In fact, they did for a little while. I couldn't find a bulk grocery section like the one I was used to shopping in Seattle. The freeway system crisscrossed the rivers and bridges in a confusing muddle. The library was home to rowdy teenagers after school. The church search - well, that was long and lonely. And of course, all of our friends were three hours away. More than a couple times that I sat on my steps and cried over the loss of "normal."
Then, a month of so into our move here, I went to a different place for our Monday grocery trip. Within steps of our parking spot, life got a little sunnier. We met Sundance, and he helped us make this place home.
Week after week, Sundance has greeted us as we headed into our grocery adventures. At times, we stop and visit on the way in, slowly getting to know this remarkable man and his story. I've heard about his college baseball scholarship and completed bachelor's degree. I listened to how his sister took care of his parents, and how he'd see them around the holidays. I've heard tidbits of the struggles he had faced in life and decisions that had lasting impact on his life. When the boys are impatient or rambunctious, he's reminded them to "listen to their mother" as we turned in through the automatic doors. When they are modeling for best-kid-of-the-year brochures, he says something like, "your mom must have taught you well." I think we often all needed those little notes of humor and genuine compliments in our morning.
My friends have teased that I must take that song, "Who are the people in your neighborhood...?" pretty seriously. Perhaps - I admit that I go to that grocery store because of Sundance, Anastasia "the samples girl," and Suzie "the checker." There are closer, maybe even better, places to get our groceries. These people make the trip for milk and sundries something we actually look forward to. Who can say that about grocery shopping with little kids?
One our way out of the grocery store, we often stop to buy a paper from Sundance. Occasionally, when his short poems were published, he'd point them out with contagious confidence. I love reading his creations, little excerpts of his personality in short, poignant lines. When we don't buy a paper, we often pick up a little something in the aisles for Sundance. The boys take turns getting to carry Sundance's favorite strawberry cereal bars or a tall water bottle as I push the cart past the flowers and out the door. Sometimes we'll stop and visit some more, and other times we have to leave with a little wave and, "see you next week, Sundance!"
"God bless you and all your loved ones," Sundance always says with a smile. At first, I smiled and nodded, but it wasn't long before I struck up a conversation with him about his beliefs. What did "God" mean to him? Sundance was unashamed to answer, "I'm a Christian. I've been following Jesus for a long time, and that's just the way I live." His beliefs were solid pieces of his character, and his tolerance of differences was far-reaching and sincere. Every person who knew him, regardless of their own beliefs, is blessed with his signature goodbye.
Sundance's life is simple. He once described the room he rented for $20 a day. "I'm simple, but happy," he'd say confidently. "I don't have a lot of the things that cause stress for people. I don't care if gas prices rise - I don't have a car. I love my work, and live my life." His one little luxury is a small tv that brought various baseball games to his room in the summer. Far from regretting what might have been, had injury not dashed his possibilities of a long pitching career, Sundance was quite content and peaceful with his life. Once we talked about how he'd tried to apply for various other, higher paying professional jobs. However, at his age, with some of his past mistakes, it was difficult to find an employer willing to invest in him. He wasn't bitter or even disappointed, though. His life was blessed, and he loved the people and work he encountered each day. Blessed, he assured me, didn't mean easy, however. Some seasons are better for street paper vendors, and others are more difficult. Nearing 60 years old, he knew he would probably continue newspaper sales every day for the rest of his life. There would be no retirement, just years of days of work.
Sundance has always noticed if we missed a Monday morning at the store. As we rounded the corner and stopped to say hello, he'd ask about our recent trips or vacations. I've watched many conversations where he patiently listened to 3 and 4-year old boys relay their adventures. He always seemed happy to see us back on routine. I've been amazed and humbled thathe would know our habits so well, but I also appreciated that things had become "normal" and comfortable enough in our routine. Finally, it seems, we have a little community in the errands and grocery trips of life.
A couple weeks ago, I went to get groceries and missed Sundance. No other paper vendor stood out there and I assumed he must have been sick - or perhaps lucky enough to get tickets to a baseball game - that particular day. It was unusual for him to miss a moment of his work, but I didn't worry too much about it. I just missed him, and the boys missed giving high-fives out the side of the shopping cart and picking out strawberry bars. I actually looked forward to the next time we'd see Sundance, so I could let him know we had missed him and remind him that he's appreciated and noticed.
As it turns out, I won't get to tell him. As I walked from our car last Thursday, I was greeted by a new face selling papers. Sundance, he reported, had passed away a week-and-a-half earlier. He had evidently gone in his sleep, or while watching tv.
Stunned, I entered the store and tried to navigate the cheese options while I processed the news. I've written before about minivan theology. It's the seminary of life - where the beliefs we hold meet the questions and challenges of young minds. It's living out my faith in the presence of little eyes, ears, and lives that soak it up and imitate me, for better or worse. It's answering "why" to the things that seem most important, yet most difficult to articulate. In a grocery store, between samples of hummus and various scents of dish soap, minivan theology took a new turn. What happens when somebody dies? In particular, what happened to Sundance?
I am so grateful for the conversations I had with Sundance over the past two years. With confidence I could explain how his death is sad for us, but actually happy for Sundance. I could hold back my own tears in order to let my children hear how Sundance is with God forever. I could remember that this man, nearly sixty years old, will never have to work through old age, trying to pull together the daily rent and food costs of his simple life. I could acknowledge that death, however gaping in loss to us, is the end of pain and loneliness, of standing in the cold rain to sell papers, of accepting the judgements of those who don't recognize the human blessing before them. I could look at my children, and agree with them that it was "so nice" to have had him as a friend, even if we're very sad now to lose him.
Sundance was a remarkable human being. He was a gift to that store, to every customer he greeted on that side of the automatic doors, to every ear that heard, "God bless you and all your loved ones." He gave a new face to my understanding of working poverty - one of strength and gratitude, of love and discipline, of compassion and confidence.
I will miss him. I will grieve the change on that entrance to the grocery store. I will continue to process the loss with my boys, who daily ask about Sundance's life and God's decisions. Most of all, I will be thankful, selfishly, for the friendship and comfort I found in our weekly visits. He helped me find "home" in this new place, and now his Maker has taken him home forever.
