I'm not in Belfast anymore. I'm not in BVS anymore and those days feel farther away than logic says they should. I'm back home now, and working in a bookstore. It's one of those major chains and not a quaint, local place, which I would prefer and love, but which don't exist. I keep having this internal debate: I didn't go to college to work in a bookstore. I can't do retail for life. But I LOVE working there.

I think I start to love a place when I see the stories, and even in the walls of this branch of a major retailer, there are living stories. There's the guy who comes in everyday for his grande cappuccino, sometimes with friends, sometime alone, but always for his grande cappuccino, no extra flavor shot, nothing from the bake case.

And the gentleman whose eyes lit up and whose words sped up as he told me about his civil war reenactment. The morning was foggy and there were 700 of them, marching 6 abreast through the small town. Local residents heard the marching (were there drums?), but couldn't see anything through the low cloud until the first row marched through, led by the flag of the Confederacy... he demonstrated their surprise, the jaw dropping and gasps from the locals as they marched through to "battle."

But the thing that gets me, that surprises me, humbles me, and makes me grateful, is how often I see need. People looking for books are transparent. What you read reveals so much, and when you check out with three books about controlling men, and how to deal with verbally abusive men, I hope you see compassion. My heart breaks knowing that you're at a point where you need help. As your cashier or bookseller, I may not be able to say anything helpful to you, but I pray for customers. To the woman whose son is hospitalized, just diagnosed with bi-polar, and unrecognizing of you or himself, I pray that you see hope in your tough time. I know we just sell books, but I hope you walked out with more than a collection of words and pages.