For Days the Line Won't Move

Sometimes the delay is the real turning point.

I'm in the tenuous, last-week stage of house-building fatigue—those final days when you're buried in paperwork, chasing down missing items, and making constant Lowe’s runs to replace the things that won’t do.

Out of print paper, we ducked into the neighborhood CVS to save a trip to the suburbs, hoping a single ream would cover the final round of documents to print and fax. I got in line with my paper and a few last-minute items. One lone, clearly exhausted checker was holding down the fort on this busy Saturday afternoon.

At the front of the line stood a woman of foreign origin, her head covered, her body wrapped in bright fabrics. Her velvet-black skirt brushed the floor. I was customer number nine. The line stretched behind me—grumbling included a man with a cane who muttered loudly, "We should have gone to the Walgreens."

I'll admit I was already weary. I took a deep breath and tried to battle back the impatience growing inside me. The source of the delay? This woman was trying to haggle with the clerk. At a CVS. Her speech was fast, broken, staccato. The clerk, holding her ground, responded firmly but gently: “Many people are behind you, and I can’t do what you ask. You have to pay the price as it is.”

I’ve prayed a lot lately—for my contractor’s superintendent, my mortgage officer, my realtor, myself. I try to pray for the people who cross my path, even when we collide more than we connect. Here was another one—blocking my path home, where I planned to unwind with a glass of wine, a movie I’ve already seen, and a few more boxes to pack before crawling under the electric blanket.

This was, I realized, another opportunity to pray. But instead, I silently willed the clerk to hurry things along.

Then I did the only thing I could: I surrendered. I accepted that my progress had come to a halt. And in that stillness, I found the space to reflect.

I thought about the places where haggling is still welcome—our farmer’s market, the consignment shop, the local jeweler. I remembered how, once, a woman like her might have been praised for her skill—prized above rubies for knowing how to stretch a coin. I thought about the scarves women used to wear on Saturdays, covering their hair curlers in preparation for Sunday morning's big hairstyles. I noticed the faces around me: the scowls, the twitching feet, the mother trying to exude patience for the sake of her child.

And something shifted. My shoulders dropped. I exhaled more deeply than I had in days. This woman, simply by insisting on her own cultural norms, had brought my frantic life to a full stop. She gave me a pause I didn’t know I needed.

This morning, I thought about her again. I realized I never prayed for her. So I did—quietly, over coffee. I thanked her for the way she pulled me out of the blur, for reminding me that my life shouldn’t run on caffeine and roller skates. She gifted me a sabbatical in time.

We shared that moment—even if we didn’t understand each other. Even if we were worlds apart. And that, I think, is reason enough to thank her.