I sat on the bus musing out the window as the city flew by. There was always something new to see as I went to and from Turkish class on the short 10-minute ride. Sometimes there was a shouting match between a taxi driver and our bus driver as both tried to claim the same side of the road. Once there was a scream and suddenly a lady was stumbling out of her seat into the aisle, clutching her ear and grimacing as her seatmate shouted at her. Most of us hadn't seen what had caused the old lady to scratch the other lady's head, but we all peered intently and listened to the old lady who continued her rant. The other lady had found another seat next to a rather portly man who cautioned her with a finger to his lip not to reply to the old lady's ravings.
"Maniyac" I heard all around me. A young lady put her hand on the hurt lady's shoulder, asking her if she was okay. One little old lady next to me moved forward with great interest to see what was going on. Even though it was a full bus and an empty seat was usually prized real estate, the seat next to the old lady remained empty. She continued to shout. The bus driver leaned over and, in an equally loud voice, told her to be quiet. She refused to listen, reducing the volume but continuing to mumble to herself.
As we got off the bus, a small crowd huddled around the hurt lady, making sure she was okay. Nobody knew her personally, yet they were concerned. The old lady hobbled off by herself, nearly bent double with age.
On the way home, I sat with my purple winter hat in one hand, the other protectively holding my backpack so it wouldn't fall and inconvenience the other passengers sitting across from me. As the bus neared my stop, I quickly stood up and followed a young lady to the door. Unlike the metro, which allowed a good 30 seconds for people to get on and off, most bus drivers would only open the door as long as they saw movement. The moment there was none, the door closed, at times trapping a stroller or a purse in its clutches. Then there would be a shout from the passengers and the bus driver would open the door again. As I grabbed my backpack and left my seat, my foot stepped on something soft. I was worried I'd stepped on the foot of the man sitting next to me but I had no time to check. I knew I had to be waiting by the door the instant the bus stopped, so I could get off.
I stepped off, the doors closed, and the bus continued on its route. I started to walk in the direction of home, then reached to put on my warm winter hat. It was a chilly 5 degrees and my ears were already getting cold. Except my hands were empty. My hat, at that very moment, was sitting on the floor of the bus that was rapidly getting further and further away.
In that moment I could hear my husband's voice, saying, "You're going to lose that hat one day. You should put it in your backpack." He was right. I'd already dropped it twice in restaurants and each time he had rescued it for me. Except that day he was home sick with the flu and I'd gone to class by myself so he wasn't there to notice when the hat had slipped out of my hands as I'd hurried to get off the bus in time. I was so so sad. I loved that hat. I'd worn it every cold day I'd been in Istanbul. It was in all my pictures. I could probably buy another hat but I didn't want to. I wanted my hat!
Before I knew it, my feet started running. I sent up a quick prayer for God to send traffic and red lights in front of the bus. I knew the bus was headed to two bus stops before reaching the end of the line and starting its route back. If I was quick enough, perhaps I could catch it at the last stop. So I kept running on the side of the road, keeping the bus in view, dodging pedestrians and mini busses randomly disgorging their passengers, praying with each breath that I could catch the bus.
I didn't make it. The traffic wasn't too heavy and the bus didn't wait for long at the bus stops. Quickly rethinking my strategy, I decided to see if I could make it to the bus stop at the end of the line. The bus would have to do a U-turn and usually there were many passengers waiting to get on at that bus stop so perhaps I would have enough time.
I reached the bus stops all out of breath. By this point I'd slowed to a walk as I couldn't run anymore. Quickly scanning the stops, I started to panic when I couldn't see the bus number anywhere. Then I looked to the left and saw the bus heading towards me. As it pulled to a stop in front of a very long line of people, I rushed to the back and banged on the door so the bus driver would open it. He didn't, of course, because everyone had to go in the front door so they could scan their cards. I peered inside and at first saw nothing on the floor. My heart sank. Somebody had taken it. Then I looked up and saw my jaunty purple hat, now seated comfortably on the seat opposite where I'd been sitting.
With great excitement, I rushed to the front door and squeezed my way to the front of the line. A rather unhappy young man let me go in front of him and I quickly told the bus driver "I left my hat on the bus!" while vigorously pantomining putting a hat on my head. He motioned me to go back, opening the middle door so I could get off easily as the hordes continued to pile on behind me. I ran back, grabbed the hat, and waved it madly in the air. He grinned at me from the rearview mirror, giving me a thumbs-up as I hurried off the bus and he closed the door behind me.
A moment later, I was pulling my purple hat onto my head as tears started to form in the corners of my eyes. I hadn't lost my hat after all. I'd taken a chance, refused to accept that it was lost forever, and ran to rescue it. And God had answered my prayer.
I vowed I would take much better care of it from now. "I won't lose you this time!" I said as I began to walk home, the hat keeping my head and ears warm in the frosty air. And as I walked, I thought about how God cares so much more for each of us than I cared for my hat. How He was running to rescue each lost person, who perhaps knew they were lost or not. How He didn't give up and rejoiced greatly when the lost was found. Could I have this same passion for lost souls as I did for my winter hat?
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