No Surfing in Heaven?

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, I was shook. To my core. My mouth fell open. My head jerked his direction.

"There won't be any oceans in heaven." 

Those were the words that shook me to my core.

"What?!" I asked. My eyes wide with disbelief.

He continued. "In Revelation 21 it says, 'Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and first earth had passed away and there was no longer any sea.'"

While I was still processing this literal revelation, he added: "Yeah, the surfers won't be happy when they find that out."

I'm a native Californian. I LOVE the ocean. I live 45 minutes away from the ocean but I go to it monthly, like a pilgrim returning to the holy water. I feel like it re-centers me, calms my soul and reminds me to put life in perspective. I am small. Ocean is big. God is in charge. My mom tells me that when my parents would try to get me to come out of the ocean as a child, I would act like I couldn't hear them so I could stay in longer. I am not a surfer, unless you count the time I tried to surf in Hawaii and fell off my board and scratched myself up on the coral. But I was a boogie-boarder. For my thirteenth birthday I got a new boogie board and insisted my Dad take me to the beach that very same day so I could try it out. My birthday is in February.

The thought of no ocean in heaven was shocking. I stammered my disagreement.

"But wait, God created the oceans; why wouldn't they be in heaven?"

"Well, it doesn't appear there will be oceans in heaven according to Revelation, maybe rivers or lakes but not oceans...oceans were very destructive in ancient times. We're kind of romantic about them now but they meant floods and storms and shipwrecks to the people of the Bible."

"True, but water in general can be destructive and even the earth with earthquakes and what about fire? All that is destructive too. Isn't that just because the world is not the way it is supposed to be after the fall? I mean wouldn't heaven have a perfect ocean - one that doesn't destroy? No storms, no tsunamis? My goodness, no ocean. What about all of God's creatures in the ocean? The dolphins and fish and..." I was trying real hard to save the whales.

He continued: "Hard to say. There is a river in heaven based on Scripture...that has to run somewhere."

  

The dogs barked at a package delivery person at the door and the conversation ended. At least out loud. The voice inside my head was still talking. What? No ocean? NO OCEAN? Do I even want to go to heaven if there is no ocean? How can this be? God created the ocean and he said it was good. Now he's just going to get rid of the entire ocean and all the creatures in it? What a waste! 

When I got home, I cried. Sobbed actually. No ocean! I felt like a kid who waited his whole life to go to Disneyland. Mom and Dad pack him in the car, they drive in, park and run to the front gate only to find out Disneyland is closed. FOREVER. 

As soon as I could pull myself together, I had two thoughts. One, GET TO THE OCEAN AS SOON AS POSSIBLE GIRL. The darn thing won't be around forever. Even to type it now it makes my eyes water.

My second thought? I am going to have to look into this theory about no sea in heaven. Does every Christian believe this? Read Revelation this way? Could this be true?

Then I prayed a short prayer to God. "God please help me know if this is true and Lord, honestly I pray it isn't."

The first Christian I ran across online who believed there WAS an ocean in heaven was a giant of the faith--Charles Spurgeon. The "Prince of Preachers" says something so beautiful and comforting I am going to share it verbatim here:

Scarcely could we rejoice at the thought of losing the glorious old ocean: the new heavens and the new earth are none the fairer to our imagination, if, indeed, literally there is to be no great and wide sea, with its gleaming waves and shelly shores. Is not the text to be read as a metaphor, tinged with the prejudice with which the Oriental mind universally regarded the sea in the olden times? A real physical world without a sea it is mournful to imagine, it would be an iron ring without the sapphire which made it precious. There must be a spiritual meaning here. In the new dispensation, there will be no division–the sea separates nations and sunders peoples from each other. 

To John in Patmos the deep waters were like prison walls, shutting him out from his brethren and his work: there shall be no such barriers in the world to come. Leagues of rolling billows lie between us and many a kinsman whom tonight we prayerfully remember, but in the bright world to which we go there shall be unbroken fellowship for all the redeemed family. In this sense, there shall be no more sea. The sea is the emblem of change; with its ebbs and flows, its glassy smoothness and its mountainous billows, its gentle murmurs and its tumultuous roarings, it is never long the same. Slave of the fickle winds and the changeful moon, its instability is proverbial. In this mortal state, we have too much of this; earth is constant only in her inconstancy, but in the heavenly state all mournful change shall be unknown and with it all fear of storm to wreck our hopes and drown our joys. The sea of glass glows with a glory unbroken by a wave. No tempest howls along the peaceful shores of paradise. Soon shall we reach that happy land where partings, and changes, and storms shall be ended! Jesus will waft us there. Are we in him or not? This is the grand question.

