In August, we bring a set of new full-time writers to the blog. Today, please welcome Sophia Medawar (’19), who will be writing for us on the 24th of each month. Sophia (‘19) double-majored in theatre and religion and insists that her life is a “storybook.” She lives in an apartment above a flower shop in downtown Chicago and has multiple roles working across the arts in comedy, music, theatre, film, and visual art–though her greatest passion is writing. Her work includes stage plays, screenplays, and articles, focusing mostly on cultural trends, comedy, reviews, and religious satire. She loves road trips, visiting her family in Grand Rapids, hunting for the perfect latte, and rescuing plants from the flower shop’s dumpster.
My mother and I boarded the train from Edinburgh Waverley to London King’s Cross this afternoon around 2 p.m. Our assigned seating brought us to car J in row one; across the table from us was an elderly gentleman sitting by himself in row two. He was friendly, so we chatted with him a bit as our tickets were scanned and the train began to move.
Though we were in Scotland, his accent was English. We asked where he grew up, and he answered “Essex,” and then returned the question. “Do I detect an American accent?” he mused.
“Yes! From Michigan,” I answered.
Though our laptops were out and we were prepared to work, my mom and I kept chatting with him— or rather, he kept chatting with us. It seemed he was grateful to have people who were willing to lend an ear for a while.
His name was Daniel Brown; he was in his eighties, and he had to “get off the train at Newark!” to go visit his son. Soon enough, the conversation finally reached that inevitable place where my mom starts to share her faith.
Daniel lifted his bushy, white eyebrows. “You’re a Christian, then,” he said.
My mom nodded.
“I am, too!” he said warmly.
I listened as Daniel and my mom continued to chit-chat about a variety of topics, but mostly about their shared faith. The Scottish countryside rolled by outside our windows; green hills, rocky cliffs, and small towns with stone fences.
After a while, Daniel seemed to have lost his ability to recall things so quickly.
“The name of the man who started that ministry is…oh dear,” he’d drop his head in his hands, “…I can’t remember.”
“That’s alright,” my mom tried to reassure him, “we all have good and bad days.”
Our train took us along the coast of the North Sea. We were even close enough to see the shoreline. I was surprised to see it was sandy; I always thought the beaches in Britain were rocky.
“… and there’s a great hotel near where you’ll be in London, it’s…the…oh dear…I’m sorry…”
“Don’t apologize,” my mom chimed. “You’re alright.”
He progressively got more distressed and kept insisting, “I’ve got to get off at Newark.”
My mom and I tried to encourage him to just relax, and that we would make sure he got off at the correct stop. He kept apologizing and shaking his head, frustrated with himself. His breathing became heavier and uneven. My mom tried to distract him from his anxiety by asking him other questions, but he still couldn’t remember, and his eyes started drooping.
“Daniel? Are you okay?”
His breathing was laborious now, and he didn’t respond.
“We need medical attention over here!” my mom called out.
Within minutes there was a doctor, a train attendant, a retired police officer, my mom, and I surrounding the seat of Daniel Brown as he progressively lost the ability to communicate. The doctor was on the phone with the ambulance at the next station—“He’s conscious, but he can’t verbalize or remember anything,”—the officer was asking him questions—“Are you on any medication?”—while my mom just held his hand and prayed. “Everything’s going to be okay, Daniel,” she spoke firmly. “The Lord is with you.”
A voice came over the intercom: the next stop was York. Daniel’s eyes widened fearfully, and we all knew what he was trying to say: “I need to get off at Newark.”
“Mr. Brown?” The police officer leaned across the table so Daniel could see him. “The doctor here says you can’t keep traveling by yourself. You’re gonna get off at the next station, they’re gonna set you to rights and get in touch with your son so you can get home safe—alright?”
They escorted Daniel slowly down the aisle and off the train. I was holding his tweed jacket, which I gave to the attendant just in time before the doors slid shut again. We saw him through the window, in a wheelchair on the platform surrounded by York staff, while they waited for the ambulance to arrive.
There’s so much that I could say about the curse of aging, the dread of one’s own limitations, and the fear of facing them alone. However, I can’t help but feel encouraged by the collective care of everyone in car J this afternoon. “We’re all human,” my mom frequently reminds me. “We’re on this journey together—just at different places along the way.”
Our train began to move again, pulling slowly out of the station, when a voice came over the intercom:
“Thank you for your patience, ladies and gentlemen; welcome aboard the LNER to London King’s Cross, we are only twelve minutes delayed, next stop is Newark.”

Sophia (‘19) double-majored in theatre and religion and insists that her life is a “storybook.” She lives in an apartment above a flower shop in downtown Chicago and has multiple roles working across the arts in comedy, music, theatre, film, and visual art—though her greatest passion is writing. Her work includes stage plays, screenplays, and articles, focusing mostly on cultural trends, comedy, reviews, and religious satire. She loves road trips, visiting her family in Grand Rapids, hunting for the perfect latte, and rescuing plants from the flower shop’s dumpster.