25 September 2011

Wanting to Name It

A few months ago I was en route to somewhere on the Ohio Turnpike and stopped for supper at one of those Service Plazas with a food court and all the rest.

As I was eating my meal and looking out over the central area of the food court, watching individuals and families, the old and the young, the very metallic and the very Mennonite, men and women and children of all manner of sizes, descriptions, races and ethnicities, I knew all at once in skin, flesh, bone and marrow that I was seeing nothing but – well, there are no good words for what I was seeing.

And I felt this deep longing to address someone, something, some x, to tell him/her/it what I knew and how grateful I was – how humbled I was – to know what I knew.

The lines of the Magnificat came to mind, but without an angel to tell and a God to acknowledge, I knew the lines weren't mine to use.  (I have to say I do understand better now the drive toward theism.)

So I just let the tears fall as I finished my soup and sandwich, breathed deep of the evening air on my way back to the car, then got in and drove home.

And that was enough.

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