was going.

“I need to connect with the bus to Port Townsend,” she told him in a thick Central American accent.

“Oh,” he answered. “You wanted the 90 express bus that connects with Jefferson Transit.” After a little more discussion they established that the bus to Port Townsend had already left, and that it was the last bus of the evening heading in that direction. It was already late, and I was very tired. Port Townsend, while in the same general direction as my destination, would take me at least 30 minutes out of my path each way. I struggled with my conscience and lost.

“Where, exactly, are you going?” I asked her.

It transpired that she was going to Port Hadlock … a mere 15 minutes off my usual route. Since I had already lost a fight with my conscience over losing an hour, I knew better than to attempt a “best 2 out of 3″ for a mere half-hour. I presented some identification to her and to the bus driver, leaving a witness behind in case I turned out to be an axe murderer or something sinister.

It turned out that she had been closing up an apartment in Bellevue (cleaning & such); she and her husband & daughter were moving to Port Hadlock to help a relative run a new Mexican Restaurant there. Her daughter had wet through her clothes (leaving a large wet mark on her mother’s lap) and had to be changed in the parking lot beside my car. From all accounts, this was icing on the cake of a horrible day.

We began somehow to talk about spiritual things … she was raised in an unlikely cross between a Baptist and a Jehovah’s Witness, adding Pentacostalism to the mix as an adult. I had a chance to tell her a little about what Jesus meant to me and how He had made a difference in my life. I was glad that I had offered to take her home … I don’t think she had any transportation alternatives and would likely have ended up paying $40 for a cab.

So was it a coincidence that I saw her in the morning, out of all those people? I think probably not. Sometimes an opportunity to help comes along so quickly that I miss it out of indecision. I think that God knew I would need some time for my compassion to build and so he planted this lady in my path in the morning, for His purposes. Funny to think of God planning this whole event 8 hours before she took the wrong bus. You or I, if we were God, would probably just take the simplest approach of ensuring that she chose the correct bus … but God doesn’t do things the way we expect. And maybe the point was not only helping her, but God changing me.

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