On my way to volunteer at a local school, I stopped at Subway to buy a sack lunch to go. (I know, I know -- at eight months into retirement, I should have meal planning under control, but I don't, so judge me if you must.)
At 8:05 a.m., I was Subway's only customer, and since I was running a bit late, I was thankful for no line. I paid for a 6-inch sandwich (ham and turkey on 9-grain bread), a bag of baked Lay's, a diet coke, and a bottle of water, thankful the stop was quick because I was in a hurry.
Then the sandwich chef/cashier took my money and -- innocently yet deliberately -- reestablished my morning priorities.
"Have a blessed day," she said.
I paused and smiled at her. "You, too," I said. "We all need one of those."
"A blessed day? We sure do!" she said. "A month ago my husband died in his sleep, so I depend on blessed days."
Okay. I know I possess more than my fair share of cluelessness, but I knew at that moment that I had time to slow down, that I could not just walk away from this conversation. She did not look old enough to be a widow (as if there's an age requirement), and my heart broke a little for her.
"I'm so sorry," I said, meaning it. "Had he been sick?"
"No," she said. "One night as I headed to bed, he told me to get a good night's rest and then turned on the TV to one of the Biblical channels. He just fell asleep and never woke up."
I processed her words for a moment. The fact that she looked younger than I do was not lost on me.
"How old was he?" I asked, more to continue the conversation than any other reason.
"He was only sixty. And he taught martial arts classes for thirty years." Her eyes told me she still cannot believe this. "He was in great shape." She said they'd been married fifteen years. She'd known him since she was fourteen.
Another moment to process. He was practically my age. He was seemingly perfectly healthy.
At this point, I realized not only why I had just finished reading the book of Job, but also why I was still the only customer in Subway. Words seemed so inadequate, but this stranger now mattered to me. I needed to say something, so I offered the most positive reaction I could.
"At least you will always know God's word was the last thing he heard."
"Oh yes!" she said, smiling. "He was a Christian. We always prayed together. Read the Bible together. I know he's in heaven now, but it still hurts. I feel lost without him, but everything would be so much worse if I was lost in my heart."
She was just getting warmed up. "I pray all of the time, and every time I pray, I can see his face, telling me to get out there, keep my faith and keep living."
I got chills. She kept talking. "We have to really live every day because we never know what's going to happen."
Then, comfortable that she had said everything she was supposed to say, she stopped talking. I've bought sandwiches at Subway for more than twenty years, and this morning was a first: my sandwich chef/cashier taught me a daily devotional; she reinforced a major life lesson. Things had become personal; I wanted to pray for her.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Mary," she said, smiling again.
Of course it is, I thought as I walked out the door, thankful that God's everyday wisdom often shows up in the least likely places and comes from people who are -- anything but -- random. All I have to do is slow down and pay attention.
