Be Thou My Vision

Rayla smelled rain and sensed the sinking temperatures through her threadbare polyester sweater. The wind was shifting, and it felt like a storm was coming on.

Best find shelter indoors tonight.

Rayla wasn’t interested in staying at an official shelter. She didn’t consider herself to be homeless, exactly. She was a nomad, an adventurer, technically unhoused at the moment, but mostly by choice, or so she told herself. Besides, the shelters had bedbug and lice problems and men with wandering eyes and hands. She’d rather take her chances on the streets.

Surreptitiously sticking her hand under her sweater and pulling a wad of cash from her dirty sports bra, Rayla began to count the money she’d made over the past week from busking in the local parks. Her voice and her talent with her grandfather’s old dulcimer were simply magical. Rayla was often compared to a young Joni Mitchell, earnest, folksy, and angel voiced. Passers-by couldn’t resist stopping for a listen and dropping some cash into her case. It was never enough to fulfill all her dreams, but enough to keep her fed and sometimes provide for other needs.

Forty-nine dollars and thirty-seven scents. An ok week, but not enough to rent a hotel room without blowing through all the cash.

Rayla carefully replaced her money, grabbed her dulcimer and her bag of meager possessions, stuffed her hands in her pockets, and started walking. Walking helped her both to think and stay warm. Turning down Main Street, she spotted the 24/7 Coin Laundry, open, true to its name, all night, with industrial strength machines that kept the place at a lovely tropical temperature all year round. She had enough cash to wash her few outfits, which would keep the attendant from throwing her out. The laundromat also had a snack machine that would be perfect for dinner.

Good budgeting! Shelter, dinner, and clean laundry for maybe ten dollars? Sweet.

The decision settled, Rayla pushed through the door of the laundromat, the bell jingle-jangling to announce her arrival. The attendant, a tired-looking mid-forties woman with strands of salt and pepper hair falling from her bun and winkles around her eyes, was up to her eyeballs with strangers’ laundry, and clearly had no time to be helpful.

She glanced up briefly at Rayla as she folded and drawled out in a slightly accented, disinterested manner, “Help yourself, hon.”

  Rayla nodded and looked around. No other customers were in the establishment. The laundromat owner had attempted, unsuccessfully, to create a feeling of warmth and cleanliness with ecru-colored walls and faux-stone vinyl flooring. Hard, off-white plastic chairs in rows of three were scattered throughout the room, many sitting at the end of the waist-high wooden self-help folding tables in the middle of the room. The folding tables were covered with a faux-marble laminate, meant to handle wet clothes as well as giving a smooth, snag-free surface for folding. Next to each table were one or two metal carts with wire bins at the bottom for folded clothes and tall metal racks at the top for hanging items. Most of the carts had broken, stuck, or squeaky wheels. Each wall had a line of silver front-loading industrial strength machines, both washers and dryers, of all sizes. Helpfully, each machine took cash, credit, or debit.

  In the back of the room, breaking up the line of laundry machines, stood a vending machine with off-brand sodas, snacks, and individual packs of laundry detergent for purchase. Next to the vending machine, sat a couple of casino-style gaming machines for customers to pass the time and spend more money. Rayla ignored the video slots and headed to the unisex bathroom in the far back corner of the room to change into her last clean outfit so that she could wash her clothes. The bathroom, like the rest of the laundromat, was dirty and beige.

 I’ve seen worse. Hell, I’ve slept in worse.

Rayla found a stall with a door that locked and a dry floor and carefully rummaged through her bag. She fished out a pair of basketball shorts and an oversized tee shirt she had found in a donation bin and gave them a good sniff. Deciding that they smelled pleasant enough, Rayla carefully slipped out of the only underthings and socks she owned and placed them in her bag to be washed. Quickly pulling on the sportswear, Rayla shoved her bare feet back in her tennis shoes and headed out into the main room to do her laundry.

 Four dollars a wash, and one dollar a dry? And the detergent is three bucks as well! What’s with these new prices?

  Rayla scowled at the pricing as she purchased her detergent and started her tiny load. Not wanting to cause any trouble with the attendant, she kept her feelings on it to herself. Rayla grabbed her bag and dulcimer and headed to the vending machine.

