I saw him walking toward the store across the long expanse of the Walmart parking lot as I pulled in off the street. His semi-truck was parked on the far outskirts, its hazard lights blinking. I figured he wouldn’t be long, and he wasn’t.
A few minutes later, he came back out of the store, heading back for his truck carrying a plastic bag. I walked up to him and asked if I could ask him a question. He stopped and looked at me, but didn’t say anything. I took that as a yes. So I asked if I could pray for him. He smiled, revealing a huge wad of tobacco. “I guess,” he said, still smiling.
He was 40ish, wearing an orange public works shirt and a ballcap. I prayed for him there in the parking lot, that he would be safe and that God would bless him. He paused a moment longer after I finished my prayer, his head still bowed. Then we shook hands then and chatted for a few minutes. He no longer worked for public works, he said, pointing to his truck. He had just been home for the weekend and now was headed for Oklahoma City. I wished him well, and we parted.
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