Then I found this article: Will There Be Oceans in Heaven? (Highly recommend you read this article - it's a short, profound read.)

I started to feel better. Sounds like there ARE Christians who believe the verse about "no more sea" simply means no more chaos, destruction and separation of mankind - what the sea in ancient times represented. I also found it interesting to read about no more saltwater seas in heaven (because we don't need its purifying benefits in heaven) - wouldn't it be great to explore a fresh water ocean? You could open your eyes underwater like you're swimming in a pool! 

And let's remember--God said his creation was good. This included oceans and all the life teeming within it. When the rainbow appeared over Noah's ark after the flood, God didn't just make a covenant with the people of the earth to never destroy them again but with the earth and its creatures. I believe that covenant includes the ones swimming and floating around in God's big beautiful oceans. And my final thought is this: If I love the ocean so much, doesn't God also love it at least as much as I do? I believe he does. Why wouldn't he include the oceans he he created in his new heaven and earth? Because it would divide us from each other? Because they are tumultuous and dangerous? Do you know how small that makes God sound? You don't think the God who created them can calm them or make it possible for us to fly over them or walk on them? I do.

But still, just in case, I will pray for an ocean in heaven. After all, God wants to give us the desires of our hearts.

God, don't forget the seas when you create the new heavens and the new earth. Make them new too. The ones we have now are amazing but I can't wait to see what your perfect sea is like...the one without storms, the one without pollution, the one without shark attacks and oil spills, shipwrecks and destructive waves. Instead one that is a swirl of emerald and turquoise, glassy and pure, teeming with life. One with gentle waves to cradle surfers, propel dolphins and lap heaven's shores while shimmering in your light. Amen!

-Hope A. Horner, copyright 2023. Contact author on X for use at Hope Note.

#heaven #oceans #oceans #Revelation #oceansinheaven #surfers #gospel #spurgeon #faith #God #Jesus #church #believe #hope #newheaven #lifeafterdeath #newlife #creation

Sedona

Sedona was on my bucket list for years. I finally got there in November of 2023. It was everything and nothing like I expected.

I am not a fan of the desert, so I was wholly unimpressed with the dry, flat, barren area surrounding Phoenix. As I disembarked my plane and headed toward the hotel, I asked myself: "Who could live here?" "Where are the mountains?" "Is there any grass here?" Way off in the distance I noticed a jutting rugged mountain sized red rock, but that was about it. Everywhere I looked it was flat and desolate. Housing tracks and shopping centers provided the only elevation change. Luckily, it was November so it wasn't hot. The weather was pleasant as I unloaded my car and settled in for the night in Scottsdale, just down the road from the Phoenix airport.

The next day I would head to Sedona. I had done a little research and read that the Sedona sunrise was second to none so I decided to leave at 5AM to try to catch the 7AM sunrise. I threw on a sweater and headed out into the dark desert night.

Getting there was a whole adventure in itself. It started with a nearly straight shot out of town until I hit the winding highway 17 over the northern Arizona mountains. My headlights shone on nothing except the black tar road and the occasional sign that said "Stay in Lane" warning me to think twice before I veered off into the desert to do some nighttime off-roading with the coyotes and lizards. There was construction being done on the road, but no one was working this early, so cones and reflectors were my only guides around many twists and turns. The road was 2 lanes each way, and I passed no more than four or five cars for over and hour. When the road peaked at the top of the mountain, I noticed a perfect crescent moon hanging in the sky above the darkness. I could tell exactly where the sun was because it shone so brightly on one side of the moon. I found it comforting. Off in the distance beneath the moon, the perfectly straight horizon had a blue glow. The sun was headed up to greet the desert. I better hurry.

After a downhill drop of over 15 miles, I hit the endless rotaries. Round and out. Round and out...about every mile or so for what seems like 10 miles. Then I started down another highway until a road sign popped up to tell me that Sedona was only a few miles away. I grew excited, peering down the road for any sign of the town I had longed to see for so many years. The sun slipped up higher on the horizon making it light enough to see without headlights.

And then there it was.

In all it's red rock glory.

Sedona.

This was Arizona? Where did all these colorful mountains come from? The mountains were large and looming and had layered rock striations - black, cream, brown --with their tops almost always red. Some shot up like spires, others looked like they had been shaped with human hands, like lumps of clay. And trees! Big beautiful trees in all shapes and sizes showed off their yellow and orange fall leaves over green lawns and old west style buildings. Large saguaros popped up on rocky cliffs and along roadsides, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups. As I drove through town, I noticed some mountains were lighting up with the sunrise while others were still in the early morning shadows. I drove to the first trail head I could find and hopped out. 

