Behind the Snail Bus

My daily drive to work tests my patience, and I don't always receive a passing grade. Too many traffic lights and stop signs. Too many slow and selfish drivers.

And then there's the school bus. Not just any bus, mind you, but the one I nicknamed the snail bus. It lumbers along like an enormous yellow snail, spewing acrid black fumes from an oversized exhaust pipe aimed, it seems, right at my driver's side window. When my car ends up behind the snail bus, I groan aloud because I know I'll arrive at work several minutes later than I'd like.

One morning not long ago, I fidgeted impatiently as the bus lurched to a stop in front of a small house in my neighborhood. While its flashing red lights kept a growing line of cars at bay, I considered how other drivers probably shared my annoyance. No doubt they were thinking, as I was, "Come on, let's go!"

Then I watched as a young father emerged from the house. He was pushing a wheelchair that contained a boy, perhaps 12 years old, who appeared to have multiple disabilities.

A bus door swung open, and a hydraulic lift lowered to the ground. Smiling courteously, the driver leaped to the sidewalk and helped the dad steer the wheelchair onto the lift. With the boy safe inside the bus, the driver waved, slid back into the driver's seat, turned off the flashing red lights, and drove away in a puff of black smoke.

It all took about five minutes. Five minutes for hard-driving commuters like me to squirm and gripe about the inconvenience. But while driving away, I took another look at the young father as he turned to walk back toward his house. Was that a bit of weariness and strain showing on his face? Did his shoulders seem too slumped for a man his age? What inconveniences does he deal with every day? Would he even call them inconveniences?

If you love people, you do what's in their best interests no matter what. Sometimes it requires sacrificing time and money for countless trips to doctors and physical therapists. It also stirs in caregivers a strange mix of emotions: the guilt when it feels like they're doing too much (or not enough), the loneliness when others don't seem to understand, the frustration as they try to walk the fine line between offering necessary assistance and stealing another person's independence, the pride parents feel over small accomplishments others never notice or applaud.

Caregivers lay down their lives one little piece at a time. What about the woman who cares for her husband as he daily drifts deeper into an Alzheimer's fog? Or the middle-aged couple who try their best to honor their aging parents, only to hear Mom and Dad stubbornly refuse their help and complain to others that their children never come to see them?

What about workers in the helping professions—doctors, nurses, missionaries, counselors, ministers, and others—who need an invitation like the one our Savior gave his disciples long ago, "Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest" (Mark 6:31)? How can we assist those among us who have special needs, while treating them with dignity and respect rather than as "charity cases"?

That's what I thought about as I finished my drive to work.

But mostly I thought about that young father. I wonder how he feels about the people in that long line of cars behind the school bus—the ones who catch a public glimpse of his private pain before they hastily drive away.