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It’s one of those places of concrete floors, IPAs, vegan breakfast sausage and intentional irreverence. “I’m silently judging your grammar,” reads the sign at the cash register.
“Not as fast as I’ll be judging yours,” I think.
A gent wearing a pageboy cap takes the table beside me. He pops his root beer and opens his book. A news crew sits in the corner, the $60,000 camera with the fuzzy mic the giveaway.
A little girl with curly brown hair wanders past, and as soon as I wonder where her parents are, there they are. Dad has a bag of chips and some juice. Mom scoops up the little girl, and they take the table on the other side of me.
Curls has two finger puppets (pink pig, green monster), which have all her attention. She looks back and forth at them, seeing nothing else.
Mom unwraps a sandwich for her, and Dad opens a juice. They push these her way. She doesn’t notice. They open the chips. They call her name, again and again.
Curls doesn’t hear — or pretends not to hear. She’s staring at the puppets, wiggling her fingers. Mom moves closer to one puppet. Curls looks past Mom. Dad calls her again. Curls looks at the puppet, but not him.
How many times has God been right in our face – right there – and we’re in la-la land? How many times has God scooped us up and set us before whatever table we need? How many times has God tried to get our attention – come down to our level, even – and we can’t see beyond our own noses?
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