Yesterday afternoon was all about the helpers.

We landed in Miami and needed to take a train to West Palm.

To do that, however, we needed to take an airport shuttle, to a subway, to the Brightline, a train so new it smells like it just came out of the box.

So we need a train, to a train, to a train.

Which is the sort of thing that can easily leave me feeling like Bugs Bunny knowing I should have taken a left turn at Albequerque.

And it’s not exactly clear which way to go.

But as we go down hallway after hallway looking for our first shuttle, we find ourselves walking alongside two ladies who could be from Brooklyn. Eventually, we exchange pleasantries and become a team.

And they get us to the airport shuttle.

The train gets us out of the airport, to the subway station, where a man who might resemble The Little Rascals’ Spanky McFarland’s grandfather, lets us know which train to get, when it will be leaving, and where to buy tickets.

But nobody can buy tickets. The machine is not reading credit cards. So a woman in a green transit uniform with a gorgeously calming smile, who looks like Tasha Cobbs Leonard but definitely isn’t, tells us to bypass our zip codes, and when that doesn’t work, to get cash at the atm. Two tickets, and roughly a thousand quarters in change later, we’re good.

Now we find our subway, occupied entirely by people who respond to Lori’s questions with “no habla ingles.”

And I’m not at all convinced that everyone is telling us the truth.

So when Lori comes back, I express my frustration because four semesters of Spanish in college are just beyond the tip of my tongue, coming way too slowly to mind.

And Lori says “YOU BIG FAT CHICKEN! You speak Spanish and you make ME go ask questions?”

A few clarifying points:

1. I do not speak Spanish. I took Spanish. I remember some Spanish. (Muchas gracias and R.I.P. to Professor Hilda Otano-Benitez of Amherst College, who I just learned passed way in 2020 - a wonderful teacher and a lovely soul.)
2. Right now I don’t remember anything. I’m generally at the level where if friends speak to me in Spanish, I can understand what they are saying, and can most effectively speak back in English. But it’s all hazy now.
3. This moment is less about vocab than it is about rapport. Rapport can transcend language barriers. And that’s Lori’s superpower. Not mine.
4. I’m pretty sure this is the first time she has ever called me a chicken. Much less of the big and fat variety. Nonetheless, point taken.

So I walk over to the friendliest seeming of our declining passengers, and begin to roll out some truly miserable, broken Spanish. I am misconjugating verbs, stumbling for nouns, and probably breaking several Florida laws.

I’m trying to determine which stop will bring me to Downtown Miami, where I have been told I can get the Brightline.

But none of the stops say Downtown Miami.

And the woman keeps sweetly and patiently telling me that for downtown I want “San Vicente.”

But there is nothing on the board that says San Vicente.

And, amidst a series of graciases and lo sientos, I keep making the tourist’s walk of shame back and forth from our seats, to hers.

Meanwhile, each time I walk away from her, some new information pops into my head. “Escuchar.” “Traducir.” “Donde esta el tren a ‘downtown?’” “Yo voy, tu vas, el va, nosotros vamos…”

But each time, she points to the sign, and says “San Vicente.”

Then, suddenly, she looks anxiously up at the sign, shakes her head and says, “No! Govimincente!”

And I look up, and realize that for 10 minutes now, she has been saying, not “San Vicente”, but “Civic Center.”

And just corrected it to “Government Center.”

And I am a big fat idiot in desperate need of some q-tips and a Duolingo I.V.

But she has been so patient and so sweet.

I thank her several times and we get off the train.

At which point a fast-moving black man runs up to us and says, its not here! You need to go back one stop!

Then he runs off.

Now, he was correct.

We went back one stop.

And found our way to the Brightline.

And what struck me about this adventure is the role each person played.

The Brooklyn ladies got us out of the airport.

Tasha Cobbs Leonard got us through the ticket kiosk.

Spanky’s Grandpa directed us to the subway.

The Civic Center Lady got me over my fear about looking stupid talking to people (I absolutely did. And it was fine).

The fast-moving man got us to the correct train.

Remove any one of those players, and we never get to West Palm, which was amazing, or back to Miami, which is stunning. And I am not writing to you from a hotel room as we speak.

When we talk about angels, we often speak of Biblical superheroes, giant winged protectors who battle with demons and bathe us in light.

Or at least Della Reese.

Sometimes I see angels as the people positioned in the right place at the right time, able and willing to do the right thing.

These are the people momentarily moved to stop their lives so that they can come along and guide yours.

These are the people who usher us into new destinations, new understandings, and new seasons.

The good thing about that is that we don’t just get to meet angels.

We can choose to be them.

So, today, may you meet an angel at your point of need.

And today, may you take the opportunity to be one.

Safe travels.

(Photo Credit: Cameron Casey)