Page 70 of In a Word, Yes

“This is a disaster!” Chase says, marching to his usual station. He surveys the disorderly state of the shelves, scowl deepening.

Rob and I exchange a smirk. Chase will never, and I do mean never, abandon his pie-in-the-sky expectation that all the food items will remain as tidy as he left them two weeks earlier.

“Well, son,” Rob says, “afraid you’re absolutely right. We got pret’ near cleaned out. Don’t know what we’d do without our all-star organizer! Lots of new grub to stock. Think you’re up to it?”

Chase levels Rotary Rob with an adorable glower that saysAre you crazy? I could do this in my sleepand sets to work sliding cans of diced tomatoes into perfectly aligned rows. Checking expiration dates. Turning labels front and center. Tossing dented cans.

My son and I are donut-fueled.

We began our day, as per our tradition, at the bakery. Again, Chase bypassed anything that involved colored sprinkles and eyed the maple bars. Again, he wasn’t ready to chance it and opted instead for his go-to, a glazed donut and orange juice.

“Really appreciate your help as always, Lucy,” Rob says with tenderness. “Wish more of our volunteers were so faithful. Afraid we’re a bit short-staffed again. Myrna’s down with a cold.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Mind keeping an eye on the front?”

I pause, then say, “Sure. I’d be happy to.” True, but also not true. After a week manning the reception counter at theMessenger,not to mention all the careful maneuvering that’s been required to avoid smacking into the hefty chip on Brad Vickery’s shoulder (for which I’m happy to claim full responsibility), my social battery is on zero. Holing up back here in the stockroom with Chase sounds more to my taste.

Needless to say, I offer to start a pot of coffee for the guests anyway.

I once watched a documentary showing how an octopus can cleverly evade predators by encasing itself in shells and undersea debris and then lying perfectly still like it’s part of the sea floor. What a trick! But there’s that darn gut check. If I’ve learned anything over the past several weeks, it’s this: Camouflage is no longer the goal.

Not that guests of the food bank are to be feared. I have been one of them—folks who for whatever reason find themselves in need of a hand-up. No one’s immune to an unexpected change of fortune. A certain itinerant preacher from Galilee famously said that when we are brought low,thisis when we’re most blessed. I lived this reality.

My own rock bottom takes on a different shape when I look back on it today. It’s so clear now that I was being held. Carried. Even if I didn’t recognize it in the moment. No matter what comes my way, I must hold on to this, never looking to my circumstances to affirm God’s presence.

He said he has two addresses, so to speak.

One, the “high and holy place.” My little brother, Mikey, gets to experience this, but I can’t go there yet.

The other place God says he resides is wherever humble, hurting people hang out. I don’t know quite how this works—that God can be everywhere all the time but especially near to those suffering.

I run the sink faucet, fill the coffee carafe.

Imagine it. God’s whole heart is to revive the devastated and discouraged. No wonder I’m less aware of him when I’m well fedand comfy. I send up a prayer that I’m able to embody hope for anyone who arrives this morning with a crushed spirit.

Two and a half hours later, after welcoming a steady trickle of guests, my heart is full, and my energy’s holding surprisingly steady. One young mom shared the heartbreaking specifics of her diminished circumstances and welcomed my offer to pray with her. Tears were shed, and they weren’t only hers.

Still, I miss working alongside Chase. An opportune moment arrives, so I carry my mug of tea along with a list of items that could use replenishing back to the storeroom. From down the hallway, a low voice that is definitely not Chase’s reaches my ears. Then a rumble of laughter.

Wait.I know that warm rasp. I round the doorway.

And then, full stop.

For a minute that feels like twenty, I look back and forth between my son and my new old friend Wyatt Hayes, trying and failing to make sense of this sudden convergence of two very,verydistinct parts of my life.

It’s impossible to hide my surprise in seeing Wyatt here. On the other hand, Wyatt doesn’t appear the least bit surprised to see me.

“Are you ... looking for me?” I ask. Although, sheesh. Why flatter myself? Everything isn’t always about me. There must be a perfectly plausible explanation for Wyatt’s appearance here in this nondescript place completely off the beaten track, where Chase and I generally fly under the radar.

Wyatt slips his hands in his pockets. Then he removes his hands. It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s wearing a black long-sleeve that says A LITTLE DIRT NEVER HURT with a graphic that depicts a country road disappearing into a forest.

“I ... yes. You see,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his jaw, “funnily enough, I’ve been looking for a way to get involved. A service project or something. And then Nytasha mentioned you had some kind of ‘dreadful obligation’”—he pauses to use air quotes,how cute is that?—“preventing you from attending her thing, the wilderness thing, and—”

I scrunch up my face. “That’s not at all what I said.” I may not always be excited to abandon my cozy nest on a Saturday, but these shifts always turn out to be a joy for Chase and me. I certainly would’ve never painted my role at the food bank as a thing to be dreaded.

“Yeah, it didn’t sound like you. Which is why I pressed for more details.”