Holy Bag Boy

Confession: I get super stressed in the checkout line at the grocery store. Not because I'll be over budget (always) and not because I'm running late to somewhere or something else (usually). Nope, my eyes dilate and the lines around my mouth deepen because I don't want anyone else to touch my food. Well, more specifically, I don't want the bag boy, bag girl, bag person, or bag whomever to touch my food.

Yeah, I know. Weird.

My husband and I are vegetarians. Judging from the contents of the carts at my local Publix, we are surrounded by aggressive meat-eaters and passionate lovers of convenience foods. Hey, whatevs. You're on your journey, and I'm on mine, and this recovering co-dependent isn't going to get all up in your business.

However, the folks at my local grocery establishment seem, by and large, to be trained to package all foods with equal heartiness. They plop my tender grapes (the ones I so carefully selected and lovingly nestled in my cart to avoid bruising) on the conveyor belt with the same vehemence as a six-pack of seltzer.

In my house, grapes, red leaf lettuce, and asparagus are the main course, not the side or garnish, and I'd like them to survive their journey from the cart to my fridge. But, oh, the dangers that lie in the transition. Bananas under the balsamic vinegar, pears packed with jars pasta sauce. I breathe deeply and remind myself to speak encouragement, rather than snatching my food out of a unsuspecting teen's hands and shrieking, "No, no, NO! Be nice to my tomatoes!"

I'd like to say I've never done exactly that.

I'd also like to say I wear a size four.

Folks, I've actually prayed -- prayed -- for calm as I approach the cashier. I find myself casing the joint, wheeling my cart back and forth behind the lines to select the cashier/bag boy combo least likely to murder my strawberries.

It is with this mix of anxiety and determined cheerfulness that I scanned my options this morning. And what I found took my breath away.

A red-headed teen stood at the end of the bagging zone. He wore a tidy polo shirt with the words "High School Student in Training" stitched over the pocket. Next to him, a young man just a few years older, wore the traditional Publix uniform. He spoke quietly to his companion and smiled encouragingly at me.  "All right," I thought. "Let's give this a go."

It quickly became clear that the trainee was a young man with special needs. He moved as if underwater, his hands and arms responding slowly and heavily to his trainer's instructions. His face remained largely expressionless, his mouth hanging open and his eyes drifting from bag to box. As I watched him, I wondered if his anxiety was high. (Mine, miraculously, had disappeared.) Would his poor performance end in dismissal? If he couldn't learn to bag groceries, what then? Were his parents worried about their boy's future?"

But the trainer? Every word carried gentle dignity. Never once did he point out mistakes. He chose, instead, to treat the trainee as though they were peers, working side-by-side, to do their job with excellence, all the while squeezing in tidbits of advice. "Let's put the produce aside. That's a perfect amount of drinks you put in that bag, so it doesn't get too heavy. Nice job with those frozen things.  Can you help me with this box of Coke?"

I spend a lot of time with elementary-aged kids at my church. A few of our kiddos have special needs, like autism, Down syndrome, or physical impairments. Because my leaders are gracious and wise, they instituted a program in which every child with special needs has a buddy, a smart, loving adult who spends all of Sunday morning church time side-by-side with their young friend.

One of my jobs at Summit is to recruit such buddies. People interested in volunteering in this way meet with me, often misty-eyed about their expectations. "I just want to love one of these kids," they sometimes say, in all earnest sincerity.

And then I tell them about the second grade boy who cries every time he comes to Base Camp. And another boy who has no verbal skills at all and probably never will. And my girl who, every time she sees me -- in spite of the fact that I bring her My Little Pony toys and sparkly stickers and Goldfish crackers -- looks at me, points to her classroom door, and shouts, "Go!" When I dawdle, she barks, "Now!"

Very few special needs buddies make it past our first meeting. The ones who do? My heroes.

Jesus was crystal clear about what love looks like. It's not words or wishes or dreams. Love washes dirty feet and offers up the last scrap of food and opens the door to a weary traveler.

Love turns to a young man in training, one struggling to discern pasta from produce, and says, "Hey, would you go grab a second cart?" And, "Lets's walk to this lady's car together." And, "Thanks for helping me today."

That love smiled at me without an ounce of self-congratulations and said, "Have a great weekend."

The places I see holiness never fail to surprise me. The force of it?

Knocks me to my knees every single time.