Grace in Rush Hour
She comes to eye-level at our table. Eggplant parm, steak sandwich, house salad, she writes on her mint green guest check.
She stands, shakes her legs out, leaves to put our order in. It’s rush hour at the restaurant.
There is a dog I know who barks, barks when he sees me. One day when I was sitting on the stairs, he came and licked my neck. We were at eye-level.
Rebecca goes to another table. She kneels. It’s connective to be at eye-level, not being looked down at or up to.
Rebecca’s kneeling isn’t easy on the legs. Bending down would be easier. Bending down is different, though. It’s a partial motion; ultimately, our body remains where it was. But to kneel is to change the body’s whole state.
We eat our dinner. We pay, thank the waitress who made our level hers, leave the busy restaurant.
I think of Rebecca hours, days later. She came alongside us. And brought grace to rush hour.
The Lightning Notes is funded by kind donors. If something here strikes you, I'd be grateful if you'd consider donating. Click to Donate!