I rushed  into the  Dollar Store for a few items.  We don’t have a grocery store  locally  and I did not want to drive all the way to McCall for orange juice and  a cheap squeaky toy for my dog who chews them like dog candy.  Fortunately, this store often has basic items when I run out. (However, “dollar”  is a misnomer. Hardly anything is a buck anymore!)

There’s a recently added refrigerated cooler where I found the juice – with a still valid expiration date. I  looked  around for a bit, saw nothing I couldn’t live without and got in line to pay. Several people were ahead of me, waiting patiently. I tried not to speculate on their circumstances and their grocery choices piled in the carts.  My years at the food bank taught me that the poor do not eat nutritious, healthy food, tending to buy what’s quick and easy to fix, tastes sugary or salty – and is calorie laden. The reasons are complex and cause for compassion, not judgment,  especially mine. 

Waiting in line, I noticed the cashier who was new to the store. She was in her thirties with  facial piercings and tattoos  visible on her neck and hand. “ Oh, boy, “ I thought, as some very unChristian , notions  burbled up, like swamp gas.   (I  confess to having  problems with  tattoos and piercings. )  As I came to the register, I saw  the tattoo on her neck was a butterfly.  

“You like butterflies, don’t you?” I said making conversation. She gave me a big smile.  “Yes, I do.” She leaned over the counter,  showing me her  butterfly rings, a pendant necklace and the blue one pinned in her hair “I have butterflies on my ankle and a large one across my back. “ She turned around to show me where that  butterfly was resting under her shirt  across her spine.  Then she added. “I’m a felon, you see.”

I wasn’t sure why she shared that with me, but I wasn’t  surprised.  Back in the days of Heartland Hunger Center I met more than a few who’d been in prison. Often their fingers were tattooed with symbols. Never with a butterfly.  “It must be hard for you,” I said and added, “I understand a little what you’re going through,” without elaborating how I can personally empathize with her situation.  “Why a butterfly?” The woman looked at me with old, grieved eyes and a wistful expression. “I don’t know. I just like them. They’re pretty and  give me some joy – and hope.”   

I can’t remember what I said to her, except that God loved her very much and forgave her. This time her smile lit up the cramped space we shared.  God had done a number on my heart. He reignited  my compassion for  those walking on the knife edge of life.  She was no longer  poor or beat up or  ashamed of her past. She was definitely no longer a felon; she is a daughter of the Most High God who longs to bless and draw her to Jesus through someone just like me.

And then right before my eyes, she changed from moth into a beautiful butterfly, like a summer monarch, fluttering  across from me behind  the counter, looking for the nectar of love, acceptance and mercy.  I know the Holy Spirit was there guiding both of us into that encounter.

 I left the Dollar Store far, far  richer than when I went in.