Working at the registers at a book store gives you a sometimes sorrowful look inside of people's lives. The woman who quietly brought me a book on how to survive a miscarriage using God's love. The woman who stonefacedly brought me a book on navigating the ending of an abusive marriage. The ashamed man who brought me a book on coping with schizophrenic disorder. The teen girl choking while she hands me a book on suicidal depression. The joyful woman with the bridal books, or the laughing excited couple buying pregnancy books. I see inside their lives, see things that they probably wouldn't share with a stranger, because I ring up their books. And I want to touch their hands and tell them it's ok, that I'm not judging. Maybe hug them and tell them I understand, or tell them I'm happy for them. Tell them it gets better.
Sometimes, I do.