The first story in DEVOTION is called lasting. I usually don’t share much when it comes to what a story means, where it came from, or what it’s about. But I thought maybe it would be good to let the reader in. And to remind myself what it is that makes me do this.
Like many stories, lasting came from a scene. An image. An elderly woman at the checkout in a grocery store. The place was buzzing with activity. I was in a hurry for whatever reason, and this lady was taking her good old sweet time. She wore a long, heavy coat. A hat. Had a big purse slung over her shoulder. And when it was time to pay—after coupons, of course—she set the purse on the conveyor belt, got out her checkbook, couldn’t find her pen, then asked for a pen, then asked for the date, and finally went to write the check.
That’s when I noticed the shaking. The trembling. And I felt like a real shit. Here she was, out in the world, taking care of herself. And I was getting miffed because she was taking her time.
It got me thinking—that might be me one day. Just trying to last.
The weather—that’s usually a character in my writing. Always will be. It sets the mood. It’s often symbolic. I’ve always been in tune with the weather, nature, the outdoors. I think that’s where most stories ought to be grounded. Anchored.
The opening of the story—the daily cubicle grind—is familiar to many, I’m sure. It’s based on a guy I used to work with in St. Paul, MN. He was a typesetter and used to go absolutely bat-shit crazy, at least once a week, over something as simple as illegible markup from a proofreader. I always thought it had something to do with how much time he spent boxed in, away from everyone.
Drinking—that’s a big one here. The narrator’s anxiety about being in the Galilee Lake Grocery Store is sharpened by his craving for a drink. But I also wanted to show that he’s anxious in general. Maybe from overthinking. The old chicken-and-egg discussion, I suppose.
Back to the Galilee… there’s a reference here to a place tied to miracles. Jesus walked the shores of the Sea of Galilee doing good stuff. But in this story, Galilee is a grocery store. Artificial light. Endcap noodles. A liquor cubby beaming like an altar. It’s not holy ground—it’s survival ground. A place where people try to fill up. Get by. Last.
There’s judgment in this story. A lot of it internal. A lot directed outward, then quickly turned back in. I think we do that more often than we admit. Judge people for what they put in their carts. For how they smell. For how long they take. But it’s usually not about them. It’s usually about us.
Matthew shows up. Not just the janitor summoned by the loudspeaker—but the apostle, bursting through the pearly gates—swinging doors, in this case. He mops up a busted jar of gravy smashed by a couple of stoned, giggling fools. He whistles Somewhere Over the Rainbow like it’s all he needs to keep going. Maybe he’s indifferent. Maybe he’s transcendent. Hard to say.
Then the story slows. Just like the line. Just like the old man writing his check. He’s got his list. He’s got his coupons. He buys the same bottle of Burnett’s vodka. He notices the narrator. He grins. And he takes his time. He’s not just buying groceries—he’s marking another day. He’s still here. Still ticking. Still trembling. Still writing. Making all of this last.
That’s where the story ends. But also where it begins—for the reader, anyway. In that quiet moment when something nearly holy happens between strangers. No halo. No light shining down. Just a nod. A recognition. A small, human ache.
lasting is about survival, yes. But also about paying attention.
What we miss when we’re in a hurry.
What we hold onto when we don’t know what else to do.
What it means to be there, waiting.
Standing in line.
~KJ
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