Rendezvous in Aisle Twenty

The hushed holy temple of the HEB grocery store

I've often said that my church is The Church of HEB. H.E.B is the main grocery store where I live in Texas, and the grocery store is our unity, where we all come together: old, young, rich, poor; construction workers and bankers; teenagers looking for a snack and the distinguished 90 year old man, bent over in his threadbare suit and brown fedora.

After all, everyone needs to eat.

I can remember the first time I set foot in an HEB - I'd just moved to Austin with my family from a small town in Montana, and my four children and I went out to fill the fridge. I remember how overwhelmed I felt by the size and fast pace of the city, and by this huge grocery store (huge to me, anyways.) Since then, the grocery store doesn't feel so huge - isn't it something how things change?

There is magic in the grocery store: some of the most beautiful moments of my day happen there. I try, when I can, to write them down. This particular story is one that has stayed with me. Perhaps it might stay with you, too.

Rendezvous in Aisle Twenty

You turn your cart into the aisle
and there you spy them: she, bending
low over his wheelchair, reading aloud
the fine print of a greeting card; he sitting
hunched over, leaning in and trembling softly.
From what you can overhear it's a birthday card,
perhaps for a grandchild, and she turns the
card over so he can see the picture on the front.
Everyone else seems to be in a hurry that day,
trying to get in and out as quickly as possible.
But she moves slowly, as if she has all the time
in the world, as if there's nothing more important
then sifting through the greeting cards to find
the right one. She holds each card as if it were
a sacred text, she reads the lines as if chanting
a prayer. She stands beside his wheelchair
as if she's somewhere other than the hushed
holy temple of the HEB. As we look on, we
with our full grocery carts, our too long lists
and heavy sighs, we've become her timbered
choir. We file through the aisles and sing out
our silent praise. With each orange and potato
we proclaim a weary hallelujah.

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With a grateful heart, Karly

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