The LSATs done and behind me, I couldn’t stop the mental buzzing of logic games, contrapositives, and other nonsense. After trying to drown it out with SNL clips and random movies, I went for a run. I have this love-hate relationship with running. The white noise of weariness, the thud of the feet against the ground, and the breathing that seems to envelope the space between my eyes– literary devices make it so romantic, but running kind of sucks– its hard. I enjoy it for the peace it affords me after I’ve hit that threshold of tiredsauce, the music fades and my mind unravels its knots, tangles, and jams. 

On my way home, I get a call from a friend soliciting caffeine. A fellow addict is a friend indeed, so I stop by the local gas station.

Two cokes please and thank you. And as I wait for my receipt, the person behind the counter surprises me with dialogue outside of the normal buy-sell transaction:

“I like your cross, miss”

I look up, really kind of startled, “Er… thanks,” I hesitated and immediately my hand went up to roll that cross around my fingers. I continued, “My mom gave it to me”.   

“So that makes you a Christian, right?”

I blink. “Yup, I’m a Christian,” I pause with the follow up question balancing on the tip of my tongue. Do I ask this question? Is there a better way to word this? Too late, this long silence is getting awkward. I fumble with my words, “uh yeah huh… um are you?” Call me eloquent, mang. But that was it– the pivotal conversation starter was out in the air and there was no turning back.

There we stood: him still holding out my receipt, me feeling the cokes sweat into the crook of my arm. He explained he was seeking, still looking, enjoying the experience of reading the scriptures. We talked about churches and how to prayerfully consider a body of Christ. He said he would check out TCBC next week. Funny how it takes the most random and simple interactions to clear your head of the nonsense of this world. A gas station attendant named Joseph reminds me of this ever growing, beautiful body of Christ. 

We parted and I unconsciously raised my fist in a salute.

“Press on, Joseph”

I lowered it. Man– was that too overdramatic? I was in a gas station. A GAS STATION. I was juggling two cokes, a foot away from a rotating hotdog machine, raising a fist to man I just met. The strange worldiness of my surroundings hit me. 

But he raised his fist into the air and smiled. And it cleared my head. 

“Press on, sister!”