We had just arrived home from five nights of family camping in western Michigan, and save for some leftover marshmallows, our pantry was in need of replenishing. I drove to the closest grocery store to grab a few essentials and get home quickly. All I wanted was a long, hot bubble bath and twenty minutes of quiet.

I eyeballed the shortest checkout line and took my place. But very quickly, I realized I had chosen poorly. The short line offers no guarantees of a fast experience. The woman in front of me had struck up a conversation with the cashier—something about marinating meat and methods for brining, I think. Truthfully, I didn’t care. All I knew is that I wanted to be home, so I sighed deeply and pulled out my phone.

Eventually, my turn came to pay for my few things, and then I beelined for the exit. I loaded my three bags into the car, but as I turned to take my shopping cart to the corral, I saw the woman from the checkout line returning her cart at the exact same moment. Inwardly, I hoped a quick smile would suffice as a pleasant-enough exchange and I could be on my way. She was clearly a talker, and all I wanted was silence.

But a smile was not enough.

The cloud-covered sky had begun to turn a deep bluish gray, and as we made eye contact there at the cart corral, the woman commented, “Looks like it’s gonna storm again.”

I nodded and asked, “Has it been rainy? We’ve been out of town.”

She proceeded to tell me not only about the weather, but also how she was growing anxious for her adult twin daughters. Apparently, both of them were flying into town with their families for a visit, but the ominous clouds had her nerves in a bind. “I’ll just feel better when they’re here.”

We talked for a minute longer about her family and the strangely cool weather we had while camping, and then with a “have a good evening!” we both went on our ways. The exchange lasted no more than four minutes, but as I walked away, I could feel the change in my countenance, the way my attitude had shifted toward the woman. She was no longer a lady holding up the line, but a nervous mother and grandmother. She was a woman with worries, who longed for the nearness of her children and wanted nothing more to have them safely in her home. She was someone very much like me.

No longer feeling in such a rush, I sat in my car and marveled at the way stories connect us. The details of our lives can be so different, and yet our experiences of being human can look very much the same. The struggles we carry. The ache we feel to belong and to find meaning. The way a deep belly laugh can heal something deep within. Stories reveal our shared humanity when assumption wants to fill in the gaps. Even a four-minute exchange at the cart corral can change the way we see and make space for each other.

Story is a powerful force that speaks to the most hidden parts of what makes us human. Story calls us to suspend our opinions and perspectives to entertain what life might be like in the skin of another. Through story, we imagine a person’s joys and sorrows, screams and celebrations, tears and triumphs. By hearing and holding the experiences of another, we cultivate ground where compassion can grow. Because even if we don’t agree or understand fully, stories soften the space between us.

It’s very unlikely I will see this woman again, but if I did I would no longer see her the same, because now I hold a piece of her story. I caught a glimpse of her life beyond the checkout lane. There in the parking lot, the mother in me understood the mother in her, and for a few minutes that knowing passed between us. As beige and boring as it all might seem, those moments were a sacred—not in a life-altering kind of way but as a reminder of the complexity we all carry in the most normal of places.

And maybe next time, before rolling eyes and rushing to what’s next, we would do well to consider the story.

A SHORT NOTE:

I’m taking a break from producing new articles and podcast episodes for July 2021 (we all need a pause from time to time). But the one piece of new content I’ll be sending out is my newsletter The Shelf, a mid-month email featuring a personal note from me, a story, a short list of resources I’m loving, and questions for reflection and conversation. You can sign up below, or CLICK HERE to find out more or check out past issues.

feature image by David Clarke via unsplash