I was commissioned a couple of days ago to fill a Chipotle order for Charlotte and Justin. Not my favorite place to eat, but being some of my favorite people I was glad to be their legs. I arrived at the door the same time as an older grandfather and his grand daughter. The truck they had gotten out of was a rather tired looking ole’ thing. The faded paint and rust spoke of high miles without even looking at the odometer. The license tags from the state of Tennessee told me for certain that this was a courageous grandfather. I am not sure I would have left the county in it much less the state. 

It is amazing the friends you can make if you just dare to speak first. I have found that most people are pretty friendly.  As I held the door for them I said something that I thought was pretty insightful. “From Tennessee huh?” The little grandfather, probably in his late 70’s and all of 120 pounds looked at me and said, “How’d you know?” (How did you know?)  I mumbled something about the tags on his truck and fired another question. “What brings you here?” I meant to Central Ohio. He thought I meant Chipotle. He leaned toward me and whispered, “I came for her. She loves this place, but I would rather be at Rita’s in Kingsport.” I think he was making a good choice by eating  before he started back to Kingsport. I was more specific with my second question. “What brings you to this area?” 

“I came to see my daughter, her mother, who is in the hospital down the way.” I had never really thought of a hospital in a large city as being “down the way.” His nod to south made me believe she was a patient in St. Ann’s. He began to tell me what the doctor had said yesterday and what he had said today and what he hoped he would say tomorrow. I am not a doctor for sure, but it sounded like the woman was going to be OK before the weekend. He was close to telling his granddaughter that he “just wanted some chick-un” (chicken) when he gave to me a lesson learned only in a Chipotle line. “Ever-body is up a’gin sumpin.” (Everybody is up against something). 

You know, up against my somethings, I often forget that. I forget when I blow the horn at the guy who cut in front of me that he might  just be “up a’gin sumpin.” Everybody, rich or poor, handsome or frightful, single or married, employed or unemployed, is up against something they aren’t quite sure it’s ending. The more I think about it I am not so sure my horn of objection is going to help them find their way through it either.

I can’t imagine my new friend that loved eating at Rita’s ever blowing his horn in insensitive objection. Whether the horn on the truck even worked will forever be a mystery, but I think his roots ran deeper than horn tooting. He must have learned along time ago, maybe darker nights in other hospitals, that we are all more alike than we are different. We are all working through something.