Bag of Bones

“And He said to me, ‘Son of man, can these bones live?’ So I answered, ‘O Lord God, You know.’” Ezekiel 37:3 

As usual, my thoughts have strayed into the past after reading a few chapters in my Bible. While adrift in deep contemplation, I couldn’t help but recall the nickname I had as a child. At the time, I didn’t know what it meant.

My grandfather used this name just for me when I was under his care. With his deep West Indian drawl, it sounded like one word, but I guess it was actually two, or maybe three. ‘Baggabones!’ he would shout as he lifted me off the ground and tossed me into the air, to my great delight. It was his regular term of endearment for a skinny little grandson from the other side of the train tracks. A side that few dared cross. 

On these twisted tracks rode the rusting battle-worn subway trains of the inner city. They were ancient steel monoliths that captured the undivided attention of a dysfunctional youth. From my perspective, these mechanical monstrosities served only two main purposes in life. One was transportation, and the other was a form of youthful expression. A beautification. A philanthropic endeavor of the most colorful kind. 

And with the light of the moon as my backdrop, each railcar became my mobile canvas. A platform of artistic exuberance for both me and the other hoodlums I associated with. I could express things with spray paint that I dared not share with those around me for fear of prison, or at the very least, a permanent internment by an overly protective mother. My boyish loves, hates, joys, and passions were all placed on display, and I could share it with the world from behind the dark mask of anonymity. 

Within our rabid pack of juvenile delinquents, we knew each other’s ‘tags’ as these trains rattled through the Bronx and the other four boroughs. But no one but rival gang members knew who we were. Each subway train was a clitter-clattering presentation of our reckless emotions, displayed in all its magnificent glory. It was a thing of pride and beauty. It was our internet of the time, long before the Internet existed. A colorful communications network for kids without prospects and hooligans without a home. Some artisans had reputations that spanned the five boroughs. They were legendary in our eyes. All of us sought similar respect and title, but self-worth was an elusive goal. Much like a religion, it was sacrilege to paint over someone’s tag. When it happened, we went looking for the criminals—and found trouble, instead.

Night after night, and always past midnight, we squeezed through small openings in wired fences and entered one of many silent train yards. While tucked within a sanctuary of concrete and steel, with the distant noise of barking dogs and the tingle of adrenaline as a soulmate, the mascot of my insecurities evolved. A comical and notorious devil; a Tasmanian Devil painted on the side of a railcar. The most reckless and fictitious cartoon character a delinquent little mind could imagine became my friend. A childish parody with a cross-bones pirate cap, an eye patch, and a little saber. It was my mark of immaturity.

“Again He said to me, ‘Prophesy to these bones, and say to them, “O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord!”’” Ezekiel 37:4

But as time would have it, and with the persistent motivations of a relentless mom who at times was more ruthless than the gang members I roamed with, I drifted from such things and followed a dream I had read in a library book. Later, graduating from flight school (which I considered the first genuine achievement of my life), I placed that devilish token on my aircraft for charter. A small comical sticker attached just beneath the co-pilot’s window of our company’s King Air 200. It was against regulations, but after a bit of convincing, the crew chief let it slide. Most incessant was that little devil that followed me from the colorful subways of New York City to a First Officer slot flying out of Van Nuys, California. But he had grown smaller as I grew larger, because now, in my heart, all things were possible, and I was no longer restrained by my trains.

“So I prophesied as He commanded me, and breath came into them, and they lived, and stood upon their feet, an exceedingly great army.” Ezekiel 37:10

Today, with most of the ride behind me, I can still hear the clitter-clatter of the wheels, the rails, and the ties. Unabated, the rumble of the ballasts and rail fasteners echo through time as my locomotive’s whistle leads the way. Over thousands of miles and many crossings of well-laid tracks, God has provided my means and my ways. Somewhere in the distant past, that sneaky little devil was left far behind. A peeling sticker on a rusting derelict, perhaps. A derelict whose wings have been eternally clipped, as it lays in a parched desert boneyard. But today, I still remember that totem that rode the rails of New York City through each gloomy night. I see it in the eyes of so many young adults. I want to help them, but there is only one answer I can provide.

He is The Conductor, and His name is Jesus.