Target Parking Lot

By Bob Hansen

“Could we stop at Target? I need to buy a gift.” That’s what my wife said after the movie was over.

Having learned from history, I was prepared. “Sure. No problem.”

As she left the car, I settled in with my just-in-case-she-wants-to go-shopping book. I’m a slow reader and had thirty pages of the novel left. That should cover the time of a shopping trip for one item, right? Wrong! I finished the book, listened to an entire CD, then settled into idle staring.

In the parking lot, I observed generations of people passing by. Individuals came and went, families trekked to the store empty handed, soon returning with arms full of packages. All the while I sat, stuck in a time warp.

Events sped up. I saw images in fast procession. Trees grew to maturity in an instant. The old Target building was torn down and a new, larger store was built in its place. Automobile trends changed before my eyes. Sleeker models appeared, then anti-gravity, floating cars.

Decades and centuries flitted by as I pondered the meaning of time.

An image popped to mind. A few days before our excursion, in the fields near our home, I noticed three, pre-teen boys wandering about. I knew they were explorers. I could tell by the way they moved with boldness, the way they examined their surroundings. Each one carried a stick. Actually it was a weapon used to poke at things and to lash at enemies (weeds and tall grass).

Sitting in the car, I realized that I was still one of those boys—in my heart. I wished to reverse, or negate time. Would it be so bad to lop off thirty years and be young again?

Of course I wouldn’t want to go back too far. Maybe sixteen—or eighteen. Wait. That time in life wasn’t all that great, too many things unsettled. Perhaps twenty-five. I was married by then. But I still didn’t know what I was going to do with my life. Twenty-nine? The kids were young—diapers and crying. I didn’t particularly want to re-live those.

Perhaps I didn’t want to go back in time after all. In many ways my life was settled. The kids were mostly grown. In thirty-four years of marriage, my wife and I had ironed a lot of things out, achieving nearly-perpetual harmony. Besides, I now knew who God had created me to be. I understood what gifts he’d given and how I was to use them. In my mind, I voiced the thought, I’m okay God. You can leave me where I am.

Moments later, my wife returned from her shopping mission, a beaming smile across her face. “I found the perfect gift and it was on sale. I saved you four dollars and fifty cents.”

I thought of responding with, “Good, then it was worth the two hour wait.” But, somehow it had been worth it. Instead of a sarcastic remark, I simply smiled.

Bob Hansen writes from Chehalis, Washington. Bhansen6@juno.com