I had a remarkable experience at Michael’s the other day, and I decided to take a risk and share it here.
A week or so ago, I went to Michael’s to get a drawing framed. I’ve done this dozens of times. I know the framing staff, and they know me. But this time, nobody appeared at the counter. I found another store associate and they radioed for someone to help. Finally an elderly gentleman made his way from across the store, bent over and hobbling.
When he reached the counter, he looked up with some effort and asked, “Do you wanna hear a joke, young man?”
Oh no, I thought.
I’m pretty impatient, I must confess. Always have something to do and somewhere to be, and that day was no exception. But I’ve been whittling away on that impatience for a while, so I took a deep breath and smiled.
“Sure, why not?”
For the next several minutes I received a recital of jokes that were not very good, but I laughed anyway. He was greatly enjoying himself. When he’d run through his immediate memory bank of jokes, he turned and ambled to the back room to fetch some candy for Lucas, who’d come along with me. Then came a few stories. We still hadn’t gotten to the reason I was standing there, and inwardly I was getting quite agitated.
Bolt and run? Now’s your chance.
I kept shooing those thoughts away, but they were very real.
Finally, he took a big breath and let it out. Then he said: “I’m Milton. So, how can I help you today, young man?”
By the time the order was placed about half an hour later, I’d slowed down enough to stop feeling anxious and even felt a fondness for him. He seemed lonely. We said our goodbyes, and I went on with my busy day.
A week later I got the call that the picture was ready. I loaded Lucas and Ezra into the car to give Helen a little break and to get some time with them before I had to leave town on another trip.
Going to town with Dad seems to be a small foretaste of heaven for them. They chatter and giggle the whole way, and I absolutely love it, even if everything takes a bit longer. (A three-year-old who is potty-trained and a one-year-old who is not makes for some complicated logistics. Ask me sometime about the Dollar General bathroom stop...)
At the framing counter, I saw Milton in the back on the phone. He wrapped up the call and slowly came out to meet me, but I immediately knew something was wrong. He was trembling, and his expression was full of anxiety.
“Is everything all right today, sir?” I asked.
“My wife’s in the hospital an hour away. I wish so badly I could be with her, but I’ve got to work and the doctors want to cut her all up. She’s so weak. I’m afraid this is it. This is going to be the end, and I’ve got to be there, and I just don’t know if she can handle what’s coming.”
The words spilled out of him and his eyes were wet.
Deep compassion suddenly fell on me as I witnessed this. I saw him in an entirely different way than I had moments before - or the week before.
I leaned in and told him how sorry I was, and then I felt an impulse to ask if we could pray for her, right then and there. He said yes.
So at the framing counter at Michael’s, with two little boys at my feet, we bowed our heads and I prayed.
I don’t remember everything I said, but it came from my heart, and every word seemed to be landing someplace beyond the two of us standing there. Whether it was one minute or five, I don’t know. Time seemed to stand still.
When I looked up, he was sobbing. But there was a light in his eyes, like he was a little bit freer than he’d been in a long time.
“Thank you, thank you, son, for the friend you’ve become to me.”
He told me he hadn’t been to church in a long, long time. He’d given up on it because of “politics,” but he still believed. I invited him to attend one of our services, and offered to bring them a meal.
I walked out into the sunny afternoon feeling lighter myself, holding Ezra’s chubby hand, Lucas on the other side.
I thought back to the week before, the bad jokes and stories and the half hour I’d felt I was unnecessarily wasting in a Michael’s store of all places. But now I knew I’d been unknowingly building a bridge, and that bridge between us had made way for the small miracle we’d both just experienced.
Then I suddenly remembered the last time something like this happened, about five years ago, before we had kids, right here in the same parking lot.
I’d come out of the store and saw a couple, almost exactly where I was now walking, bent over the open hood of an old car. They were sweating, cursing, and at the end of their rope it seemed. On a subtle impulse, I stopped and - overriding the inner-voice telling me I was about to make a fool of myself - asked if I could pray for the engine to start. Their eyes narrowed, but they sure didn’t have many other options, so they said sure, why not.
I prayed a simple prayer. One of them turned the key. The engine turned over a couple times and sputtered to life.
I’m still not sure who was more surprised that day.
Sometimes being used in this way takes just a little more patience than I want to give. A little more kindness than I think is necessary. A little more humility and risk than feels comfortable.
What might be waiting just beyond those small obediences?
I want to live in such a way as to find out - every single day.