Chain reactions

I love Brooklyn. I hate Brooklyn. I love Brooklyn. I hate Brooklyn. (Sung to the children’s game of the plucking of the petals of an oxeye daisy.)

When I first arrived in Brooklyn to baby-sit my granddaughter, I fell in love with it: the energy, the ghosts of the Dodgers, the brownstones, the eau-de-subway smell. And most of all the friendliness of the natives.

Day 1 started off so well we both knew it was from God and not ourselves. For instance, we got hold of super vouchers to the American Museum of Natural History, entitling us to two extra attractions. Afterward, at the crowded Shake Shack directly across the street from it, against all probability we snagged a table for two. N. said that was from God too, and I agreed.

When N. and I missed our Metro stop returning from the museum, due to the mildly perverse existence of two Fulton streets, one in lower Manhattan and one in northern Brooklyn, an agreeable young man told us where to get off, which prompted N. to comment that he might have been an angel. She revised her opinion by 180 degrees when it turned out he was wrong, but we finally arrived at the apartment with no loss to life or limb, and with insider’s knowledge of the Fulton issue.

The second day we headed for Coney Island, thanking God for the magnificent weather. On the way back, my GPS decided not to work, so we were lost for a while. But N. pointed out, quite rightly, that sometimes when people get lost it is because God is protecting them from some danger they could not foresee down the road. We eventually attained northern Brooklyn by another route and all was well.

Next day my bright little companion and I decided to take in all the little shops on Court Street, and blessed God for a great parking place. See how He is in the details of our lives, we thought. There happened to be a woman smoking in the doorway of a store who told us where to find a downstairs discount place where we picked up two T-shirts for two dollars for our puppet sewing project. Praise God again.

It was N. who spotted it on my windshield when we approached the car: a parking ticket for $60. With little comment, we were off again to a department store to pick up a few things I noticed my daughter’s pad could use, as well as some fun cheeses and drinks to stock the fridge for her return. On arriving home with parcels, I pulled into the McDonald’s lot adjacent to the apartment building, and ran my granddaughter and the shopping bags up the stairway to the second floor, then ran back down to repark somewhere.

In that approximately seven-minutes’ time, the front end of my Mazda was already attached to the jaws of a tow truck crane in a most humiliating angle to the ground. I forgot my dignity and pleaded with the poker-faced driver, then with his dispatcher, then with the manager of the McDonald’s grounds, before giving up $136 for the right to get my vehicle back.

The salient point of the story is this: When one is a stranger in a strange town, and one’s vacation turns into a scene from The Out of Towners, one is tempted to pure hatred of everything and everyone concerning said town. But very soon I realized an interesting truth. Hatred is not automatic: One has a certain say over one’s feelings and reactions. In the final analysis, we choose to love or hate a thing or place.

I thought about Paul the apostle, a man beat up all around the rim of the Mediterranean. Did Paul hate Philippi after they threw him in jail? Did he sour on Corinth when they disrespected him, preferring the smooth imposters? Evidently not; his letters drip with affection.

The other salient point of my story is this: No one ever lives long enough to see the end of chain reactions. Museum vouchers, seats at Shake Shack, missed exits on the Metro, traffic tickets, and towing will all work for the good of those who love Him; that is a promise. But not necessarily so as you can see it at the moment.

Email aseupeterson@wng.org