By Joyce Vissell
In the spring of 1966, as a naïve, energetic 19-year-old woman, I placed my life in extreme danger without even the faintest idea of what I was doing.
Strong-willed and stubborn, I was used to setting my will to achieve a goal and pushing aside every barrier that came my way.
In my sophomore year at Hartwick College, I decided I needed to get a specialty education so that I could begin working at a good job as soon as I finished college. I chose nursing and selected Columbia University in New York City. I could graduate with an RN and BS.
And yes, there was another reason for leaving Hartwick. I just couldn’t see a way to make my relationship with Barry really work. Our religious difference seemed too big at the time.
Saying a tearful good-bye to Barry, I left the security of small-town Oneonta and traveled to New York City for an admittance interview. I had never been to the Big Apple and didn’t know what to expect. I set my will, braved buses and subways and arrived at the school in the afternoon.
The interview the next day went well, and I decided this was the next step I would take in my life. I would transfer to Columbia Presbyterian Nursing School in the fall. That night, I became homesick for all that was familiar, especially Barry.
I looked at the bus and subway schedules and realized if I left the dorm at 3:30am, I could catch a 5:00am bus out of Grand Central Station and be back with Barry by 10:00am. After that, the next available bus to Oneonta would arrive in the evening.
I set my will; I was getting on that earlier bus. I got up at 3:00am, quickly packed and quietly crept down to the front entrance of the dorm. The way was barred by a big security guard who was sound asleep in a chair immediately in front of the door.
He woke with a start as I tried to exit, took a moment to focus his eyes on me, and finally said gruffly, “Where do you think you’re going, young lady?”
I politely explained my plans to him, “I’m taking a subway to Harlem, then I’ll transfer and take a subway to Grand Central.” A look of alarm came across his face. “I can’t let you out of these doors!” was his urgent reply. “You’re risking your life going to Harlem in the middle of the night!”
“You can’t stop me!” was my stubborn reply. “I’m a guest here, not a student.”
I stood there resolute, completely ignorant of my foolish plan.
To my surprise, his eyes filled with tears as he looked at me and said, “I’m afraid for your life. Please let me say a prayer for you.”
He took my hands and said a fervent prayer for my protection.
My will was so set, however, that I hardly heard his prayer.
I pushed open the door and set out into the night. The early morning air was cool and I zipped my coat up higher. I got on the subway at 168th Street and got off at Harlem. As soon as I exited the train and stepped onto the litter-strewn platform, the enormity of my mistake hit me.
With growing panic, I looked around as the train sped away and saw that I was alone. There were no police. I later learned that the situation in Harlem in the mid-60s was so dangerous that no policeman would take the subway night shift in the section I was in.
I had put myself in a definitely dangerous situation.
A nearby group of young men turned around to gawk at me, obviously taken aback by the audacity — or maybe they felt insanity — of this young woman who had just entered their dark world.
One man pointed at me, said something to the others, then they all stood up. For a moment, I thought it was all over. They would come after me, a helpless girl. To my horror, I realized that my own will power was not going to be enough for this nightmare. I stood frozen with fear, my legs suddenly feeling unsteady beneath me.
My mother’s words came to me, “When you’re afraid, just repeat the 23rd Psalm and it will give you courage.”
In a quiet but urgent voice, I began, “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want …”
As I spoke this prayer, which the young men could probably hear, I noticed the one man, obviously the leader, suddenly look nervous, glancing around quickly, almost as if he was afraid of something or someone. He turned to his group, said something seemingly urgent, and they all turned and briskly walked away.
It was as if I represented something more powerful than I looked.
I took that as my cue to start walking, shakily at first, but then gaining strength and purpose. I walked past a pair of drunken men, swaying back and forth passing a bottle between them. As if that wasn’t enough, I even noticed a young man sitting on a bench injecting something into his arm.
I repeated these soothing words as I walked past a group of men with knives in their hands, past rowdy drunks who stumbled across my path, and past a desperate-looking man shaking so violently he could barely stand.
A wine bottle was thrown at me, but fell short, smashing into pieces on the hard, cold subway floor. Terrified, I pretended not to notice this attack.
Two rough-looking men approached me with sticks, or clubs, in their hands. They got within five feet of me, then suddenly stopped and backed off. Although I was still scared, I felt as if I had an invisible wall of protective light around me.
As if in response to the men with sticks, I repeated, “Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me …” as I climbed stairs filled with the stench of urine. At the top of the stairs, a young man almost knocked me over as he ran past, trying to get away from a second man who was pursuing him.
I crossed platforms and, while I waited for the next train, I continued to feel that invisible shield of protection around me, a loving good Shepherd that was bringing me back to safety.
The train finally came, the doors opened, and I rushed in. There were a few conservative-looking business men on the train, absorbed in their newspapers. The doors closed and we left that desolate world behind us.
As the train accelerated, I felt the full impact of what had just happened to me. I could no longer hold back the tears and they flowed down my face. None of the men seemed to notice, but it didn’t matter.
Something had changed within me. I knew I could never go back to my old way of being. Asking for God’s protection and guidance in any situation had become more important than setting my own will. I had learned to trust in God’s protection and plan for me as the most important priority in my life. On that dark and gloomy subway on an early spring morning, God, the infinite presence of love, had become primary rather than secondary in my life.
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Joyce & Barry Vissell, a nurse/therapist and psychiatrist couple since 1964, are counselors in Aptos who are passionate about conscious relationship and personal-spiritual growth. They are the authors of 10 books and a free audio album of sacred songs and chants. Visit their web site at SharedHeart.org.