Wow! Was it cold!

Quite a temperature drop from Scottsdale. I discovered later I had climbed over 4,000 feet in elevation. That explained the cold crisp air that bit my nose and fingertips. I had only a sweater to cover me, but it didn't matter. I was here. I walked down the dusty red trail and looked up at the jagged rocky mountains. The colors were starting to become more vibrant as the shadows faded. I heard a whooshing sound out in the distance. What was that? Over a hedge of trees in front of me, a giant hot air balloon began to rise, like a carnival moon. It had yellow, red and orange stripes and the whooshing sound was the hot air being released into the balloon. I stood in awe as it lifted less than 50 yards in front of me, the orange flame appearing and disappearing above the basket as the balloon rose above the tree tops and drifted away. I heard the muffled sound of happy tourists chirping like birds in their rising nest. What a view they must have, I thought.

I popped out of that trail and drove a half mile down the road to another trail that looked like it would have a great view of the red rock mountains. As I headed up the hill, I could see the hot air balloons off in the distance. They seemed to be stationary in the air, hanging in place, in the shimmering light blue morning sky. After a few hundred feet the path dropped back down and became very rocky. As I descended, my shoes covered in red dust, I thought: "My dog Cali would have loved this!" and my eyes welled up with tears. Cali had passed away just a few months before this trip. Losing her was like a heavy backpack I carried with me everywhere. I could see her happy face as she walked the trail with me--long pink tongue out, floppy ears dancing as she looked back at me with a wide eyes and an even wider frothy smile. I could hear her collar tags jingle, hear her panting. I could feel her pulling on the leash. The memory was so vivid, I started sobbing. But I didn't stop walking; I kept going, letting the tears fall, wiping them away with my sleeve, and taking deep breaths. Her presence was so strong there; I can't explain it. 

I grabbed a big breakfast of sweet potato pancakes at Jose Cafe and headed for uptown Sedona in the morning sun. A "Monster Sale" sign caught my eye and I followed it to a house that was tucked away in an older, but very well manicured neighborhood. It was Saturday and there were only a few people there, not the usual madness I am used to at California yard sales. Sedona has only about 10,000 people so there isn't as much competition. This was a house sale, not a yard sale. Each room was full of vintage maps, blankets, dolls, doilies, glassware, sheet music, books and costume jewelry. Prices were circa 1970 and the senior ladies running the sale were well organized, polite and cheerful. They were dressed up for the occasion in colorful blouses and pressed slacks. Hair pins held their gray hair back in strands and their wrists were covered in metal bracelets. They said they were cleaning house because "They had too much stuff." "Time flies!" they said. "Jim used to love these old maps." "I remember reading Swiss Family Robinson as a child." The nostalgic chatter continued. I got a small bag full of CDs and antique books for $1. I hoped I could fit it in my backpack and get it all home.

A short walk from the house was a small history museum highlighting local Sedona founders and their contributions to ranching, the movie industry and chuck wagon slop. The Daughters of the American Revolution were there to help honor veterans with music and sandwiches. Four large American flags, staked in the ground, blew in the wind next to an old telegram office. I walked through the museum and signed the guest book. Then I got in the car and headed to Chapel of the Holy Cross. This large Catholic church appears to be cut out of the red rock mountains and is perched way up high, so high you have to either walk or drive a long steep road that winds to it. Luckily, I caught a golf-cart style shuttle which took me to the top. The church was very busy. People were taking pictures of the surrounding scenery including the "Mother and Child" rock and other amazing desert formations surrounding the chapel. Inside the church it was smoky from all the lit candles and incense. People were quiet as Jesus hung over us on a large cross that leaned out from the front of the church. Behind him were giant rectangular windows that looked out on to the bright blue sky. People sat in the wooden pews and prayed. Mass was still held here and I thought of the people who had to walk up and down the hill every Sunday. Better wear comfortable shoes! I took a shuttle down and headed for another part of Sedona, called Tlaquepaque. T-Paq is a shopping center full of locally made art, jewelry and sculptures. The Spanish architecture makes the place feel like it is from another country--maybe Spain or Portugal? I loved the rust colored plaster archways beckoning me into the plaza, draping green ivy plants overhead, and the variety of gray stones that formed fountains, walls and walkways. You had to watch your step and head everywhere you went. The velvet ash trees gave plenty of shade; their bright yellow leaves shimmering in the afternoon sun. I didn't buy anything, but enjoyed walking around this Spanish stye paradise.

