Station of Faith at 30th Street – Hillary Moses Mohaupt
For several years I passed through 30th Street Station in Philadelphia every day on my way to work. The jobs changed, but the transfer through 30th Street remained.
Each morning I’d wait at my local station, huddled in the gray dawn with other commuters and we’d confer about that morning’s delay – Amtrak coming through on the lines they owned, or a downed tree, or wet leaves on the rails. Eventually, we’d board our train, which sometimes came on time, and we’d ride into the sunrise toward Center City. At 30th Street Station, Philadelphia’s major train station, I’d step off onto the platform, descend into the underbelly of the regional rail wing of the station to switch platforms, to wait for my next train to work, and I’d people-watch.
In 2013 more than four million people passed through 30th Street Station, which serves Amtrak and the regional rail and connects to the subway and regional buses. As I waited for my train, I’d listen for the familiar voice of one particular announcer for the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority, calling out arriving trains and clarifying delays or track changes in an even, unflappable tone. Waiting on my platform, I’d look across the tracks at the other people waiting for trains to suburbs, the airport, New Jersey: couples lugging wide suitcases, women corralling two or three children, locals helping tourists decipher the schedule, reassuring them that they were on the right platform. Over time I came to recognize some of those faces, which became a marker of my own safety and security, a confirmation that I was in the right place, that my train hadn’t come yet, that everything was still on schedule, or, at least, that we were in this together.
In the winter, blustery Pennsylvanian winds howl through the open-air platforms and commuters gather just inside the doors to the stairs, where the warm air of the station lingers. The knot of humanity would twist and unfurl whenever trains pulled into the station and people pulled away to climb on. We’d dribble down the steps to make room for those just coming in and we’d watch each other read, nibble on soft Philly pretzels or half-stale Dunkin Donuts, and grumble together about the delays, repeating back the announcements SEPTA workers made to compensate for defective electronic signs, power failures, or wet leaves on the rails.
But some days, when I missed an early train and had to wait an extra thirty minutes for the next one, I’d wander into the underbelly, meander down the ramp into the main hall of the station, and stand under the high ceiling and listen to the Amtrak announcer calling out trains to Boston, DC, Chicago, Florida. I’d cross the main concourse and find a seat on one of the long benches near the eastern edge of the station, and I’d look up at the Pennsylvania Railroad World War II Memorial. Sculptor Walker Hancock had designed the 39-foot monument, a soaring depiction of Michael the Archangel cradling a soldier, to honor more than 1,300 Pennsylvania Railroad workers who perished in World War II. “Angel of the Resurrection” towers over Amtrak passengers and SEPTA commuters like me, wings stretched upward as though Michael is poised to head for the open skies a moment after Hancock captured his image. I imagine I hear the sound of his wings above the mike feedback, the whoosh of the chilly Pennsylvanian wind, the commotion of millions of commuters.
These days I no longer pass through 30th Street every day; I no longer while away the time between trains by watching my fellow travelers. But from time to time I think of that angel, I hear the exacting, angelic voice of that announcer (“Now arriving on track number three, the scheduled five-twenty-one local to Chestnut Hill West”), and I give thanks for that hub of human activity, so steadfast, despite wet leaves on the rails.
Hillary Moses Mohaupt lives outside of Philadelphia, where she’s a writer and communications professional.
