Here in the Midwest we have a pace called slow motion. New Yorkers flat moooove; it’s called, “Get out of the way!”
We chute cattle into semi trucks. New Yorkers chute people into subway cars or ferries. People are so squashed and compacted that you can see their intestines if you chose to. Train safety, weight limits or personal space do not apply in the New Yorker’s rule book of transportation.
Before I even stepped foot onto New York soil, I was given a list of thou shall nots. It included: do not speak to a New Yorker, do not look at them, do not take their picture . . . I broke all the rules plus some. I prayed for angels to guard me constantly.
The good news is the Lord provided nine angels whom I accompanied to keep watch over me and a few dozen spiritual ones. The whole trip I heard, “Dei, watch out for the car! Dei, hurry. Dei, get behind the rope. Dei, watch out for the door.”
I did not chute well. I wanted to see everything. I wanted to take photographs. I wanted to talk to the nice New Yorkers and did. I kept moving at my own pace — a dangerous concept in New York.
Psalm 91:9 Because you have made the Lord your dwelling place — the Most High, who is my refuge—
10 no evil shall be allowed to befall you, no plague come near your tent.
11 For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.
12 On their hands they will bear you up, lest you strike your foot against a stone.