While I wanted to see the sunset in Sedona, I did not want to drive back in the dark. The twists and turns around flashy construction signs had been enough excitement this morning. Plus, I had an early flight to catch the next morning to head home. So after stopping to walk on one more red dust trail that featured pocket gophers and a winding crystal clear creek, I headed back to Scottsdale. It takes about two and a half hours to make the journey and I was glad I still had plenty of sunlight and would not have to depend on the light of the moon and the tiny high beams of my rental car. 

About an hour into the drive on highway 17, traffic stopped quickly in front of me. I slammed on my brakes and wondered what was going on. On google maps there was no sign of traffic. Something must have just happened. Cars began to move forward slowly and then pull over to the left lane. After we crawled forward a few hundred feet, I noticed debris in the right lane next to me and in the dirt alongside the road. Pieces of plastic maybe? I heard a siren coming up behind me and saw flashing lights in the rear view mirror. As my eyes returned to the car in front of me slowly rolling forward, I saw the handlebars of a motorcycle lying in the roadway to my right. Then, a broken helmet. Chrome and metal pieces I could not identify were scattered around. A few cars were parked off the roadway. Standing on a dirt berm near the side of the road were two women. One woman reached out to hug the other woman as they looked down into the canyon. A man a few yards away from them was frantically gesturing, waving his arms at the cop. Come here! Over here! Another man behind him was pointing down into the canyon. The cop pulled up, jumped out of his car and ran down the hill out of sight as the man continued to point. The women hung on to each other tightly, not able to look.

Oh no. I said. Someone just died here.

I knew by what I had seen on the road and on the faces of those at the scene that it was very, very bad. Frantic horror is the best way I can describe the contortion of their faces. I began to cry and pray. "Help this person survive God and if they can't survive, please help their family."

It took me almost a half hour to stop the tears as I continued to wind down the desert mountain road toward Scottsdale. The farther I got from Sedona, the more the earth seemed to flatten out, get dryer, more barren and harsh. The autumn colored ash and juniper trees were replaced with prickly, scarred saguaros and rolling tumbleweeds. Red dust turned gray. A reminder that we will all face the barren darkness. No one escapes. Like a desert moon though, we will rise again.

-Hope A. Horner, Copyright 2023

To use, report or print article contact author on Twitter (X) @HopeNote.

Do I Have to Call Myself a Christian?

"Yeah, I believe.  It's just that when I think about calling myself a "Christian" it makes my stomach turn.  It just has bad connotations for me. I guess I could become a Christian, but if I did, I would have to call myself something else. I could call myself a Lutheran, maybe, but not a Christian. I don't like what that word has come to mean."

These are the words I heard this week.
And it broke my heart.
I couldn't argue with this person. Her reasons for not wanting to allow Christ into her life were because she thought she would have to label herself a "Christian" and that was not something she wanted to do.  To her "Christian" meant:
Republican
Narrow-minded
Judgmental
Hypocritical
Arrogant

And she didn't want those labels on her.

Now, I know this is going to upset my Lutheran brothers and sisters, but think about this a minute...
The person quoted above would rather be identified with Martin Luther than with Jesus Christ!
Martin Luther was a remarkable, courageous, pillar of the faith. A history changer. The Father of Protestantism. Used by God.

He was also an anti-Semite. 

In his treatise entitled On The Jews & Their Lies (1543), he said he believed Jews to be "an idle and lazy people, such a useless, evil, pernicious people, such blasphemous enemies of God."  This is just one snippet. There are many more. My point is not to beat up on Luther, but to just let you in on where my thoughts went when my friend said she would rather be associated with Luther than Jesus. She would rather be identified with a great man, albeit a flawed one, than with the perfect man, God incarnate, who was without flaw, Jesus Christ.

That saddens me.

And sadder still is her reason why.

It's our fault. We Christians blew it. We made "Christian" a dirty word.  In the book UnChristian by David Kinnaman, he reveals that 16-29 year olds perceive Christianity to be anti-homosexual, judgmental, hypocritical, too political, sheltered, and proselytizing according to Barna Group Research   ( Get Book Here ) I can see why. I've been judgmental, narrow-minded and arrogant at times. (See my blog entry entitled member of the AKC Club for one example.) 

Why is she OK with being called a Lutheran? Because the ones she knows are loving. Open minded. They are service-oriented. Humble. She knows them and would be willing to be called one of them.  Just don't call her a "Christian."

