“You see the way it works is, the train leaves, not the station”
A League of Their Own
I have spent a lifetime not being at a loss for words. In person, at weddings, in prayer, and at bedtimes, consonants and vowels have waited for me to snatch them up by the handful like manna from heaven.
Yet now all I can think of is Marla Hooch standing at the train station, all bad hair, worse clothes and muted tongue, terrified at the thought of the unknown; the risks we take when we leave the house and start living the life for which we were created.
The sorrow of loss comes with its own paralysis, its immediacy as raw as its heartache. We long for sympathetic ears and hands that guide us to cozy chairs and cups of tea, when what we really need is the grating voice of Jon Lovitz unsentimentally telling us the truth--Get your ass on the train because it is going somewhere better than this, and if you don’t hustle you will miss it. And the rest of your life.
Consider this my first postcard.