One Sunday in May of 2014, I stopped at a local Walmart store in Campbell County, Tennessee, after church to pick up a few things before driving home to Knoxville. A voice announced on the PA system store-wide that a demonstration was going to begin in 5 minutes next to the shoe department and everyone who attended would receive a free kitchen knife. This store layout was a little different and I tilted my head up to read the signs suspended from the ceiling to find the location of that department. I steered my cart towards the gathering of other shoppers, curious to see what was required to receive the free knife. Though I had no need for another kitchen utility knife, the word “free” grabbed my attention. Other shoppers apparently felt the same pull, and I joined the huddle crowded around the podium. We listened to the product demonstrator’s pitch and watched him slice everything from paper to pipe with ease, even slicing tomatoes as thin as potato chips. I had not mastered the art of cutting fresh food quickly and efficiently, and I was skeptical this knife would improve my veggie slicing skills in the kitchen; however, I listened and watched hopefully.

At the end of his presentation, he asked that everyone who wanted the free knife to place one hand on the podium he was standing behind. We all moved in closer, nudging to get our hands into position. As he continued pitching a boxed set of matching knives, I noticed the assortment of hands on the table. We all stood there motionless, waiting for our free knife, and I studied the hands and faces around me. One man’s hand was burned and I knew instinctively this was from a drug pipe. My eyes followed the arm up to his face. He was trembling all over and his eyes were fixed on the salesman without blinking. The skin on his face was glistening from perspiration and I looked at his hand again in silent sadness. Heaviness filled my spirit and I immediately started praying for rescue of his soul from that darkness and healing and restoration of his life. The hand next to his was bronzed and arthritic, and the woman’s face was weathered and set as she waited patiently. There were other arthritic hands and one young hand. The old hands belonged to faces without joy and I prayed for those dry souls. The young hand had a smile on her face and I asked God to bless her and keep a smile in her heart throughout her life whatever she faced in the future. I looked at my own hand, dry in need of some lotion with a few age spots that have showed up in recent years, and my wedding ring still in place. These hands bore witness to the events of our lives. My attention returned to the pitch man who by now was handing out our free knives as a reward for listening to his entire presentation. We then scattered in different directions carrying our trophies, and I headed home with my free knife sitting in the passenger seat.

I had not thought about that day again, until today as I was driving home from church. The man with the burned hand popped into my mind and kept returning throughout the afternoon. When a person comes to my mind out of the blue, I lift them up in prayer for God’s presence, protection, provision, salvation, or whatever need that prompted the recall. I reviewed that day in Walmart, the awareness of the people around me, and those hands reaching out in expectancy. At the time it had felt like an impulsive whim to participate in that giveaway, but perhaps there was a deeper and more intentional purpose for my stop at that store on that day.