The God My Uncle Sees
This past spring, my uncle hit me with an account of the miraculous within the common.
My uncle is just a few years from 70. He is a father of three kids residing in three states and a grandfather of four.
He is from the Midwest but before that his people are from Poland. He enjoys beer champagne (aka a bottle of Miller High Life) every now and then, is an avid Detroit Tigers fan, and he tells jokes so dry they’d give a teetotaler a run for his money.
He called me earlier this spring to tell me he won’t be able to make the annual family golf trip. He has to work that weekend.
He took a new job at the supermarket where he arranges vegetables and fruit into their assigned bins and outposts.
Please hear what he says to me —
Mikey, it’s kind of a God thing.
I get to the grocery store at 6am. Walking in from the parking lot, I glance across Woodward avenue where the earliest signs of morning begin to emerge over the Ford dealership.
Inside, I’ll begin my tasks for the day. Unboxing the produce and putting each into its proper bin.
But at some point, I’ll pause. Taking a moment to glance down at what I’ve arranged. Trying to time it for that exact moment when the full light of morning begins to pour in from the bay windows above and the store begins to glow.
I get to see the beginning of day gloss over each vegetable and each piece of fruit. Illuminated, they sit there so beautifully; nestled in the places they have been sorted.
