Holy Wednesday at the supermarket
Holy Wednesday drew half of Marikina to the supermarket. The parking lot was full, cars circling like restless birds, until we finally found a slot at the far end. My partner walked to the supermarket. I stayed behind with our two dogs—two medium-sized white Shih Tzus—thinking it would be a quick errand.
It wasn’t. The heat gathered inside the car despite the partial shade of a tree. The dogs shifted and panted, and after a few minutes, I decided we would be better off walking to the supermarket entrance. There, at least, there would be shade, movement, and the mild entertainment of watching people come and go.
We settled in a quiet corner of the supermarket foyer, just outside the sliding doors. There were no chairs, so I sat on the floor, the dogs beside me on their leashes—calm, clean, and content to observe the passing crowd. Shoppers streamed in and out with carts and bags. Some smiled at the dogs. A few stopped to pet them. Time passed in small, unremarkable moments.
Inside, the lines must have been long. After nearly an hour, my partner had not yet emerged.
It was then that the first interruption came. A tall woman, perhaps in her 60s, exited the store, paused when she saw us, and walked directly toward me. She smiled, said nothing, and placed a coin in my hand. Then she moved on.
I looked down. It was a P5 coin, bright and newly minted. For a moment, I didn’t understand what had just happened. Then the realization settled in, gently but unmistakably: in her eyes, I had crossed some invisible line—from passerby to petitioner.
What had she seen? I glanced at myself as if from a distance. Dark glasses against the glare. A collarless green shirt. Short pants. Leather sandals. Sitting on the floor. Two dogs at my side. Waiting. The question lingered longer than the coin remained in my hand. I turned it over, still trying to reconcile her gesture with my own sense of who I was in that moment.
More people came and went. The dogs continued to draw smiles. The rhythm of the entrance resumed, and I began to dismiss the encounter as an odd, harmless mistake.
Then the second interruption came. A shorter woman, perhaps in her 40s, emerged from the supermarket and made her way toward us with quiet purpose. She carried a small paper bag. When she reached me, she handed it over and said, “Food packs and water for you and the dogs are in there.”
I thanked her, still caught off guard. She nodded and left as simply as she had arrived. Inside the bag were two sealed packs of dog food—beef and liver, still cold from refrigeration—a bottle of water, and two cups of instant noodles. It was not a casual gesture. It had been considered, assembled, and carried back out.
I noticed then that she had no groceries with her. It seemed likely she had already finished her shopping, gone to her car, and then returned inside for this—specifically for us.
By the time my partner finally appeared, pushing a cart full of supplies and apologizing for the delay, I was still holding the bag. She asked how I had managed to go inside and buy food. “I didn’t,” I said, and told her the story. She found it hard to believe. In truth, so did I.
What began as a question about misperception had quietly shifted into something else. Beyond the misreading was something harder to dismiss: both women had chosen to respond. They did not ask for clarification. They did not wait for certainty. They saw what they thought was needed, and they acted. One gave a coin. The other gave more: time, thought, and a small measure of care that extended even to the dogs. Neither waited to be correct. They simply chose to be kind.
Holy Week invites reflection on sacrifice, compassion, and quiet acts of grace. Outside a busy supermarket, without announcement or recognition, I witnessed two such acts—offered to someone they did not know, for reasons they did not explain. The question that remained was no longer how I had been seen—but how, in that brief and ordinary space, they had chosen to see at all.
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