 |
| Dare you not to crave bacon after this post. |
So Monday morning I acted on this faith improvement effort. From a willing heart, my prayer included something like, “My path is quite predictable each day, so it won’t be hard to arrange something for me to be able to do for thee, God. And I’ll do my best to recognize the promptings.”
And then my morning proceeded to have a very unpredictable path. Or unusual, I should say. Nothing is outside the range of prediction for God.
Instead of taking the Trax blue-line train to work, I decided to drive in so I could drop off the women’s shelter donations my sisters had given me after their recent move. After I dropped those off, I approached a branch of my credit union farther along the route to work, and I thought, “Eh, I’ve got a minute.”
Didn’t feel like a prompting... I could’ve easily ignored the impromptu thought to deposit the cash I had in my wallet, but I quickly slowed, turned, and steered to the drive-through.
At the drive-through's first-lane window stood a petite and elderly Asian woman. Her right hand shook steadily, her head slightly bobbing in sync as she spoke and completed her transaction. Aside from it just being odd that she was in the drive-through without driving apparatus, I didn’t pay her much mind. As I reached to send my cash through the vacuum tube, she wrapped up her errand and scuttled away from the window and toward my lane. Between lanes, she paused, and my side-eye observance noted that she was busy with something. Then she spoke. To me.
“You go to Trax after this?”
I responded with “not exactly,” and she asked where I was going. I said (and repeated three times) downtown/City Creek/food court. I think she recognized the food court version best. She asked for a ride. Her next errand was to get her husband’s medicine. Only a brief pause before I said “sure” to this harmless little lady. I cleared my bags from the front seat, and she climbed in.
We got to wait for a few minutes as the teller bounded away to prepare my cash deposit (it included all the loose change my husband and I saved up the entire prior year for a new-year treat, so he had to get it counted up), and she asked me questions.
“You LDS?”
“Yes.”
“You serve mission? Where?”
“France.” Repeated two times.
“That nice. How old are you?”
“I’m 33.”
“I’m 79!”
“Wow, you look great for 79,” I say, and I mean it.
She laughs as I look at her, and I can see she has what looks like all her original teeth, which look like they’ve been hard at work, say, chewing ham and bacon for 79 years. But she has thick, peppered black hair; a youthful face iced with wrinkles; a sturdy resolve and purpose in her posture.
“I laugh and get 10 minutes back of life.”
She laughed again.
“Laugh twice, twenty minutes. That’s how I stay young.”
Two seconds of silence.
“You have kids?”
“Nope.”
“You not married?”
“Yep, I'm married. I am married.”
“How many years?”
“Almost three!”
“You like pork?”
“...”
“The pork?”
It sounded more like “poke,” but I felt 80% confident she was saying “pork.”
“No, not so much,” I responded, hoping it was a fitting response. It’s the truth, anyway, if we’re talking about pork.
“Pork is ham and...what it called… ...oh, bacon. Bacon. Ham is pork, right?”
“Yep.”
“Woman needs ham and, yep, the bacon. You need ham and bacon.”
Which, incidentally, is the not-so-faint aroma she had carried into my car with her. For this, I was glad my door was ajar (my driver-side window doesn’t roll down) as we waited on the teller receipt, but I was just too delighted by this random stranger in my car to be at all bothered by the smell of home-cooked-meal-saturated clothes and/or breath.
We got to wait for a few minutes as the teller bounded away to prepare my cash deposit (it included all the loose change my husband and I saved up the entire prior year for a new-year treat, so he had to get it counted up), and she asked me questions.
“You LDS?”
“Yes.”
“You serve mission? Where?”
“France.” Repeated two times.
“That nice. How old are you?”
“I’m 33.”
“I’m 79!”
“Wow, you look great for 79,” I say, and I mean it.
She laughs as I look at her, and I can see she has what looks like all her original teeth, which look like they’ve been hard at work, say, chewing ham and bacon for 79 years. But she has thick, peppered black hair; a youthful face iced with wrinkles; a sturdy resolve and purpose in her posture.
“I laugh and get 10 minutes back of life.”
She laughed again.
“Laugh twice, twenty minutes. That’s how I stay young.”
Two seconds of silence.
“You have kids?”
“Nope.”
“You not married?”
“Yep, I'm married. I am married.”
“How many years?”
“Almost three!”
“You like pork?”
“...”
“The pork?”
It sounded more like “poke,” but I felt 80% confident she was saying “pork.”
“No, not so much,” I responded, hoping it was a fitting response. It’s the truth, anyway, if we’re talking about pork.