 

Yesterday, a Christian I love and respect called to tell me that she and her husband are leaving a church because they found out the Sunday School teacher was a Calvinist. (Not the pastor mind you, the Sunday School teacher!) This would be the second church they have left because of "Calivinism." She and her husband believe both pre-determinism (Calvinism) and free will are in the Bible, but lean toward Arminianism (Free will). She said, "You know, most Calvinists say that if you don't believe the way they do that you're not a Christian!"  I said, "Most CHRISTIANS say if you don't believe the way they do you are not a Christian!"  She didn't respond.  During the silence I thought...Oh, all the reasons we divide. And the world is watching.

And while they watch us argue, point, divide and accuse, they are running to identify with someone, something, anything that helps them find their purpose, meaning and hope for living --- money, a career, artistic expression, spiritual healers, individualism, church, love, meditation...none of which are bad, just not enough. None of them can be. They are just reflections of a greater light. Simple shards of the complex, perfect original --the wholly wonderful, beautiful Truth.

Jesus Christ is what they're searching for.

But when they find Him, they don't want Him because of me, because of "Christians."  

That kills me.

And it's killing them, too.

They die lost and hungry while we argue about whether we choose God or God chooses us.

They die in despair while we debate whether or not you have to be baptized to be saved.

They languish away in loneliness without a friend in the world, while we link arms in friendship to take a stand against Prop. 8, abortion, homosexuality, immigration.

They chase a dollar while we chase our tails.

We tell Democrats, Liberals, gays, feminists, heck even divorced women, they can't possibly be Christians.

We yell "Sinners!" and hold "God hates fags!" signs at funerals while families weep.

We build million dollar mega-churches with giant auditoriums and Bose sound systems while just down the street, 6 people sleep on the floor in one small room, curled up in bed-bug infested sheets.

We get caught sleeping with someone who is not our wife, molesting kids, watching porn, stealing money to support our lavish lifestyles. When we get caught, we lie. Then the truth comes out and the jig is up so we shed big fat tears on national TV and ask Jesus to forgive us. But the damage is done. Jesus may forgive, but the world won't. Those who would want to know Jesus, say "not if it means I have to be ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE." Can you give me something else to call myself? Can we invent a new word or something? 

 

The truth is, there are so many wonderful Christians out there. I know many of them. They don't just throw money at the poor, they sacrafice their time, talent and treasure. They lift the poor from the floor and place them in beds. They get rid of the bed-bugs, build houses, and fill gas tanks and refrigerators for those in need. They repair homes after floods and hurricanes. They take sports equipment, food, job skills training to the far corners of the earth. They dig wells and pass out mosquito nets. They sit with their arm around tearful widows.They buy baby formula and Christmas gifts for immigrants. They adopt kids with special needs born to drug-addicted mothers. They are loving and welcoming and reach out to all with the love of Christ. Their life reflects his love. They are peace-seeking, peace-making and peace-giving. Some call themselves Lutherans.  Some Baptists.  Some Catholics - ALL call themselves Christians.

As do I.

So c'mon Christians, let's take back the name from the ones who stole it away for their own purposes and tarnished it. Let's put an end to the bickering over theology. Let's stop pulling Jesus left and right in the political world for our own selfish purposes. Let's stop judging. Lying. Cheating. Dividing. Let's keep giving, serving, loving, hoping and praying. Let's be loud about our love for Christ and for the world.  Let's drown out the haters. Let's shine like lights in the darkness - like a city on a hill!  Let's answer the prayer of Jesus in John 17 and UNIFY. Not for our causes, but for the cause of Christ who came to seek and to save.  

Let's put CHRIST back in CHRISTian!

 

 

  -Hope A. Horner

copyright 2023 - Contact author for publishing authorization on g mail - hopeh1122

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love Me Like My Dog

We all want to be loved by someone who is just like our dog. Think about it.
Dogs love us just the way we are.
Dogs do what we tell them to do (most of the time.)
Dogs have two priorities: 1) You and 2) You  
Dogs follow us around and think we are the BEST EVER.
Dogs get excited to see us, even when we're only gone for a minute.
Dogs are affectionate with us, but will go away and leave us alone, too.

In other words, we are selfish.
We want someone to love us the way we want them to love us.
We want it to be simple:  LOVE ME AS I AM.

And love is not that simple.
Finding true love is next to impossible. In fact, it probably doesn't exist. Don't get me wrong, I believe in love, but there is no PERFECT person out there. No one is going to love you like your dog. No one.
Instead, at best, you can hope that someone loves you like your CAT.

Cats love you when they WANT to love you, which is when they are hungry or want attention.
Cats do NOT do what you tell them to do. Sometimes, you can coax or sweet talk them into doing things, but even then, they'll only do it if it is in their best interest or involves food.
Cats could care less when you get home. Unless you are bringing home the bacon or smell like some other cat.
Cats have two priorities: 1) Eat 2) Sleep
Cats love you just the way you are. Yeah. As their servant.

