by Howard Hain
I sat toward the back. Near the cooler. At the third table of three.
Looking through the line of bakery customers, I see out the storefront window, across the somewhat crowded street—that seems to be undergoing never-ending construction—a woman waking by. She passes before the window of the corner convenience store. She crosses herself. I don’t know why. But I believe.
I don’t understand.
But I trust.
I don’t desire. I don’t will. I don’t want.
I respond with faith.
She is good. She is like you—trying her best. She is like me—she could do better.
God loves her. God loves you. God loves me. Nonetheless.
The desire to love is love.
The will to union is union.
The Freedom of Christ is a Cuban pastry with three holes.
I eat away.
I taste and see.
My food is to do the will of Him who sent me.
Faith. Hope. Charity.
All else is a small pile of crumbs—gently laid to rest—the edge of the bakery table—on the well-worn tile floor.
“There is nothing more gracious than to think well of our neighbor.”
—Saint Therese of Lisieux