oh, hello {how to give a Gift anytime, anywhere}
We wander down the grocery aisle, me with my head buried in a list, Zoe pushing the cart, Riley walking just behind, quietly trying to breathe. Zoe reaches toward me with her eyes. I feel the gaze grab hard, and I look up and toward my daughter. Zoe sucks in her belly and stiffens her neck, flicking her gaze sharply back at her sister. Without words, she says, “Mom, Riley is doing that thing.” That thing would be tensing with sensory stress, half-holding her breath and half-breathing, as though she has too much to handle to remember how to inhale. I pause, quickly appraising.
“You okay?” I ask carefully, because Riley doesn’t like me to attend to her difficulty.
“Mmmhmm,” she says, holding her neck straight, offering me a practiced smile, a flat line that says Don’t worry.
I turn back to the grocery list, scanning to see how quickly I can finish. And then I hear Riley speak.
“Oh, hello,” she says, and I look back to see her acknowledge a woman passing with another cart, another list, another set of things to carry. The woman looks shadowed and absorbed, tucking hair behind her ear with a weariness I recognize, scanning shelves for needed items. Riley lifts one hand in a tiny wave while she grips her leg with the other, trying to halt the shaking that sometimes comes when she starts feeling overloaded. I notice the white edges of Riley’s fingertips against her pant leg, urgent, determined.
“Hi,” Riley says again, waving.
The woman slowly realizes the greeting is for her, and her face sparks with sudden surprise. She tilts her head, momentarily distracted from her list, allowing herself to look at Riley, who exhales awkwardly and grins. I watch the woman search Riley’s face for recognition. It’s a reaction I’ve seen many times. In fact, a few aisles back, a man we didn’t know tried to cover up the fact that he couldn’t remember us. “They’re growing up so fast,” he said jovially, baffled, gesturing toward the girls, to which Riley happily replied, “Yes, we are!” That exchange confused Zoe so much that she whispered, who was that? after we rounded a corner. So often we scroll through other lives without really sharing even the simplest acknowledgement, browsing past each other cloaked in carefully guarded silences. Finding no recognition of us, this woman smiles broadly. “Hi.” She pauses briefly and then moves on. I can see the light she carries with her as she continues past us, returning to her shopping, gathering up the notice. Someone sees.
It’s the smallest moment, but I gather it up too, the light thrown and scattered, falling on the glossy floor. I watch Riley offer this simple gift all the time, leaning over to read nametags and work badges dangling from woven cords, so that whenever possible, she can call a stranger by name. She does this everywhere we go, in any place, at any time, acknowledging everyone, even salesmen spinning signs by the roadway as we pass by in the car. She gives the gift of notice, of acknowledgement, even when she’s fighting her own battles, when the rest of us retreat.
“We’re almost finished, girls,” I say, more for Riley than for Zoe, leading them to the end of the aisle and toward the check out.
Good, Riley says, and the word tumbles out with another exhale. She pats her leg quickly, trying for nonchalant. I look at her, walking tall, twisting a length of brassy hair around her finger. “I’m ready to go home,” she says softly, as we take our place in line. Riley knows I see her, and the confession makes her cry. She blinks back tears, looking up.
“I know,” I say quietly, silently giving thanks that this time in the line will be relatively short. Times like these, I don’t know what to do with my eyes. I know that if I look at Riley too long, examine her too much, she will interpret my scrutiny as disapproval. She doesn’t like to think she’s causing any trouble. Less of me, more of you. John the Baptist’s sentiment resonates.
Riley, she teaches me. Wiping tears from her cheeks with her palms, she leans forward to forget herself and acknowledge someone else. The woman at the checkout speaks into the groceries and the conveyor belt, never looking up, her eyes, her voice dull with the repetition of the day. “Hello,” she says, “did you find everything you need?” It feels like a recorded message more than a greeting.
“Hello, Ms. Amanda,” Riley says. “We sure did.”
Again, the surprise, the light-thrown, and immediately I think of all the times I go through these lines without ever looking up from my list, my phone, my watch. The cashier stops, looking up. “Hi,” she says, having caught her own name. Again, the search for recognition. She knows my name. How does she know my name? The cashier wears a name tag, but clearly, she’s not used to anyone actually reading it.
“Don’t be afraid, for I have saved you.” The prophet spoke for God. “I have called you by name, and you are mine (Isaiah 43:9).” He knows our names, whether we know Him or not.
“Do I know you?” The cashier says kindly.
“No, I read your nametag,” Riley says, pointing, quietly inhaling a sniffle.
“OH,” the cashier says, grinning. “Of course.” She resumes scanning groceries, but now she’s looking up, at Riley. “No one ever notices my name.”
“I know your name,” Riley says. I know your name.
“Well, I don’t know yours,” the cashier says, grinning. And so it begins—a short but day-changing conversation between my daughter, who works so hard to juggle words and people and sounds and anxiety, and the cashier who usually feels invisible. And I stand there listening, thinking that my daughter is often a much better reflection of God than I. Because God reaches right into our not knowing Him; right into our lack of recognition; right into our shadows and our self-absorption, and sacrificing Himself, He whispers, “I know you by name, and already I love you.” It’s our startled surprise, our gathering up of that radiant grace, that makes us look up to see Him and seek to know Him in return.
