Sweet Water

In the week before we throw a party, we take a pilgrimage to Trader Joe's in Westfield. It's not the bouquet and oak that draws us. It's where we buy 'Three Buck Chuck's.' A nick name for a good wine that fits into our budget. But if truth be told, the place we stop for dinner after we put the cases of Shiraz in the trunk is as important as the deal we get on the wine.

I found the place years ago, be accident. Dark wood, mission stained glass, fire place, good food, great martinis. It drew me back. The gravity was greatly enhanced by Jeffery. He was and is the spirit of the enviornment. After my first visit, he remembered my name, he remembered my then-girlfriend-now-wife's name, he remembered what I drink, he remembered me. As the theme song of "Cheers" floats through, bear with me.

This time Jeffery wasn't there. He was in Jamacia, "tanning up," as the waiter said. We soldiered through, inspite of his absence. Then a family came in. The octigenarian stopped by the table to flirt with Chris. The couple who seemed in charge bussled. They wandered around speaking to the waiters. They came over and introduced themselves. They were the owners. The grandchildren followed, all introduced in turn, including Mia, asleep on her mother's shoulder. Somewhere in the conversation it came out I was a minister. By this time we had our coats on. Frank, Dad, owner, boss, apologizing, asked me very humbly if I would offer a "small blessing" on the place.

I've read about the role of shaman. I've witnessed the power of curses and the fear of superstition. I've also seen the relief and gratitude that people carry from a moment when they receive a benediction.

It's happened to me before. Someone asking for words of assurance that are based not on some reasonable and relational moment of sharing, but rather on perceived access to power beyond understanding. I've heard it denegrated and treated with the distain of adults for the belief of children. Paternalism is ugly. It assumes authority, the authority of superior knowledge. It is arrogant at best and abusive at worst. But such posturing cannot deny the power of humility and respect.

The blessing of touch, of words that acknowledge the power that is beyond our definition, our reason, our wisdom, that is to be respected and not to be withheld.

I don't understand how any of this works. I don't understand the cause and effect relationship between plains of being. But I do know that it touched me and grounded me to be a part of that moment.

Besides, they make great martinis.