Divine Wisdom

In the annals of the world affairs, a tiny thing happened. (As recounted by Rachel, whose name I’ve chose to change.)

Rachel pulled her car into a Starbucks lot and entered the civil rush and polite veneer of the precaffinated. The queue was a quarter way to the door but Rachel noted that the baristas were brisk. Nevertheless, when a middle-aged woman of modest means allowed a young couple, who with a, we-are-needed-elsewhere-I’m-sure-you-understand smile, to insert themselves ahead of her, Rachel chided the woman in her head: the unassuming are always at risk of exploitation.

Back behind her windshield Rachel watches a small drama play out on the slim patio. The unassuming woman is now sitting under a green umbrella at a black metal table sipping her coffee. A man who looks like he sleeps rough approaches and asks for change — for coffee, presumably. Without taking measure or soundings the woman reaches into her bag and gives the man change. He then asks for part of the muffin she is eating. Once again there is no hesitation and she breaks off precisely half of what she has and hands it to him. He nods and leaves.

Rachel watches with a mix of fascination and guilt. After the man leaves she steps out of her car, approaches the woman. “I just have to say that the way you treated the homeless man is admirable, I simply needed to tell you.” “Thank you,” says the woman, “but I wasn’t aware there were other ways.” Rachel, a parish priest, pauses, swallows, then asks, “What is your name?” “Sophia,” says the woman. “Do you know what your name means?” asks the priest. “Yes,” she says, “my father taught me its meaning when I was a girl.” “I hope we meet again,” says the priest. “That is my hope as well,” says Sophia.