Cats want YOU to follow THEM around. Until nap time, then leave them the heck alone or you'll regret it.

Cats are affectionate when they want to be, and usually at the worst possible times--like when they stick their butt in your face right in the middle of the season finale of your favorite show.

So, try to be realistic if you are seeking love. Look for someone who loves you, but don't expect Lassie or Benji. But don't settle for a fickle feline either. Maybe someone like Garfield? At least he's rich, likes Italian food and has a great sense of humor.

Hope A. Horner, copyright 2022

Contact author on Twitter @HopeNote

Traveling with Baggage

I felt bad even thinking it.
There I was, sitting on a train looking at someone directly ahead of me and wondering:
Is he a terrorist?
Gosh, how silly.
But wait. What if he is?
He looks the part.
He's definitely from that part of the world.
Dark curly hair, large dark eyes, dark skin, dark five o'clock shadow on his face. Dark. Dark. Dark.
He's the same age as most of the terrorists, too. Mid twenties. Old enough to have had time to be radicalized and young enough to be fearless. I probably should keep an eye on him.
Jeez, I'm an awful person. What is wrong with me? I shouldn't think that. He's probably a perfectly nice guy just headed downtown to shop like I am. He has a baby face. He's probably harmless and here I am profiling him. Poor guy, I bet he gets this all the time. I bet he can't go anywhere, or ride any kind of public transportation without getting looks. I wonder if anyone has ever reported him as suspicious? Can you imagine how horrifying that would be--getting shook down, probed, patted and questioned just because of how you look? I mean, he's probably just a student. Look, he has a backpack.
Wait, a backpack?!
Why does he have a backpack on the train? On a Saturday?
Oh God. He probably IS a terrorist. What should I do? He's just sitting there, facing me with a blank expression on his face trying to blend in with everyone else headed to L.A.'s Union Station on the Metrolink. Going downtown to do some shopping are you? Or do you plan to kick this weekend off with a bang?
Oh stop it, Hope. You're being ridiculous. And racist.
No, you're not. You're just being vigilant. Remember "See something- Say something?"  You need to get over the need to be "PC" and keep an eye on this guy.
But the saying is "See Something, Say Something" Hope, not: "See SOMEONE, say something."  And he's not doing anything, except sitting there. And for goodness sake, you have a backpack too, remember? Just calm down and look out the window.
Through the glass to my left is the San Fernando Valley, a huge metropolis just on the outside of L.A. hemmed in by mountains. The train is currently racing along the back side of a run-down valley neighborhood full of stray bottles, walls covered in graffiti and houses pieced together with tarps, sheets of metal, and stray bricks. Every window I see has a blanket hanging in it as a curtain. Motorhomes are parked in backyards, their tires flat and their windows blocked with aluminum foil and cardboard. I can't see a single blade of grass anywhere. It's depressing. I check back on the suspicious man in front of me.

He is still staring straight ahead. His eyes catch mine and I look away quickly, back outside.
Below me now is a junkyard full of sand piles, wood, railroad ties, concrete blocks, and large yellow earth movers. Anything that has been sitting too long is tagged in large, spray-painted bubble letters.
Risky
Ghost
Baller
Life = Misery is tagged on a large chunk of concrete near an intersection where cars are backed up waiting for us to pass. Even the obviously new paved walkway that runs along the back of the neighborhood near the tracks is littered with trash and graffiti. Large fancy engraved stone signs announce the beginning of this concrete "trail" but it really looks more like an alley. Cement benches double as art canvases for gangsters and I still have not seen one blade of grass--green grass that is.

The conductor announces that the next stop is Burbank. I know that after Burbank is Glendale and after Glendale is Union Station. I know all this because of a sweet elderly lady I met at the station where I first got on board. She told me in Spanish that she had been riding the train to Glendale every month for thirty years to get her hair done. She was dressed like she was heading to church--black sparkly turtleneck sweater, finely pressed beige dress pants, a Christmas scarf and a fancy leather purse which she clung to tightly. She told me to sit on the third level of the train.  "No hay mucha gente alli." There aren't a lot of people there. She was right. Just she and I, a homeless man, a young couple, and this guy--the dark haired man sitting a few rows up facing my direction who still had no expression on his face.

