I was young in my faith.
Working in a pizza parlor.
One night I saw a man
standing in the register line
waiting to pay for his order.

His hands held a small box.
Probably one of our personal pizzas.
I presumed it was his dinner.
Probably going to eat it in his car,
or maybe back in a motel room.

All by himself.
It was his demeanor
that struck me the most.
He seemed depressed.

Lonely.
Could it have been the Holy Spirit,
saying to me.
“Speak to him —
offer him your friendship.”

Recalling this over the years,
I suppose I could have spoken to him.
Perhaps I could have said to him,
as a pizza employee,
“Is everything alright, sir?
Is there anything else I could get you?”

He probably would have politely told me
that all was well.
But then
I could have also said to him,

“Please do not take this the wrong way, Sir,
but you remind me of my father.”
To which he might have responded,
“Go away,
kid. You bother me.”

And I would have walked away
knowing I had done all I could.
But what if his response was,
“I’m Charles Smith,”
as he extended his hand.

And maybe I would have taken it—
awkwardly, perhaps,
but sincerely.
Maybe we would have stood there
for a moment too long,
two strangers bridging something
neither could name.

Maybe he would have said,
“Rough day,”
and I would have nodded,
not needing to ask more.

Maybe I would have offered him
a seat in the dining area,
even though it was nearly closing time.
Maybe I would have brought him a soda,
on the house.

And maybe—
just maybe—
he would have told me about a job lost,
a family estranged,
or a long drive with
nowhere to go.

And I would have listened.
Not as a counselor.
Not as a preacher.
Just as a boy
with a heart cracked open
by the Spirit.

But I said nothing.
I watched him pay,
nod politely,
and walk out into the night.

I wiped the counter.
I swept the floor.
I clocked out.
And I carried that silence home.

Not as guilt.
But as a question.
A holy ache.
A reminder that sometimes
the Spirit whispers
not to condemn,
but to prepare us for the next time.

And I have listened more carefully ever since.

The Ordinary Path
is lit for those
who seek mercy,
memory,
and meaning.

You may subscribe below
to receive new offerings.
Your presence is never demanded,
but always honored.

If this offering stirred something in you—
a memory,
a question,
a flicker of light—
you are welcome to share
your reflection below.
No need for eloquence.
No need for certainty.
Just a lantern,
gently placed.