We were at the store today.

The kind with oversized carts and bulk everything.
Long lines.
Bright lights.
People moving in every direction.

It was ordinary.
Unremarkable.

And yet I found myself noticing the carts in front of me.

An older couple walking slowly together.
A dad with his child perched up front, one small hand gripping the handle.
Moms with theirs tucked close, little feet kicking against the metal bar.

Everyone pushing something.

And it struck me —
we never really know what someone is carrying.

Not just what’s stacked in their cart.
But what’s stacked in their life.

We see the cereal boxes.
The paper towels.
The cases of water.

We don’t see the schedules.
The grief.
The exhaustion.
The quiet prayers whispered in parking lots.

We move around each other.
Offer small smiles.
Shift our carts to make room.

But every person in that building was holding something invisible.

And so was I.

There’s something steadying about remembering that.

It makes me softer.
Slower to assume.
Quicker to extend grace.

Because the world is full of people carrying more than we can see.

And sometimes,
all we can do
is push what’s in front of us
and trust that God sees the weight of it all.

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