"Next stop Union Station!" The conductor yelled out. "This is the stop you have all been waiting for!" His enthusiasm made people chuckle. "Make sure you get off because this is the last stop and the train will be out of service." I waited for the train to roll to a gentle stop and then stood up. The man I had been watching stood up too, turned around and headed toward the stairs at the front of the car. I headed to the stairs at the back, going down one narrow step at a time, holding tightly to the guardrail. Quite a few passengers were waiting on the first level for the doors to open. People looked down, checked their phones, shuffled in place, hoisted backpacks on to their shoulders and tried not to invade anyone else's space with their eyes or body. I was here for a vinyl record show about five miles away and was anxious to get off. The doors opened and everyone surged forward to get out. I made it outside the train and followed a large throng of people down a concrete walk-way and into Union Station. I was amazed at two things: First, the large amount of people in the station on a Saturday (although it was nearing Christmas) and second, the fact that no one ever checked my ticket. For all anyone knew I didn't even have a ticket. I had one--a bar-code on my phone, but why hadn't anyone scanned it? Then I saw the signs warning about the $1,200 fine for anyone found riding the train without a ticket. I guess they use the honor system, I thought. Great. No one is watching us or checking tickets. In this day and age? It's a free-for-all for thugs, thieves, and terrorists. Why not have more security? Then I remembered to be careful what you wish for. It's expensive to have someone check tickets and view surveillance footage and walk around with a gun looking angry and as comforting as all that is, taxes are high enough in this damn state so I'll take the honor system and paranoia for free, please.

I made it into Union Station and marveled at how L.A. has its very own Grand Central Station. OK, not exactly but it still is something to see. High decorative ceilings, solid wood benches, brass fixtures, fancy cafes with candles, white linen napkins and wine glasses propped up to look inviting.  I just wanted to get to the record fair. I had never taken an Uber before, but I was ready.  I had downloaded the app, entered my credit card number, and now I just had to find my way out of the station. When in doubt about how to get out of a public place--follow the masses. I kept walking behind a crowd of people and before I knew it I was outside in the fresh air and bright Southern California sun. I squinted and looked around. There, right across the boulevard was Olvera Street--the historic Mexican marketplace made to look like Old Los Angeles with it's adobe architecture, murals, street vendors, and brick walkways. I'd been there many times and always enjoyed myself--as a child I remember purchasing confetti eggs from one of the vendors. These were decorated egg shells

that held confetti instead of yolk inside and gave parents an instant headache at the thought of the clean-up involved. That's probably why they always insisted children throw them at each other while still on Olvera Street. These messy souvenirs never made it home.

