I stopped this evening to grab a salad at my favorite hole-in-the-wall Mexican place. It’s my favorite. It’s one of those little joints where you walk down the line and supervise what goes onto your plate. I always order the Ensalada Bajia. I walk along asking for a little of this … a lot of that … more cilantro, please.
I paid for my meal to go and walked out of the restaurant only to stop dead in my tracks. At a small table just outside the restaurant was a woman. Obviously homeless. Certainly hungry. I asked her if she liked salad. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Well, here. I got this for you,” I smiled.
I went back in the restaurant, ordered another salad to go and stopped briefly by the table where I had earlier left the first salad. “I hope you have a great night,” I said. “My name’s Gail,” she said. She asked my name, then said she would pray for me, “it being Easter and all.”
That was nice. That was really nice.
As I turned out of the drive and onto the main street, I noticed another woman … again obviously homeless … hurrying toward the restaurant. I envisioned her a friend of Gail’s, two women sharing a lovely salad on a beautiful spring evening.
Yeah. That was nice.