CHINA MOON Part I was posted yesterday.

The static view out the window, constant drone of the diesel engine and overall boredom lulled him into a near sleep state, but the heat kept him from giving in.  The Stockton Telegram-Dispatch finished, the only thing left to read in his old leather satchel was a stack of technical data he wrote himself.  It was packed, should it be needed in the interview process, but boring to read, even if he hadn’t authored it.  Beside him, the nun continued with her beads and her book of prayers, apparently immune from the heat and boredom.

“So what do you do for a living?” He asked.  Breaking his own rule, he attempted to engage her in conversation.  He thought humor might be the best way to proceed.

She wasn’t startled, having felt like the passenger beside her preferred to not be engaged in small talk, she’d simply not made the effort.  She looked up and gave him a slight smile, the best response she could muster to what she assumed was a joke meant to start a conversation.

“I’m Dutton,” he said, extending his hand.

In one fluid move she slipped the rosary into one of the folds of her robe, closed the prayer book, and accepted his outreached hand and squeezed it with her own.  He was surprised at the firmness of the grip.  The ice, if it was possible for any to exist in the godforsaken heat, had been broken.  “Sister Mary Agnes.”

“We have a Sister Thelma in Fort Stockton,” Dutton said.  “She’s pure gold.  Know her?”

Again the same sweet smile broke out on her face, as though it wasn’t the first time she’d encountered that type question.  “Well, there are more of us than you think.  We don’t all know each other.  Are you heading all the way to Houston?”

“Yep.  Job interview,” Dutton said.  “You?”

“Yes.  Job related, as well.  Stopping off point in the journey,” she said.

And in the hours that followed, they each proceeded to share their story.  He explained that he had been invited to apply for a brand new government initiative that had only recently been announced.  He was hopeful to get in on the ground floor of NASA.  “That stands for National Air and Space Administration.  Space in the next frontier.  Maybe the last one.  It’ll be a race with the Russians to see who dominates.  That could determine how life here on Earth looks for the next several generations.”

She could tell he took pride in the possibility of being a part of something so cutting edge.  So important.  Without him ever saying a word about his education or degrees or class standings, she recognized he was a man of knowledge.  He wouldn’t have been asked to apply for something so technically advanced.  Yet, he seemed very personable.  The type of man she’d have dated when in college, before she dedicated her life to the service Christ.

They talked about the varying Texas scenery passing by the open windows of the Scenciruiser for a few minutes.  He was unsure just how much he should ask her about her destination or personal life.  He wasn’t sure how such things worked.  It wasn’t like it was with Sister Thelma.  Everyone grew up with her and had known her before she became a nun, so there was no mystery.  “So what exactly do you gals do?” He asked her in an awkward way.

“We’ll, we generally are divided into two types of groups.  The cloistered sisters spend their days in prayer.  The vocational sisters spend their days in service.  I’m in the latter group.  I’ve been teaching high school English at a parochial school in California.  The year just ended and I’m heading off to another form of service for the next year or two.”

With a doctorate in English himself, her vocation hit a nerve that spiked the conversation and kept it going another two hours.  “If I’m accepted for the position with NASA, I’d be writing technical briefs and manuals, attempting to put technical jargon in plain English for teams of astronauts going into space.”

She smiled and seemed to be truly interested.  “What’s your favorite book, then?” she asked, figuring it would be interesting to hear.

He hesitated for a moment before providing an answer, but then figured there was nothing to lose.  A Good Man Is Hard To Find, he said.  “By Flanery O’Conner.”  The look of shock registered on her face told him he should have probably made up a different answer.

“What are the odds?” She asked.  “That’s my favorite as well.”  The look on his face equaled the one on hers as far as shock.  A dark gothic story about a family traveling through the South who ends up being murdered by an escaped convict calling himself The Misfit, hardly seemed like the book a woman of God would find appealing.  It sparked a discussion on what aspects they each found intriguing and exactly what O’Connor was trying to say to the reader.

“So what are you doing in Houston.” He asked.  “Taking over teaching English to a new group of unworthy gulf coast youth?”

“Actually only spending the night,” she said.  “I’ll be getting on a ship tomorrow and heading for China.”

“A slow boat to China,” he said slowly, a look of puzzlement on his face.  “Whatever for?”

She slipped her hand back into the folds of her robe and felt the smoothness of the beads between the tips of her thumb and forefinger.  “There’s a famine that has recently broken out.  Experts fear it could have long term effects on the entire nation.  They worry 30 million people may fall victim to it.  I feel I’ve been called to help in any way I can.”

Dutton leaned back in the big comfortable chair of the Scenicruiser and thought about the magnitude of such a commitment.  The thought of it was as stifling as the heat, though he hadn’t noticed the heat as much since they’d engaged in conversation.  It’d taken him a while to adjust to the thought of moving to Houston, should the job interview go well.  It was hot and muggy and crowded and nothing like Fort Stockton.  But it was still in Texas.  He still understood the language, though the folks in Houston seemed to have their own Gulf Coast drawl.

He thought about her getting on a boat to China.  Not knowing the language.  Not having a clear vision of just what her purpose would be.  Not knowing if she’d be able to eat, or make it back.  To go from teaching California kids the value of literature to try to save a country from starvation.  They fell into a silence for the first time since the ice had been broken.  She could tell that he was in thought and suspected it might have something to do with what each of them would be undertaking in Houston, once the bus pulled into the depot and spilled them each out into the humidity and uncertainty of their futures.

“We’re both called upon to serve mankind,” she said.  “Just in different ways.  I’m starting a journey that takes me to the other side of the world trying to help mankind.  You’re starting on one to a whole different celestial body to take mankind into the future that is uncertain and sure to be difficult.  It won’t be easy for either of us, but God never said it was supposed to be.”

He reflected on her words.  He’d never thought of it as a “calling”.  Never measured it in terms of ‘all mankind’.  He thought about the entire journey to Houston and hoped for the right outcome from the interview in completely different terms.

The huge bus pulled into the depot as he continued to contemplate the significance of the trip, as well as the passenger sitting next to him.  As the lumbering aluminum marvel of modern travel came to a stop, the Sister pulled out a small black leather coin purse, reached in, and pulled out a very small medallion.  It featured the patron Saint of the order she served.  She opened Dutton’s hand and pressed the charm into it, closing his fingers around it.  “Keep this,” she said.  “As a reminder, or as an inspiration.  However you wish to use it.”

He opened his hand and looked at the small silver token.  “I don’t have anything to give you,” he said.

“You don’t have anything I need, but thank you for the thought,” she replied.  “But I would covet your prayers.”

Dutton let her go out first, then picked up his leather satchel and headed down the steps of the bus to gather his two-suiter. When he turned back around she was gone.  He was forever grateful he hadn’t driven his Buick convertible, but had taken the Scenicruiser instead.