At the Restaurant

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I wrote this piece a while ago and it was recently published by a periodical called "Treasured Moments." It was created to benefit Samaritan's Purse, a nondenominational Christian organization providing spiritual and physical aid to hurting people around the world. 

Since 1970, Samaritan's Purse has helped victims of war, poverty, natural disasters, disease, and famine. 

My story is called, "At the Restaurant." I hope you enjoy it.

I’m by myself in a crowded place. It’s perfect for people watching. There are so many interesting faces,

clothes, hair, and accents.

It’s Friday night so the place is hopping. This is a large strip mall and there are a great many people milling around, laughing, teasing, flirting. I’m seated inside a busy restaurant next to the window, my notebook open.

It’s warm for the first time in months so people are showing more skin than in a while. Earlier this week it was so cold we had to take plants inside so they wouldn’t freeze. But now it’s balmy. There’s a late afternoon breeze that is one of the first true harbingers of spring. It’s an hour before sunset so there’s this reddish orange glow that makes people look beautiful. Most folks just seem happier. It’ll get cold again, we know it, but for now it’s the perfect time to get outside, to celebrate the weather, to enjoy the end of the week, to go to the mall.

Girls are wearing low risers (Is that the term? We used to call them hip huggers). Young guys swagger with sagging pants, their hands reaching back to hoist them up like windshield wipers on intermittent. There are young families with kids in tow and babies in strollers. Military men and women are wearing small-checked camouflage fatigues. I guess they haven’t had the chance to change from their work clothes. They’re not camouflaged very well here.

Two lovely young African American teens with beautiful braids and twists walk by. Those two care about hair. Best friends sharing secrets. Beaming. 

A mom and daughter stroll arm in arm wearing matching cutoffs, probably for the first time in months. Their legs are pale. The young girl, maybe twelve, has almost white-blond hair, long and straight. She has bright blue eyes. Mom’s eyes are the exact same color. Her hair used to be real blond; you can tell. They make each other laugh. Then they tilt their heads together and the mom suddenly looks about twenty years younger.

The next pair that walks by has been fighting, I think. Her head is down; blackish-red hair covers her face. Low risers. Her shoulders are slumped in a shuffling sad walk. She has torn tennis shoes and her arms are crossed over her chest. There’s a name tattooed on her sleeveless triceps. Adam. She’s crying. Adam (I presume) looks nonchalant, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. The young woman says something I can’t hear. He answers. I can’t hear him either, they’re on the other side of the glass. But I can read his lips easily. It isn’t pretty, what he says. They walk on by.

An older couple walks into the dining room slowly and carefully. I’m not eavesdropping, but I can hear. They’re close. They approach the booth next to mine. “You always like a booth,” he says. They’re holding hands.

“And you always let me have the booth,” she says. I think, how many times have they said that? “Thank you, dear.” Her voice is so soft, so southern.

They are old. Eightyish, maybe older. The woman has on rouge, and lipstick, and eye shadow. She’s well put together. She has an obvious limp. Maybe a bum hip. She moves into the booth gingerly. Her man helps her as much as he can. And he is gentle. So gentle. He scoots into the booth across from her. Their eyes shine for each other. They put the little pager on the table between them, the one that buzzes and lights up when their food is ready.

Then it strikes me that this beautiful woman looks a lot like my Heidi—at least how Heidi might look in twenty years. This gal has had her hair dyed, Heidi probably won’t do that, but her eyes are clear, and she has that kind of natural beauty that one doesn’t outgrow. She has a beautiful presence as well. She doesn’t just look at her man when they talk, she looks into him. I know that look. I’m in love with it. I have been for over forty years.

Their table buzzer startles them. He slides over to the edge of the booth and stands up slowly, a little creakily. He makes two trips and when he returns with their food trays, he slides back in. They get everything adjusted in front of them, drinks, silverware, sandwiches, napkins. Automatically, as if they have done this a million times, they reach their hands across the table and lace fingers. They bow their heads and close their eyes. They sigh identical long sighs. I think, how many times have they sighed that sigh?

The man says, “Lord, we thank thee for this day you have made. Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies and our souls. Lord, let us pause before we eat and think of those in need of food, and shelter, and love.” Pause. “And Lord, thank you so much for the love of this beautiful woman.”

Eyes closed; they smile. Not so much at each other now. They’re smiling at God. And I think, how many times have they thanked God for each other?

Then they unlace their hands and look at each other with love. Quietly, slowly they begin to eat.

I realize how I forgot to bless my food. Hey, I am in a restaurant. Hey, this is a public place. Then I close my eyes, and sigh, and I take a moment to give thanks once again for my Heidi. And I am grateful for that little moment. After a hectic day, a long week, it wasn’t just chance that led me to sit at that table, in that restaurant, with my notebook and eyes open. 

I am grateful.

I get up and bus my table and look back at the couple before leaving. They have eyes only for each other. It is so sweet, so God.