Known

It's in-between. A middle place. A nowhere, connecting everywhere. A hallway. A transit from one to the other. But I’m not in either. Where I left, where I’m going. 

I spend a fair amount of time on transit these days. I’m getting a teaching certificate and I need to be downtown every day for class. 

The roar of the trains, the dark of the tunnels. The clack and squeal of the tracks and the whoosh of the wind. It all screams a cacophony of noise that is ignored. Above, the city whizzes by, but here in the train car, dozens of people share a space in silence. Each bringing their world with them, but they are without it too. 

We share a space for a few moments, then the train screams to a stop and we lurch off onto the platform. Up the stairs around the corner. An unconscious knowing of the schedule and the calm chiming of the bells animates the crowd in silent panic to catch the next train. The young quicken their pace and some run. The older step aside. The bells chime again as the “stand clear of the doors” warning sounds. We ignore it and leap into the first available car. Some make it. Others softly break and silently watch the doors slide shut in front of them. Not a sound from all the souls left in or out. 

For those inside, we rearrange. We’re inches, millimeters, from each other. Closeness bereft of intimacy.  Close but not touching. Here, it is normal. Necessary. Silently ignored. Unlike other subways I've been in, Torontonians don’t ever touch if they can avoid it. Appalling in any other context. Instant sea legs engage as the train speeds away as we spread through the train, looking, hoping for a seat. 

It’s an in-between. It’s no one’s. And everyone’s.  Do these shared moments, over and over, spanning days, weeks, and years of our lives unconsciously sear loneliness into our being? 

Toronto is the loneliest place I’ve ever been. Crowded, teaming, silent. But when I join an exercise group or a class, my peers adopt me with enthusiasm I’ve never experienced. We exchange numbers, ask about absences, and inquire about personal lives with devotion that silently screams a loneliness that no one acknowledges. Concern etches their faces when I miss several in a row — “We missed you! Is everything ok?” 

One woman confessed to me, “I can’t trust anyone, but…” she glanced at me, hesitant, “my kids, I, we need community. It’s so hard to find.” Unspoken, the clack of the tracks said it for her, “We’re alone.” 

Toronto is churning and thrumming with activity but the ache of isolation is palpable. The pace of life here is jam packed and high speed, but, often, souls are left at the station behind a silent, sliding glass door. Longing. Needing. Ignored. 

Occasionally I make it into the first car on a train. Sometimes there are windows or an open door and I can see the labyrinth of TTC tunnels. I love watching the train being expertly guided through the turns and track options. It’s so easy to think the train is all machine. Inhuman and inanimate. But it’s not. There’s a conductor. 

At the terminal station I jump on every morning, I watch the conductor move from one end of the train to the other. He has a stereotypical long cape over his Toronto Transit Commission uniform and he greets each of his passengers cheerfully. “Good morning,” he murmurs as he goes, smiling and nodding. People respond with surprise then pleasure. “Good morning,” they murmur back, breaking the silence. 

After he passes through, people (still smiling) glance at each other. Smiling briefly before returning to their isolation. His presence brought a spark of life. 

Loneliness happens to anyone. Everyone. Isolation is the default and Toronto isn’t really that unique. It’s just that we’re so close. So physically in each other’s spaces that it is that much more poignant and obvious. 

Imagine being alone on the train of life? How overwhelming and hopeless it feels to not know there’s a conductor driving it? 

This is exactly how your friends and neighbors feel. Reaching out feels like it would be unwelcome to us — but it wouldn’t be most of the time. You are His hands and feet, a representative of the Conductor. And in my experience, they don’t long for facts or arguments about the Bible, they just long for connection in a digital age that mimics closeness but falls so terribly short. 

In next week’s post we’ll be looking at exactly that. How can a regular mom remind people around her that there’s a conductor? Practically speaking, how can I be hospitable in my person?

But for now, this post is for you, sister. If you’re lonely today let this be your reminder to tell Him. Knowing the Conductor is an incredible thing. He steers the train and knows every detail. He’s controlling my life and yours with stunning care. 

“Draw near to God and He will draw near to you” (James 4:8). And unlike a conductor, He’s the constant companion and comforter. Do you have joy or grief today? Gratitude that is full and overflowing? Loneliness that is dry and choking? He wants to hear about it. 

Know deeply that you are known today, momma.
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“The hand of the Lord is not shortened that it cannot save, nor is his ear dull that he cannot hear” (Isaiah 59:1).