Some Kind of Love

Ray teases me sometimes for how much I love people who work at the places I frequent.  I can’t help myself.  I love to make friends with unlikely people. 

There was the manager of a Domino’s Pizza named Robert, whose wife had recently had a baby.  Between assembling pizzas and taking orders, Robert loved to show me pictures on his phone of baby Kylee.  Her first tooth, how she was finally standing up, how beautiful her mama looked while holding her. 

I don’t know much about Henry who worked at the front desk of the YMCA every morning at 5am before the facility closed. I made a point to learn his name and say good morning when we entered, and goodbye as we left.  I don’t have a padlock, so every time I went in, I would hand him my car keys and in exchange he’d hand me a lock to borrow.  One day he gave me a pink one, and I commented to Megan how much I loved it.  The next time I went in, and every time after, Henry gave me the pink padlock.  And that small gesture put a smile on my face every time.  It’s the little things.

Before all of the grocery slots were always full, Maria brought my groceries to the car almost every Sunday morning.  She’s a senior in high school, and is saving up to go on a cruise with her mom.  One day as she was loading an obscene amount of bags into Casper, she commented on how she loved my van.  My ridiculous, old, 12 passenger, white van with the peeling paint and rust spots everywhere.  I laughed, but she was sincere.  She said she thought it was cool that I had so much space for my kids.  My heart is so heavy that she is missing her graduation and prom and everything else that goes along with that last year of high school. 

We had a wonderful librarian.  One who never judged us for bringing our books back a month late, but who always smiled and was so happy to see us.  Amanda never seemed annoyed at the million questions my children would throw at her.  She helped us find books, she gave recommendations, once she even warned me about a book because she knew the content wasn’t something I’d be happy with my young child reading.  She taught me (over and over and over) how to use the digital library, and I know she’d be so happy to know that I use Libby now on a daily basis.  More than just library stuff, though, she became my friend.  We’d stand at the checkout desk and chat while the kids chose books (that 20 book limit though…).  I looked forward to library days because I knew I’d leave with a smile on my face and my cup filled up.  Her kindness helped inspire a love of the library in my kids, and I cried when I found out she was leaving the library to start a family of her own.  I know she’s an amazing mother now.

And then the expat greeter at the door of Walmart.  Her accent is enchanting and she always has questions for me about what I have in my cart. “May I ask why you needed 7 frozen pizzas all at one time?”  It wasn’t intended to be a rude question, and I was happy to tell her about my hungry teenagers and how we used to order from Dominos until the money needed to go elsewhere.  So now each week I buy seven $3 frozen pizzas and we save $30.  (I do miss Robert though.)

In return, one day I asked her how she was and if she was staying safe.  This was early March, back when the shelves held 10 different brands of toilet paper, and you could buy as much milk as you wanted, and there were only a few “confirmed positives” in our city.  My simple “how are you” opened the floodgates and she shared about a family member who had recently hurt her deeply.  And I had no words to offer that would fix it.  No magic wand to make her heart un-break.  But we stood in the entrance of Walmart with tears on our faces, and I hugged her neck, and the moment was holy.

Love isn’t always romance.  It isn’t always family.  It isn’t always close friends or people just like me.  Sometimes it’s looking at pictures of a baby… a pink lock …loading groceries …chatting over the library desk… sharing a burden in Walmart.  Love is, however, always life giving and life changing. 

I miss my people.