He was unpacking furniture outside the Innes Station apartment building in Old Town. The moving truck had turned the sidewalk into a canyon next to the building, and I stepped around the ramps that came out of the truck. Its side door stood wide open, showing a large wooden crate that was being emptied of someone's entire load of material possessions.
It was a beautiful morning, warm and sunny. I was in a great mood, even though I was walking back from the auto shop where I'd left my car for a brake job. I just stopped and asked the mover -- working for King's Moving & Storage -- if I could pray for him. He looked at me. "What?" So I asked again. He was about 50 years old, and short. He shook his head then. "No thanks. I already prayed this morning." That's fine, I wanted to tell him, but you can pray more than one time a day. But I didn't say that. I just told him that was good, and then I moved on, thanking him. As I was walking off, he said behind me, "But thanks anyway." And then he disappeared into the building, pushing a dolly.
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