Newsletter from Jay Wilcox - November 2022: On Sainthood

Good morning/afternoon/evening!

Hannah and I overslept on the bus to the Laotian border. This was during our backpacking trip in the summer of 2018. The sleeper buses were lined with bunkbeds, and we awoke that morning to an empty cabin, the immediate realization that something was wrong. Outside, the brakes of the connecting bus squealed, the crew calling to each other in hurried Vietnamese—and soon a young man appeared at the head of our bus, glaring down the aisle at us. He barked something in his native language.

I furiously gathered my things. “Luang Prabang?” I called—the name of our destination in Laos. You know, to confirm we were still heading in the right direction.

This guy was frothing mad. I mean that literally—I remember his mouth. “Luang Prabang!” He wasn’t just annoyed. He hated us. This was probably the angriest I’ve ever seen someone in real life. His hand whipped the air, hurrying us up.

“We’re coming!” Of course, my backpack strap snagged the seat. “We’re coming!”

He shouted over me. He shouted at Hannah.

As if to compensate for him, his fellow crewmembers were extra friendly, helping us onto the next bus, making sure our bags were tucked just so between the seats. They patted our backs and tried to joke across the language barrier and then waved goodbye with smiles. Angry Bus Man clearly inspires the best in people.

I think about those who drive with saint figurines on their dashboard, statues of those who suffered and died. What sort of pain must have filled this man's life? Hannah and I still talk about him--and if he's not a saint, then maybe he is a talisman. Every human interaction since that morning has been pleasant, relatively speaking. Look, if Saint Christopher is the patron saint of travelers, then Angry Bus Man is the patron saint of Surviving Someone Being Really Mad at You.

In all seriousness, I do think about this man's suffering. The night before our arrival at the border, he stayed up smoking drugs from what looked like a giant bong. I remember him picking fights with other passengers, snarling in the dark depths of the bus, throwing bags. His very breathing sounded like rage--and if a person's that angry to begin with, how much responsibility can I really take? I contend that a certain sainthood comes less from one's goodness and more from their example, their service as a reminder of some virtue. I don't know this man's life. Perhaps he can be my patron saint of Not Taking Things Too Personally. I so often find myself taking ownership of other people's anger, and in such moments, I remember this person.

I'm grateful for every part of what I have, and I thank you for reading. I hope you've been well.

Infinite Regards,

Jay