On the Road

by Margaret Perrin

Because I gave up driving some time ago, I have become a taxi passenger, which has opened my eyes to a wealth of human experience, often heart-warming.

Of course, not all drivers feel like talking- they want their own space and that is understandable -(who amongst us doesn’t need that, at times?)

There might occasionally be the discomfort of finding that one’s driver is ‘a new recruit’- like the one who admitted to me it was his first time on the job. He didn’t know Melbourne streets at all- it was night, the rain was bucketing down, and that driver perched his Street Directory on the steering wheel, trying to study it at every traffic light! We did arrive, eventually, much to my relief.

But then there are the positive experiences! I have met drivers from many distant lands who love to share their stories. The list of countries grows all the time- some drivers are recent arrivals, others say proudly ‘I’m now an Aussie!’– in an accent which has me guessing, until they tell me their country of birth (or that of their forebears). So, in the streets of Melbourne, I’ve discovered people from Great Britain, Scotland, Ireland, Poland, Holland, Greece, Germany, Italy, India, Sri Lanka, Fiji, Indonesia, and various African countries. And they are just the ones I remember!

Recently, a gentle, reflective young African driver surprised me with a stream of questions- for he had given me the impression of being quite shy. Our conversation began with him admiring my unit and garden. That led to comments about the present-day costs of renting, leasing or owning property. I happened to say that I loved my leased unit ‘because it has space enough for extending a dining table when needed, … and room for a piano’.

‘A piano?’ he asked, his eyes lighting up. ‘You play the piano?’ ‘Not much now’, I confessed, ‘but when my husband was alive I’d play for him so that he would sing- he had a lovely voice’. ‘How wonderful’ Tell me about him – was he a serviceman in the 2nd World War?’ ‘Yes’ I replied. ‘ He was a Signaller (or ‘Spotter’) in New Guinea. Two or three men would camp in the jungle behind enemy lines, camouflage their equipment in the ground, and report any Japanese activity back to Signals Headquarters. The work was ‘Top Secret’, isolated, and dangerous. They relied heavily on the New Guinea people- for food, and all-round support. After the war Alex recorded his Unit’s history at the Spotters’ request’.

The questions kept coming: ‘What did he do after the war?’ ‘He trained to become a minister’ I replied. “So he loved God?’ he said softly. ‘Yes … and people’. There was silence for a moment, then: ‘He sang, he was very brave, he wrote a book, he loved God and people, he became a minister- can you tell me more about him?.

And so I told some of Alex’s post-war story, how war-related illness cut short his period of ministry, but that he then trained to become a teacher. ‘What did he teach?’ was the next question. ‘Various histories, Integrated Studies, and Biblical Studies’. ‘So he still talked about God?’ he queried. There was silence for a moment, then: ’What did he do after that?’

Because of so many questions, for half an hour we re-traced more steps of Alex’s journey- including volunteer work amongst elderly people, homeless men and unemployed young people. Meanwhile I kept wondering: why was this young man so engaged, so keen to hear all this detail? What lay behind his questioning?

Realising that our conversation had become very one-sided, I ventured a question: ‘What about you? Would you like to tell me some of your story?’ At that, a shadow came over his gentle, friendly face, and he shook his head: ‘My life is all mixed up, … so much has happened’ he replied sadly.

We had reached our destination. As I undid my safety belt, the young man handed me a pen and paper. ‘Would you write down your husband’s name and the title of his book? I’d love to learn more about him. Thank you for telling me about his life, it has inspired me. I wish I could have known such a wonderful man’.

I came away with tears in my eyes, yet with a strange sense of joy! For I was remembering a prayer, uttered in a time of darkness. Alex had been told that he could feel free of lymphoma for years ahead, but a second doctor’s advice was to the contrary- and for the tenth time, chemotherapy was essential. What was hardest was that we had just moved from city to country, begun renovating a very old house, because we were following a dream. We wanted to share the beauty of our new surroundings with anyone who needed a no-cost holiday.

The deafening sounds of builders dismantling the old house were as nothing compared with the pounding conflict now in our minds. How stupid had we been? What could we do? For days we were in shock, it was a nightmare. Then one night the house (and we ourselves) became quiet. And in that stillness, I heard Alex pray: “Dear Lord, I can’t pretend to understand all this … but will You use it?” And please, if You still have something You want me to do, will You make it possible?’

What made me remember that prayer, having just said ‘goodbye’ to my young African companion? And why had my heart lifted with sudden hope for him, despite his life being ‘all mixed up’? Could it possibly be, so many years later, that God was still using what had been offered to Him?