Phone Calls Home

In the year 2005, the city of London was hit by a series of terrorist attacks affecting close to 700 casualties and claiming the lives of a minority.  Over a two week period, a number of bombings took place in and around London in tube stations, on buses, and in cars.  The attacks were unpredictable and the locations seemed obscure.   Londoners were left feeling rattled, victimized, and fearful.  Suspicions loomed between racial and religious groups in what were once previous friendly, innocent exchanges.  Hatred and fear spread like wild fire.  It was summertime.

That particular morning was no different from many others. I arrived at work shortly after nine a.m. following mundane train and tube rides.  It was my office in South West London and I had only been working there a short while, but long enough to feel a certain groove had been established.  I had visits with families that morning and was briefly stopping in to pick up my files and messages.

When I attempted to leave the office a co-worker informed me that a bomb had been set off on a bus, and another on a nearby tube station. I made a joke about my boots being made for walking, and threw my bag over my shoulder as I pushed through the back door.  I’ll be fine, I thought to myself.  It’s a city of 12 million and not a morning goes by where some sort of shenanigan isn’t being pulled. 

I approached the tube station I needed for my journey but found it to be taped off and guarded closely by several police officers.  My heart sank a little, but not enough to slow my legs down.  I sought out an alternate bus route.  I would get to this home visit.

The bus ride was hot and sweaty. Personal spaces were invaded with rustlings of newspapers, and over sized bags and attitudes.  But this morning, something was different,  fear was brewing in the air.  And then, I heard it.  A lady behind me spoke in alarm about several more bombs going off and lives being lost. I glanced out the window to see smoke billowing up around us in the not so far distance. I peeked down at my mobile phone as if it were a holy rosary, longing to be connected to my friends and family.  I instead found that the networks were abruptly shut off, preventing the terrorists from further communicating with each other.  I was suddenly alone and very afraid.

Several more minutes passed and traffic was at a standstill, creeping and braking.  People exited the bus and I decided that I too needed to stay in motion to conquer my fear.  A Nigerian man passed me on the street saying something I could not comprehend but terror was held in his eyes.  He wanted something from me, but I could not offer help.  I was disoriented, I was lost, and helpless.  I could hear explosions, I could see more smoke.  Alarms sounded and rang like an out of tune symphony.

It was several hours later when I made it to Brixton, a district in south east London, that was neighboring my home.  It was in a state of chaos and disarray as a result of the attacks. And there I saw it; a payphone waiting for me like a cold glass of water after a desert hike.  I called collect, home, to my father in Canada. And then, I heard my father’s voice, and in it, I knew he had been waiting for my call.

I wept.  Not because he could do anything millions of miles away, because he couldn’t.  Not that he understood the unsettling hours of being alone in a terror zone, because he wasn’t there.   But, I wept because I knew I had a place to call home to.  Someone who knew me.  Someone who loved me anyway.  Someone whom I mattered to and mattered to me.  And with his words, “you’ll be okay”, “where are you?”, “how far are you from home?, “you are safe”, I hung up the receiver and held my head a little higher, felt a little less alone, and walked knowing that I’d always have a phone call home.

From time to time, I think about that tragic day.  Those lives that were lost.  Those who lost a loved one. Mostly, I think about that phone call home.  In the middle of the street amongst chaos, and sirens, and screaming, and smoke.  I think about the peace in the connection.  The reassurance in my father's voice and in his words.  That he was waiting for me there.  I feel that way with God often.  In the middle of my chaos, the loud noise, and the distractions.  Amidst the ugliness and fear.  I stand alone in the street, calling home to him. 

 ~The Lord is close to all who call on him, yes to all who call on him sincerely. Psalm 145:18