Still navigating life post multiple traumas in the span of five days where life was particularly generous with offering what felt like one tailor made traumatic incident after the next, I meandered across RittenhousePark toward a cute colorful little coffee shop that has carved a special place in my heart. In the aftermath of all the things, I didn’t desire much in the way of wanting things to do, see, purchase, etc. except for a london fog with almond milk, lavender AND vanilla syrups, and a sourdough cinnamon bun. This cute little coffee shop does these things well (too well). And in my want return to wellness, well, I went where things are made well.
It was beautifully empty, as I figured it may be on the unseasonably warm and sunny Saturday afternoon before Easter. I smiled at the familiar face of the barista who knew my order by heart and smiled with his eyes behind his mask. Warm cup of goodness in hand, and sticky sweet delight in my handbag, I got cozy at a brilliant and bright hue of blue table just outside the coffee shop. It was perfect for people watching, perfect for simply being, perfect for a petite possibly in her eighties white women with just a shade past bubble gum pink lipstick to stop and ask you, “Is today Saturday or Sunday?”
“ Saturday,” I said and smiled.
“ Thank you,” she said and slowly with grocery bag in one hand and her mahogany cane in the other continued on her way down the empty city sidewalk.
I sipped slowly as I felt a myriad of emotions rising within. Gratitude (she felt safe enough to ask me, that I seemed safe enough to engage). Surprise (by her question). Worry (what else might she not remember? Does she remember home and how to get there). Fear (what if she asks someone else something and they take advantage of her). Wonder (what is it like to go into a world you are forgetting). Back to gratitude again (I got to be a part of her story and she is a part of mine), and finally grace (grace for us both to go and to cross paths and get what we need).
As a fierce lover of time (yup it’s one of my top love languages) I cannot fathom not knowing what day it is. If it is Saturday it is likely I have clients in the morning, cleaning, errands, some new recipe to try, or maybe a visit to my sister and nephew’s home just outside the city. If it is Sunday it is likely I’ve made it to my Sunday coffee shop and then to church, and then a quick tour through TJMaxx or Marshalls before heading home to make brunch and indulge in coziness on the couch and eventually preparing for the week.
Post trauma, my body has become fierce in signaling when it’s had enough. When it is time. Time to take the bus instead of the trolley because it needs to slowly go home. Time to Uber versus public transit because it’s time to be around fewer people. Time to let someone know I’d like a hug or I’d like not to be touched. Time to let friends know gatherings are taxing and trigger hyper vigilance, but individuals times to connect are still manageable. My body also let me know it was time that Saturday to venture out, to get off at the same stop where I was assaulted, to reclaim that life rhythm. My mind, heart, and appetite agreed.
And as one who doesn’t believe in coincidences, the gratitude and sense of grace in the timing of that moment ran deep. The grace to go (and get those sweet treats!) and pause, to linger, to be vulnerable, and the gratitude for being met with the same. The lady went, paused, vulnerably asked what day it was and lingered for my answer. The gratitude in knowing that whatever we need, there is a grace that provides. She needed to know the day, that she could be vulnerable and ask someone for what she needed to know. I needed to know I would be alright. That I didn’t have to give up a life giving rhythm because I was harmed. That I can go slow (cause I definitely took an Uber home that day). That the heaviness can be light, that I can feel vulnerable and not be harmed (sitting and sipping on that sliver of sidewalk felt vulnerable y’all).
We say grace at dinner. We hear sermons of grace Sunday mornings (or maybe via YouTube the next morning at the gym). But this was Saturday grace. Smack in the middle of the sidewalk on a side street in the middle of a Saturday afternoon.
That’s the thing about grace though. It is present. Always. Present in our gratitude, our worry, our fear, our wonder, our vulnerability. Present when we don’t know, when we want to know, when we need to know. Present when things are heavy and when we are scrambling to make things light.
My hope for you this week is that as you go, as you need to know, you remember grace is there. It’s on the sidewalk. It’s at the table. It’s in your life rhythm. It is with you, always. Weekends included, Saturdays especially.