“Pork is ham and...what it called… ...oh, bacon. Bacon. Ham is pork, right?”
“Yep.”
“Woman needs ham and, yep, the bacon. You need ham and bacon.”
Which, incidentally, is the not-so-faint aroma she had carried into my car with her. For this, I was glad my door was ajar (my driver-side window doesn’t roll down) as we waited on the teller receipt, but I was just too delighted by this random stranger in my car to be at all bothered by the smell of home-cooked-meal-saturated clothes and/or breath.
 |
| Chicken bacon swiss pizza I made once. |
“Okay,” I nodded. “Do you have kids?” I continued, somewhat surprised that I’m not surprised that I’m thinking bacon might have helped her conceive.
“Yes. My daughter turn 51 this month on the 13. My son is 48.”
She hummed something as we passed a moment without words. Her right fist clutching the handle of her blue fabric bag drummed its involuntary beat.
I got my receipt and we pulled away, back onto State Street and headed to work via Trax. She said other things, trying to figure out where exactly we were going. I asked her which Trax line she wanted to take. Red. So I changed lanes to turn left at the next intersection to take her to the Courthouse Trax stop. She was so impressed by my decisive navigating skills, she dug her small fingers into my shoulder and pressed with a force equal to her impression.
“You so gooood!” She laughed again, and I couldn't help but join in for the love of life.
“Yes. My daughter turn 51 this month on the 13. My son is 48.”
She hummed something as we passed a moment without words. Her right fist clutching the handle of her blue fabric bag drummed its involuntary beat.
I got my receipt and we pulled away, back onto State Street and headed to work via Trax. She said other things, trying to figure out where exactly we were going. I asked her which Trax line she wanted to take. Red. So I changed lanes to turn left at the next intersection to take her to the Courthouse Trax stop. She was so impressed by my decisive navigating skills, she dug her small fingers into my shoulder and pressed with a force equal to her impression.
“You so gooood!” She laughed again, and I couldn't help but join in for the love of life.
“So where are you from?” I asked.
Without hesitation, her response skipped in between beats of her hand. “Heaven!” Another and heartier laugh. “But I was born in North Korea.”
I smiled. Aha, the realization finally blossomed. Heaven had predicted her arrival into my day indeed.
As we got closer to the Courthouse Trax stop, she quieted and it seemed her thoughts began taking the precursory steps that would complete her next errand. The morning rush-hour traffic halted us two cars from the crosswalk, but she was already scoping her path toward the train.
“So I get out here?”
“Well, sure, I guess.”
“I get out here.”
I smiled. Aha, the realization finally blossomed. Heaven had predicted her arrival into my day indeed.
As we got closer to the Courthouse Trax stop, she quieted and it seemed her thoughts began taking the precursory steps that would complete her next errand. The morning rush-hour traffic halted us two cars from the crosswalk, but she was already scoping her path toward the train.
“So I get out here?”
“Well, sure, I guess.”
“I get out here.”
With her right hand, she gave the seat belt button a concentrated push then returned her grip to the handle of her bag. Out she went the way she came, the happy mother of some lady whose birthday is this Saturday, only looking back to make sure she wasn’t leaving anything behind in the front seat.
Mumbling, she shuffled away to get on with her day. Her charity taxi fare was paid in full, and I reset my course for work, running only a few minutes late.
So let’s quick recap what we’ve learned: You ask God to put something in your path. Your path is so out of the ordinary that it’s impossible not to recognize that only God could orchestrate the random arrangement of crossing paths. The messenger from that arrangement feels the need to respond with “you need the bacon” after finding out you’re married for three years, you’re 33, and you don’t have kids yet.
All those in favor of the interpretation that God wants me to eat bacon? Any opposed? Your vote has been noted. I’ll be eating the bacon.*
Mumbling, she shuffled away to get on with her day. Her charity taxi fare was paid in full, and I reset my course for work, running only a few minutes late.
So let’s quick recap what we’ve learned: You ask God to put something in your path. Your path is so out of the ordinary that it’s impossible not to recognize that only God could orchestrate the random arrangement of crossing paths. The messenger from that arrangement feels the need to respond with “you need the bacon” after finding out you’re married for three years, you’re 33, and you don’t have kids yet.
All those in favor of the interpretation that God wants me to eat bacon? Any opposed? Your vote has been noted. I’ll be eating the bacon.*
 |
| A recent BLT constructed with homemade sourdough bread. |
* In all honesty I probably won't eat more than I do now, which isn't much, but I recently heard about Pederson Farms bacon and I think I'll try its products sometime.
1 comment:
Great story!!
Post a Comment