This morning, I stopped by the grocery store to pick up some lunch and snacks for another looooong day at work. I decided 'hey, let's grab some chocolate' because, you know, as the day wears on, nothing really beats a little taste of the pick-me-up good stuff.
When I brought my wares up to the till, the cashier took one look at the chocolate, sniffed "for breakfast?!" in a disdainful tone that would shame even the most shameless of outlaws, and then proceeded to race through the rest of my order like the chocolate-for-breakfast-disease might be contagious. Hmph. Did he think my Greek salad was for breakfast, too?
I was miffed to be judged so early in the morning for my apparent lack of culinary discretion, but then I remembered judging somebody else (a priest, no less- for shame!) for what was in his cart one fine day many years ago. The memory is crisp and clear, as though I scanned the cart only yesterday: frozen orange juice concentrate, cigarettes, and Cheez Whiz lay scattered around the bottom of the cart. That was it.
In the spirit of forgiveness and letting bygones be bygones, I've decided to assume that the priest was only stocking up on some dwindling essentials that day, not subsisting entirely on orange semi-solids like I wickedly assumed back then. And to the cashier that clucked at me this morning? May you one day discover the joy of the good stuff on your tongue as another long day at work drags on. Amen, brother.