I asked the lady near the curb in the shiny black station security jacket where the best place to grab an Uber was. She pointed ahead of her and with a hint of sarcasm said: "Down there where the cars are." I  hoisted my backpack and walked that direction while opening the Uber app. I clicked until I was pretty sure I had summoned a car. The app told me a silver Nissan Altima would be picking me up and my driver would be Radhouane.  I wasn't even sure how to pronounce his name, but as long as his car didn't come rattling and backfiring into the lot with a Make America Great Again sticker on it, I was sure I'd be fine.
Across the parking lot I saw a silver Altima about to pull into the street make a quick left turn and circle back in to the lot. This must be my driver, I thought. The traffic officer threw up his arms like "What the heck are you doing, dude?" but let him pass and sure enough, he was my driver.  He pulled up to the curb right in front of me and rolled down the window.
My mouth almost fell open.
In the passenger seat right next to him was the guy from the train.
"Hope?" the driver yelled through the window.
"Yes?" I said a little less confidently that I wanted to. I didn't dare respond with his name as I would certainly butcher it. The closest pronunciation I had come up with for Radhouane sounded too much like Road Hound. I just nodded and stepped toward the car.
"Same train, same car!" I said to the guy from the train as opened the door behind him. His shoulders bounced back like I startled him and he let out a nervous laugh, "Yeah." I got in and put on my seat belt.
"Where you headed to buddy?"  The driver asked the guy in front.
"The Greyhound station," he replied.
"Where you from?" The driver asked. He turned to look out the window before pulling away from the curb.
"Originally, or do you mean where did I come from today?" The guy clarified.
"Originally."
"I'm from Bangladesh," the guy replied.
"Me too," said the driver.
"Really?"
"Yup."
"What part?"
"No, not really. I'm messing with you man." The driver laughed way too hard at his little prank as he pulled out of the station parking lot into the street. The dark haired guy laughed just enough to be polite and asked, "Where are you from?"
"North Africa," said the driver.
I sat quietly in the back, sliding around a bit on the black leather, trying to remember what countries were in North Africa. Morocco? Egypt?  I couldn't think of any others. Why did he say North Africa and not the actual country he was from? Isn't that a little bit like me saying I'm from North America?
"What are you doing out here?" The driver asked.
"I'm a student." He shifted in his seat. "I go to Cal Poly."
"What are you studying?"
"Computer engineering."
"Do you want to code or work on systems or what's your thing?" The driver asked. He obviously knew enough to carry on a conversation. I was out of my league at that point, but kept listening.
"I want to code."
"I used to be able to code," said the driver, "I could use C++.  Still can do a little of it, but I'm rusty. Need to take some classes or something."
"If you can use C++ you can still do a lot. You have the basics. Its still very useful." The man said.
The driver nodded. "Yeah, that's true..."
They continued talking in "code" and then the conversation turned to Bangladesh.
"How long did you live in Bangladesh?" asked the driver.
"About twenty years," the guy said.
"Did you like it?"
"No, not really, it is very bad there."  The driver nodded and made a comment about Bangladesh being next to India. "So where you headed by bus?"
"San Francisco."
"Great, well here we are, my friend." He pulled into the parking lot of the Greyhound bus station and stopped by the curb.
"How long is the bus ride?"
"Seven hours," replied the man. He was opening the car door to get out.
"Wow, do they stop?" continued the driver.
"No, this bus goes straight through."
"Straight through? Don't they have to stop so you can go to the bathroom?"
"Nah, there's a bathroom on the bus."
"Must smell great then!" The driver laughed loudly, obviously feeling like he was on a roll.
The guy laughed one last polite laugh, thanked the driver and got out.
"Good luck with your schooling," I said from the backseat. He had probably forgotten I was even there.
"Thank you," he said and glanced back at me as he shut the door. I smiled. I hoped he would accept my well wishes and smile as an apology for my previous thoughts. The "terror suspect" was actually a Cal Poly student studying engineering probably getting an A++ in C++.
Jeez. I'm a schmuck. I thought.
"So miss Hope," the driver said, "Where are you headed?"
Wait you know my name but not where I am going? Should I be worried?  I took a screenshot of the Uber app that showed the driver and his license plate and texted it to a friend just in case I ended up needing to break a window and climb out to save myself.
"5610 Soto Street," he interrupted my thoughts. "What's there?"
"A record show," I replied.
"Like vinyl?"
"Yup, vinyl," I replied.
"Wow, I may have to stop and check it out."
"You into vinyl?" I asked.
He turned his head toward me. He had a big round face with puffy cheeks and I could smell his cologne, which wasn't bad, but he should probably take it down a notch.
"My daughter is into vinyl. She keeps asking me to get her a record player. You know, one of those old ones."
"Oh yeah? How old is she?"
"12," he replied.
"12? And she is already into vinyl?" I remember when parents were throwing out their vinyl, not buying it for their kids who had barely entered puberty.
"Yup," he said. "She loves it."
We drove in silence for a little while and then I asked him about driving for Uber just to make small talk.  He said he had been driving for two months and could only drive for an hour at a time before he had to pull over to get out and walk around. Otherwise, he said, fluid would collect in his legs and his knees and ankles would stiffen up.  He was a big man, thick hairy arms and knuckles, brown callouses on his elbows and a full head of dark curly hair, just like the guy we had dropped off earlier. A gold chain peeked out just below his shirt collar. I made a comment about his Nissan Altima, saying that I used to have one in this same color. He told me he did not like his. The brakes squeaked and it got crappy gas mileage and all the parts were hard to reach so labor was always really expensive whenever anything needed to be fixed. "They probably made it that way so you have to go to the dealer." I nodded and told him I had a Nissan Rogue and he recommended that next time I buy a Toyota. He said he had a Camry that had almost 500,000 miles on it. "You're just going to have to give up the power and style of the Nissan if you want to save money." I nodded and thanked him.
We shot through a signal light as it was turning yellow and he said to get ready because my destination was coming up on the left and he wasn't sure there would be anywhere to park. The area looked to be largely industrial and technically, we were now in downtown Huntington Park according to the map on my app. He did a u-turn in the middle of the street and pulled over to the curb in front of a large white wooden sign that said Records.
"Here you are," he said. "Have fun!"
"Thank you! Have a good one!"
"You, too, he said, "Merry Christmas."
What? Don't you mean Happy Holidays? I thought.
"Merry Christmas," I replied. I opened the door and hopped out on to the curb. I threw my backpack over my shoulder. It was light, ready to be filled with dusty 33's and 45's. It was all I had with me. Sort of. I was traveling with more baggage than I realized.

 -Hope A. Horner, copyright 2017.
http://www.HopeHorner.com
Twitter: @HopeNote
Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122 for on and off-line printing.
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