Teen Patrol on the Rails

I was in seventh grade the year I earned the privilege of going on the Safety Patrol trip. We were headed to the big leagues—Washington, D.C. and New York City. For a bunch of wide-eyed students from the South, it felt like we were about to take on the whole world. We’d spent months talking about it, imagining the tall monuments, the endless museums, and, of course, the Empire Star Building. None of us even realized it was called the Empire State Building until we were already there—proud as could be, staring up at something way bigger than we were.

Our chaperones worked harder than the Secret Service to keep the boys and girls separated. They tried their best to keep us focused on history, but we had other things on our minds. We weren’t thinking about presidents or soldiers or national heroes. We were thinking about each other. At that age, we didn’t just like people—we fell hopelessly in love twelve times a week. Every smiled glance felt like fate. Every giggle meant something. Our hearts were battlefields of crushes and daydreams.

We weren’t allowed to sit together on the train, so we got creative. When the train cars split, our communication operation began. We passed secret notes over our heads, like tiny paper missiles being launched across enemy lines. Boys stretched their arms into the aisle from one car, girls reached from the other, and somewhere between us was a forbidden love zone. Every time a note landed safely, a wave of suspense rippled through both cars—like someone had just cracked a safe.

One note I’ll never forget arrived folded into a little triangle, edges worn from being handled so many times before it reached me. Inside, in the slanted scrawl only a seventh-grade boy could write, were the words:
“Do you like me? Check yes or no.”

There was no name. But I knew. I recognized the handwriting. Of course I liked him, but I wasn’t about to let the entire train find out. I checked “yes” with the faintest, tiniest mark imaginable—so small it was practically invisible—and folded it back into a mystery. Whether he ever knew for sure, I couldn’t tell you. But the thrill of it was better than any postcard or souvenir I brought home.

The trip lasted four long days. By the third, after hours touring Arlington National Cemetery (and getting lost in it with my old pal, Valerie Arnold), and walking through monuments older than our grandparents, we were worn out but exhilarated. We’d been sitting on that train so long our feet swelled inside our shoes. Every time we stepped off at a stop, it felt like we were still swaying—our bodies convinced we were still on the rails. It was like the whole world was shifting beneath us, rocking and rolling to some rhythm we couldn’t escape.

When I think back on that trip now, I remember the history, yes. I remember the grandeur of places I never dreamed I’d see at that age. But more than anything, I remember the flutter in my stomach each time a note landed in my hand. I remember that feeling of being thirteen—caught somewhere between childhood and the rest of my life—where everything seemed new, exciting, and full of possibility.

And where circling “yes” on a tiny piece of paper felt like the biggest adventure of all.

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the simple joys You tucked into the corners of our youth—moments so small we didn’t recognize their value until years later.

Thank You for childhood bravery, for nervous giggles, for friendships just beginning to blossom, and for hearts learning how to feel.

Help us treasure the innocence of those days and see how You were with us, even when all we cared about was passing notes on a train.

Remind us that every memory, whether big or small, is part of the beautiful story You’ve written for our lives. Amen.