Seeing grace twice

(Five days in San Francisco)

We sat in the morning mists of the Golden Gate Park gazing at smudged outlines of statues and buildings: the Music Concourse, De Young Museum, the grassy-roofed Academy of Sciences. The rhythmic breath and footfall of joggers swelled and faded as they ran past. Professionals strode purposefully while mums coaxed their dawdling broods along.

And there we were. Spectators to life. Eating our incredible takeaway breakfasts of filled brioche - bacon egg and avocado, and good coffee.

This had become a favourite way to start our San Francisco days: wandering around the

corner from our apartment on 10th, to Rise & Grind, a bright and airy coffee shop with more space for plants than people. As we sat on the tiny pavement tables, waiting for our order, there was always at least one local, sipping coffee, dog in tow. And I thought again how grateful I was to be there, in ‘our’ little neighbourhood.

We’d planned to stay in the hub of the tourist area, close to everything, without the inconvenience of needing to take the bus. Instead, we ended up in this more residential part of town, a stone’s throw from the Golden Gate Park.

And it was literally perfect.

I loved the traditional porch-steps, painted-front San Francisco house we stayed in. I loved those breakfasts, carefully bundled up and carried across Fulton Street to the park. I loved the bus into town, how it broke up the day. How it meant that pretty much every journey was punctuated by a view of the Golden Gate Bridge.

But I realise now, there’s one reason in particular I loved it so much. One reason I was so glad we had chosen to stay there.

The normality. The comings and goings of real people and their lives. The feeling ‘part of it’. In some small way, I could pretend it was mine. I could pretend, for those five short days, that I lived there. I realise this is my thing when I find a place I love. I always wish it was mine. I look on wistfully at what is just normal life for others and I wonder how they got to live there and I didn’t. There’s a sure element of greener grass, I admit, and for those few days, I make myself as much at-home as I possibly can.

And maybe the people of San Francisco were a bit special. On the Sunday morning, we took the bus from California Street, past cladded houses, small shops and churches, to get to Grace Cathedral for Sung Eucharist. The welcome was so warm I wished I could stay. But what has remained with me most is the bus journey.

Because we saw grace twice that morning. Once in the cathedral. Once along the way.

We perched ourselves near the back of the bus where, in the very far corner sat a young man, head in hands, clothes and rucksack a little scruffy and crumpled. I don’t know for sure that he was homeless. I just know that everyone else on the bus had chosen to sit further forward. We were the only ones even in the same section as him. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he’d just had a rough night. Either way, he had known better days

A couple of stops after us, a young mum hopped on. Her two small children made a beeline for the coveted back seat, unaware that tucked into the corner was someone - not much more than a teen himself - whose life had maybe gone a little off-track. The little family slotted themselves in, snuggling into their seats, the children chattering softly, their mother replying to everything with such gentleness and interest.

She’ll notice in a minute, I thought, and then what?

I waited for her to flinch, to pull her children closer, but she didn’t, not even tensing up when her son bumped to-and-fro a little, occasionally edging over the spare seat that divided them. That tiny bit of space. Those miles of difference.

She acted completely normal, like… like… what?

Like he was human. A person, not a nameless problem.

And in that moment, I wanted to sob with gratitude at her blatant humanity.

Of course, there are different takes on this, but he didn’t look dangerous or aggressive.

He just looked lost.

Her normality and tenderness, her soft voiced kindness when he needed to pass them to get off, her humanising of this young man whose full story none of us knew.

It might just have been the most beautiful thing I saw in my whole trip.