Praying in the dairy section
I have nothing against prayer in the grocery store.
Yesterday, as I headed to the dairy case, my legs tired from piloting the cart through the aisles, a woman asked if she could pray for me. My face had revealed the pain, a crease in the eyes, a grim set to my mouth. She picked it up, this gray-haired woman with a kind face. She asked about the cause of the pain. Spinal surgery, I replied, my exercise regime included pushing this cart from produce to bakery to dairy.
She -- her name was Diane -- pressed one hand into my cervical spine, at C-4 and C-5 where metal meets bone. She raised her other hand is supplication and prayed. Short and to the point, a plea to God to heal. I looked at her raised hand, small and slim, so as not to look at other customers who might wonder what was going on among the coffee creamer and almond milk. Diane wrapped the prayer. I expected a Bible tract from her, an invitation to her Jumpin' Jesus church. She just asked how I felt. I said we should give it time, don't you think?
We parted. No change in my pain or stuttering walk.
But there were a few moments when my soul left body and sailed around the store.
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