Two dollars for a soda and a dollar fifty for a probably stale bag of chips. Honestly. What is this, the Ritz Carlton?

Rayla used to dream about playing at the Hotel Café in Hollywood and making it big enough to stay at fancy places like the Ritz. Dreams crash hard on the rocky shores of California. She rarely dreamt anymore. Sleep deep enough for dreams wasn’t safe. When she did, it was usually about a warm bed and real food. Rayla reluctantly surrendered her cash for a soda and a pathetic looking bag of chips.

At least my stomach will be satisfied.

Returning to a seat across from her chosen machine, Rayla sat to eat dinner and wait for her clothes to finish. It was starting to pour outside. The crash of thunder over the swishing and thumping of the washing machines and the roar of the dryers made it difficult to think. Underneath it all was the buzz of the fluorescent lights which lit the room in a sterile, artificial manner. Rayla ate her chips absentmindedly, studying the room. On the wall above the vending machine was some lettering, a poem perhaps or a saying. Curious, Rayla finished her chips, wiped her hands on her shorts, and walked closer to read it.

JESUS

The greatest Lover

The greatest degree

The greatest company

The greatest act

The greatest gift

The greatest opportunity

The greatest simplicity

The greatest attraction

The greatest promise

The greatest difference

The greatest certainty

The greatest possession

      Rayla had seen and heard a lot of religious nonsense as an “unhoused individual”, but this was a new level of strange. Why here, in a laundromat? And what a clunky way to say it. Although she didn’t believe in any of it anymore, the religious poetry of the old hymns could be beautiful. Religious ecstasy, like love, produced great art. “Be Thou My Vision”, for example, with its roots in ancient Irish poetry, was one of her favorites. Combined with the Irish folk melody, the song was absolutely captivating when played on her dulcimer. It was one of her best crowd-gatherers. This, whatever it was, was not great.

    Forgetting Jesus for a moment, Rayla went to check on her clothes. After changing her clothes over to the dryer, Rayla went to the bathroom to clean herself up. The attendant was still preoccupied with her “wash and fold” orders and seemed to have forgotten that Rayla was even there. Rayla was excellent at being quiet when she needed to be. Forcing her head under the faucet in the sink, Rayla wet her hair down for the first time in months. Filling her hands with hand soap from the dispenser, she washed her hair. It smelled vaguely like cucumbers, but Rayla was in no position to be choosy. Her scalp rejoiced at the scrubbing and the rinsing away of the soap and dirt. In the bottom of her bag was a prized possession – a child-sized hairbrush. Rayla dragged the brush through her wet hair and grimaced at every tangle. Eventually, her hair was passable enough. A quick scrub of her pits and face would complete the job.

    Upon returning to the main room, Rayla realized that only ten more minutes were left on the dryer for her clothes. She looked around for a place where she could snuggle up for the night to sleep and found a small space between the line of dryers and the vending machine, just out of view of the busy attendant. The space was just wide enough for Rayla to squeeze inside with her bag, and if she put her dulcimer case in front as a sort of shield, no one would realize she was there. She might be able to catch a few fitful hours of sleep that way if she was lucky.

    Rayla pulled her clothes from the dryer before it beeped, to prevent alerting the attendant, and returned to the bathroom to put her underthings and socks back on. To avoid being tossed out into the cold in her shorts if she were caught, Rayla decided to change back into her long pants and sweater as well. Warm, relatively clean, and fed, Rayla headed quietly to her nook beside the vending machine to wait out the night. The attendant was on the phone and never even looked up.

     Warm and safe in her nook, hidden between a dryer and the vending machine and behind her dulcimer case and one of the old laundry carts, Rayla tried to go to sleep. Some part of her brain was always wired for awareness. She thought about the crazy poem again and wondered why the owner of the laundromat thought a wall display was the best way to “save” people, to use the religious lingo. Rayla thought maybe not gouging prices on services and food would be better, but Rayla was a musician, not a theologian.

             Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart

          Naught be all else to me save that thou art

          Thou my best thought by day and by night

          Waking or sleeping, thy presence my light

     Rayla hummed the beautiful hymn to herself, a sort of lullaby.

What visions, both beautiful and terrible, hath the “Lord” wrought. Achingly beautiful art and plans for genocide. Humans that see the suffering of others, and humans that cause it. All in the name of God. I don’t understand it.

Rayla drifted off to an uneasy sleep, Celtic folk music wafting through her brain and visions from her religious past troubling her dreams.

Suddenly, angry voices jolted her awake. Unsure how much time had passed, or if it was morning, Rayla listened cautiously, careful not to reveal herself. An unknown man and the attendant who greeted her earlier were cursing at one another. Inebriated and very aggressive, the man was demanding his laundry order or a complete refund immediately.

“Sir, it’s 4 a.m. I told you on the phone that your order would be ready tomorrow at 4 PM, as in the AFTERNOON .”  

At this, the man began shouting incoherently. He wanted his clothes, by God, and he wanted them now. The more he spoke, the more Rayla thought she recognized his voice.

Is that the guy from the Mission, one of the pastors? Yes, I’m certain of it!

Acting exceedingly unpastoral, the man began grabbing items off the counters and throwing them around the laundromat. A stack of freshly laundered clothes landed on Rayla’s head. A squeaky cart slammed into the vending machine. With a hint of fear in her voice, the attendant shrilly demanded that he leave immediately or she would call the authorities.

“Hell no. I want my clothes, bitch.”

Rayla heard the attendant frantically dial the phone and beg for the police to come. A guttural roar erupted from somewhere near the center of the room. Rayla heard heavy footsteps rush towards the attendant’s station, the attendant scream “he has a knife”, and the sounds of a scuffle. Then, she heard the attendant grunt and gasp for air, the phone fall to the floor, and footsteps retreat towards the door. The bell jingled, unnaturally cheerful, as the man left the building.

Carefully peering out of her hiding place, Rayla made sure that the man was gone. After locking the front door, she rushed to the attendant’s station to try to help. The attendant had been stabbed in the stomach. Picking up a sheet from the pile of laundry on the floor, Rayla wrapped it around the woman to staunch the bleeding. She found the phone on the floor, which, remarkably, was still connected to 911.

“Hello, hello, are you still there?

“Yes, hello?”

“Who is this?

“I’m a customer of the laundromat. My name is Rayla.”

“Did you see what happened?”

“I didn’t see it, but I heard it. A male customer, who I believe to be a pastor at the Mission, stabbed the attendant in the stomach. I recognized his voice.”

“Is that the woman who called in originally?

“Yes, I’ve tried to staunch the bleeding with a sheet. Are police and EMTs on the way?”

“Yes, they should be there within minutes.”

“Great. I’ve locked the front door because I didn’t want the man to return.”

“I will let them know. Please stay on the line until they arrive.”

Rayla learned that the attendant’s name was Yumi. A Japanese woman living in the United States for twenty years, Yumi was a mother of two working double shifts at the laundry to put her children through college. The medics told Rayla that her quick actions probably saved Yumi’s life. The police found the pastor in a dive bar around the corner from the laundromat. He was still covered in Yumi’s blood, pounding whiskeys like the world was ending.

Leaving the laundromat at dawn with her dulcimer and her bag of clothes to head to the precinct to give her statement, Rayla thought back to the hymn.

Be thou my wisdom, and thou my true word

I ever with thee and thou with me, Lord

Thou my great father, I thy dear child

Thou in me dwelling, with thee reconciled

 Rayla wasn’t sure about any great godly Father living in people, but perhaps, as some have speculated, there is a universal wisdom or godliness that connects people if they are willing to be open to it – a certain compassion, selflessness, and vision to really see every human being that crosses one’s path. 

 The wind blew cold, and Rayla shivered. The sergeant driving her to the precinct reached into the trunk of his patrol car and grabbed a lightly used winter coat.

“Here, take this. It’s going to be a cold one.”

  Rayla smiled and took the coat, a nice waterproof hooded number.

  “Thank you.”

  The sun broke through the clouds remaining from last night’s storms, a beautiful clear light in the morning sky.