Sunday after church I headed to the El to get back home, per the usual. I stepped into the subway car and noticed a disheveled man napping at a strange angle in his seat, but put it out of my mind and settled in the opposite end of the car. I've seen many weird things on SEPTA, so my first instinct is to allow adequate room.
Then a passenger started shouting that the man wasn't breathing. It was as if all the passengers roused themselves at once. Conductors' radios crackled to life and the El, still deep underground at 13th Street, screeched to a halt.
No breathing. No pulse. Totally unresponsive. A few people tried to find a heartbeat, with no success. A conductor ordered us out of the car and onto the platform to catch the next El, and shortly ambulance sirens grew louder overhead as they edged closer to whisk the man away.
I noted fear in some of the passengers' faces. How uncertain life is, that you can board at 69th Street Terminal (this was the rumor about the so-called napping man) and be staring eternity in the face by 15th Street!
I didn't get to confirm that the man passed away, but nevertheless, we have no guarantees in this life. Aside from the usual existential thoughts that tumble around my brain, this past week I've kept being bombarded by Matthew 6:33-34. It's the Kingdom that matters. And someday, despite my worrying and stressing about this side of life, it'll be finished. Lord willing, I just hope they won't have to cart my corpse off the El!
