On Saturday morning I braved the gloomy weather and headed to the St. Paul Farmer’s Market. It is one of the true pleasures of my week to begin my Saturday in this way. Even in these early days of the growing season I find myself undone by the beauty of vegetables, the color of flowers, the smells of brewing coffee and the sight of so many different kinds of people. All up early. All shopping for food. Asparagus, spinach and rhubarb shown forth as the ‘first to the market finish line’. People were scooping up tiny tomato and basil plants as they dreamed of the bruschetta that will come in July. Children, and some adults, munched on sugary, sprinkled donuts as we chose not to notice the gray, rainy skies.

Instead of a donut, I opted for a toasted pumpernickel bagel. While I was waiting for it to take a turn on the grill, I watched the young adults who work this booth. They wore the Saturday morning sleepy look of most their age. A look that belies a too late night followed by a too early morning. But they laughed and joked with one another showing the camaraderie they have developed in this job that will lead them to something else, i.e. a tuition payment, rent for another month, enough spending money for another late night.

In my scanning of these young people, my eyes fell on one young man, his black hoodie unzipped to reveal a dark, gray t-shirt. And then I saw the tattoo that formed a ring on his neck. Moving from left to right, across the sinking place on his white, fragile skin were the dark blue, elegant letters that said simply:”I am so sorry.” For some reason these words hit the pit of my stomach and didn’t bounce back. What could this young man be so sorry about that he had this tattooed forever on his neck where all would see? Why had he made so permanent this perpetual apology? These questions seared through my brain as another young woman handed me my warm bagel oozing with cream cheese. As I walked away I felt my heart tug for him.

All day I thought of this quick encounter with someone I may never see again but whose bodily adornment had so moved me. The words on his neck caused me to think of all the situations, all the actions in the world for which I am so sorry. I thought of all the people I come into contact with during a given week who are homeless or living on the edge. I am so sorry that as a nation we cannot figure out how to keep people from falling through the cracks of our social systems. I am so sorry that we continue to engage in hate and fear-filled actions that threaten to marginalize people on the basis of whom they love. I am so sorry that we continue to lash out at those whose faith is foreign to us, those who appear different because of the ways they dress or speak or even eat. I am so sorry that children and the elderly often are the recipients of the actions of a few making decisions for the many. So much to be sorry about. This young man took, in my opinion, a radical and permanent way of living this.

It is easy to get lost in sorry. But somehow it seems to me the gentler thing, not only individually but communally, is to try to get at the front end of apology. To try to take a breath before acting, before speaking so as to cut down on the need for perpetual apology. In some ways it is an impossible intention but also a noble one. Even in our communal life to ask ourselves, as the prophet Micah did: “What does God ask of you?” To ask and then to shape our lives around the answer: Do justice, love kindness, walk humbly with God. How might our need for apology be changed if these values guided our actions? It is something to ponder.

I am thankful for the toasty bagel that fed my body on Saturday morning and the hands that prepared it. And I am thankful to the young man whose message has traveled with me and will continue to nudge me to be careful with my words,my actions, and with my life. The pain he must have endured to wear the words he carries as a mantra was not lost on me.

Wherever he is, may God bless his path this day.