Now where am I going to sit? I asked myself as I stepped into a rail car of the commuter train to find that every row was occupied. Weighted down by conference materials and a bag of newly purchased books, I shuddered at the thought of climbing to the upper deck.

Even less appealing was the notion of invading a stranger’s personal space. Choosing the lesser of the two inconveniences (and ignoring the brace on my left knee to protect a torn ligament), I hobbled up the stairs.

To my dismay, I found it more crowded than the level below it. Unsure of what to do, I descended the stairwell and paused at the back of the car to consider my options.

Who should I sit by? I prayed as I studied every passenger.

Not him. I said in protest when my gaze fell upon a man with unruly black hair and heavy stubble on his chin who, despite the heat, was wearing a heavy flannel shirt.

Not my will, but thine be done,  I decided, remembering how well it turned out when God led me to a stranger earlier that morning.

I had gotten off at the wrong train stop without realizing it and asked a woman standing next to me for directions to the local college. The woman turned out to be blind and I felt silly for asking. Thankfully, a man overheard my question and volunteered to help.

 “My name is Bob,” he had told me as he held out his hand. “I work for the state.”

Bob had just gotten off the night shift and, despite my protests, put off sleep for thirty minutes longer to see that I made it to my writer’s conference on time.

Suddenly the train began to move, jolting me back to the present and toward the row where the black-haired man was seated.

“Excuse me,” I asked after I was standing directly beside him. “Is the seat next to you taken?”

“No, no.” he said as he placed what looked like a newspaper carrier bag on his lap to make room for my things.

I settled into my seat and busied myself by sifting through writer’s guidelines and sample magazines I received at the conference.

That’s odd, I said to myself, I have two copies of the same magazine.

As I stared at the extra copy, I felt compelled to offer it to the stranger. He doesn’t want a Christian magazine. I argued, certain my gesture would not be appreciated.

When the urge persisted, I leaned toward the man and asked, “Would you like a magazine?”

“Yes, yes,” he replied enthusiastically as he took it from my hands.

After thumbing through the pages for a few seconds, he reached into his bag and pulled out a flyer.

“A man offered to pay me $5 an hour for putting these on people’s doors,” he explained. “I spent all morning passing them out but the guy disappeared before I could get my money.”

“That must have been very frustrating.” I said, truly sorry for the man’s troubles.

“Three hours I looked for him,” he told me. “Finally, I went to the police to see if there was anything they could do. The policeman took me to the train station but I didn’t have any money to get home. I had to sell my radio for three dollars to pay for a ticket.”

Not wanting the man to go away empty-handed after all he had been through, I reached for my wallet and handed him a twenty dollar bill.

“Thank you so much.” he said, truly grateful for the gift.

“My name is Julie,” I offered as I held out my hand.

“I’m Henry.” he replied after tucking the bill into his shirt pocket.

Henry sat silently for a few moments. Then, almost as if he was hesitant to share what was on his mind, he started to speak.

“I didn’t know how I was going to pay for the bus I have to take after I get off the train.” He said quietly, without looking up. “I just kept saying ‘God help me’ as I walked around all day in the heat.”

I wanted to say something profound but scripture like the words from Luke 11:9 escaped me, as did quotes like the well known reminder that “God’s delays are not His denials.”

Instead I looked him in the eyes and said, “God was listening. He led me to you.”

Henry turned to look out the window and I looked for ways to do more.

“Would you like a granola bar?” I asked as I took one from my purse.

“Yes, thank you.” Henry said as he held out his hand to receive it.

More silence followed as Henry sat motionless and I struggled to hold back my tears.

Why am I so upset? I wondered. How can a person who controls her emotions better than the Hoover Dam holds back water, feel so much compassion for this stranger?

Then I had a thought. What if the person feeling Henry's pain wasn't me at all? What if it was Jesus working through me to reach out to this hurting soul?