Waiting in Line

Note:  Everyone has people in their life who "stand out."  Not perhaps everyday friends, but people with shared experiences -- classes, work, community groups -- people with whom you connect deeply and immediately; people who become special.  People who are stand outs.  That's Mary DesJarlais in my life .  We worked at the same organization for a couple of years sort of knowing and appreciating each other, but then a shift in our organization occurred, and we ended up working very closely for two or so years.  Working with Mary was like working with a dear friend, sister, family life advisor, and writing genius all rolled into one.  Mary was working on a book while we worked together, and I was lucky to read an early draft.  Now that book has been published and she is nearly famous.  I asked her to write a story for the blog, and she was so kind to offer the one published here today.  Thank you, Mary, for your unwavering friendship, your creative talent, and your incredible presence in my life.

Sarah stared at the damp, curled paper number in her hand, as if its value might have mysteriously altered in the time it had incubated in her warm palm. It still read #23 and the line had not moved at all.  Sarah pressed the tab between her lips as she shifted the heavy Macy’s bag to her left hand.  When she nudged the other sack with the toe of her pointed boot, it made a rasping sound against the tile floor and she hoped that movement would spur some progress.  Her coat had grown heavier and bulkier with every minute of waiting and the wool scarf bit at the skin around her neck.

Ahead of her stood a woman dressed in a black yoga outfit, wearing a pair of those delicate shoes not designed to survive a good power-walk.   Her brown hair was tied back in a high, tight ponytail; her hands plunged deep into the front pockets of the warm-up jacket. Sarah tried to tally the number of people standing ahead in line. A man in a rumpled suit frowned as he read something on his iPad.  Next in line, a teenager furiously texted, and an elderly woman wearing a silk suit and old-fashioned rubber boots worked a crossword puzzle.  After that, she lost track of the chain of bodies as the hallway collapsed in a gray mist.

“Excuse me,” Sarah’s voice echoed, as she tapped the woman on the shoulder, “do you know how long this will take?”  At that moment, she was aware of the absence of piped in Muzak, the kind with jingly bells that had stalked her all morning from store to store.

The woman turned and answered, “I’m really not sure.  This is my first time, I don’t mind the wait—but I’m nervous.”  She tugged at her gold earring.

“But where are your packages? Why are you in line if you have nothing to gift wrap?” Sarah hefted her bag and dangled it accusingly in front of the woman.

“Packages?”

“Isn’t this the line for gift wrapping?” 

Sarah was going to scream.  She had waited here for how long now,  thirty, forty-five minutes?   Where was this place? Suddenly she had no memory of how she had arrived here. Think, think.  The last thing she remembered was handing over her credit card to the server at the restaurant.  She instantly blamed her fugue on that hefty goblet of pinot she had downed with her Cobb salad.  Sarah usually didn’t drink during the day, but the deep garnet wine has swirled in the glass with such comfort, such reward, for completing her shopping list.

“This is Gabriel’s line.”  The woman’s ponytail bobbed as she pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it.  “You must have received the invitation, or why else would you be here?”

“I don’t have an invitation.  I don’t even know where I parked my car.”  That’s it--she would never attempt to power shop again--next year she would order everything online like her brother.

“I’ll bet if you check your purse, you’ll find it.”

Was this an electronics give away? Or was this Gabriel a has-been local celebrity waiting to sign autographs?  She picked up the bag on the floor and turned in search of the escalator.

“Wait, don’t go,” the woman said.  “Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said, but her stomach clenched against her words.” 

“I’ll tell you what I know. When it’s your turn, Gabriel will announce something that’s going to happen in your life.  It will be the biggest thing you can ever imagine.”

The handles of the bags dug into Sarah’s fingers.   Was she in line for some kind of crackpot fortune teller?  But yet this woman didn’t have that desperate look about her.  She looked reasonable, sane, and sincere.

“Like what?”  Sarah asked.

The ponytail swung back and forth this time.   “I’ve heard talk about people being called to careers of near impossible challenges, yet with great rewards.  Some are afflicted with grave illnesses, but their suffering heals others. I’ve read some people are given great gifts, but then suffer deep losses.”  She held up her hands and shrugged.

“Eventually, everyone gets called.”

A pulse pounded in Sarah’s ears.

“Here’s the secret,” the woman leaned in close and whispered.  “When Gabriel asks, you say ‘yes’ despite your fear.  Nothing will be impossible with God.”

Overhead, the loudspeaker crackled.

“Number 23, calling number 23."

(visit Mary at www.marydesjarlais.com)