Several times in these pages I have mentioned that I often begin my Saturdays with a trip to the St. Paul Farmer’s Market. In the beginning I was single minded. I focused on taking in the incredible artistic beauty of colorful produce lined up on tables and flowing out of the backs of trucks. I walked the three aisles taking everything in and then doubled back to buy whatever might grace our table during the upcoming week. I was in and out of there in thirty minutes or so and heading on to whatever else Saturday might hold.

But at some point of this summer I changed my pattern. I love to arrive early and have the first cup of coffee surrounded by farmers and vendors unpacking their wares. It is wonderful to watch them greet one another as they set up. It makes me long to be one of them, sharing the camaraderie of early mornings filled with loading and lifting, the goodness of things fresh from the earth. It is also interesting to see the ‘regulars’, those who show up at about the same time, usually pulling an oversized grocery bag on wheels. They also greet both sellers and buyers in a way that is reminiscent of the town squares of days gone by. Something about the experience unlocks a place of hope in me.

Last week while sitting watching this simple, yet profound drama of this slice of life unfold, I became aware of two little children who were probably about four years old. They were both wearing Minnesota Twins t-shirts and had that wonderful dazed and rumpled look that little children have in the early morning. Their mother was busy looking at first the salsa and then the hummus of the vendors straight ahead of the bench on which I had taken up residence. Their faces were sweet. The girl was a few inches taller than the boy. I watched their large eyes taking in the scene around them. The girl listened to the conversation her mother was having with the salsa guy. She looked a bit skeptical. I wondered what was going on in her mind.

Then my eyes fell to their hands. Every now and then the boy would reach out and touch the hand of his sister. Their fingers would flutter together, never fulling grasping a hold on the hand of the other. Their heads turned looking in opposite directions and yet fingers still reached for the other as if reaching out for the assurance that the other was not too far away. That was when I realized they were twins.

I watched them as their mother moved down the aisle of tables. As children often do, they observed what was going on around them with eyes that seemed to see a deeper understanding of the movement of the world around them. But they never lost the touch of fingers on fingers which seemed to ground them in a reality that had probably accompanied them in the womb. Their fingers seemed to be saying, “I am not alone. I feel you right beside me.”

Whether we shared the water home we all emerged from with another or not, aren’t these the words we assure ourselves with over and over? In the dark of the night. In the glare of a hospital waiting room. On the first day of kindergarten, of high school, of college, of a new job. As we move about our daily lives in all its mundane and exquisite moments. Don’t we all wish we could reach out and feel the soft, reassuring fingers of someone reassuring us that we are not alone?

The twins in their Twin’s shirts moved on into their day following in their mother’s shadow. I finished the last sips of my coffee and prepared to walk among the beauty and splendor of flowers and vegetables so rich with color they took my breath away. As I walked among the ever growing crowd, I kept my hands to myself. But I quietly whispered a blessing: ” You are not alone. I am right beside you.”

My fingers were itching in my pockets.