Groceries became a revelation: the people coming out with bundles

Host: The supermarket was closing.
Fluorescent lights buzzed softly above aisles of quiet color — a kaleidoscope of cereal boxes, fruit pyramids, and lonely checkout counters. The faint smell of oranges mixed with the hum of refrigeration units, a hymn of modern devotion.

Jack and Jeeny walked slowly between the aisles, their footsteps muffled on the polished floor. Outside, the rain was whispering against the glass, streaking the night into shimmering ribbons.

Jeeny stopped beside a stack of apples, their red skins shining like small suns under artificial light. She turned to Jack, her voice soft but alive with wonder as she read the quote from her notebook:

“Groceries became a revelation: the people coming out with bundles of food. It's all like a great ceremony, and the whole drudgery of shopping has become my inspiration.” — Corita Kent

Jeeny: “Can you imagine that?” she said, almost laughing. “Finding poetry in a supermarket.”

Jack: “Only an artist could romanticize waiting in line for canned beans,” he replied, half amused, half skeptical.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the point. She saw what we refuse to see — the sacred in the mundane. Every shopper is like a pilgrim, every cart a confession.”

Jack: “A confession of consumerism, maybe,” he said dryly. “People don’t walk in here looking for transcendence, Jeeny. They’re just trying to feed themselves before the next bill comes due.”

Jeeny: “And yet, they’re still part of a ritual. Think about it: strangers gathering under light, trading money for sustenance, carrying it home like a gift. It’s the modern Eucharist.”

Host: A neon sign flickered above the freezer section — FRESH — the word half-alive, half-broken. Jack stared at it, his reflection fractured in the glass doors of frozen meals.

Jack: “You see holiness. I see exhaustion. People don’t look inspired; they look worn out. They come here after long days, grab what they need, and rush back to whatever’s left of their lives.”

Jeeny: “But that’s precisely why it’s holy. Because it’s real. Corita Kent didn’t paint halos — she painted soup cans. She believed divinity hides in repetition, in the small gestures we do without noticing.”

Jack: “You make drudgery sound like prayer.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? A mother pushing a cart while humming to her child. A man counting coupons like sacred beads. An old woman selecting oranges as if each one could heal her. These aren’t just chores — they’re acts of love disguised as errands.”

Host: A small child passed them, clutching a loaf of bread and a mother’s hand. The boy looked up at Jeeny and smiled — the kind of smile that doesn’t ask for anything. She smiled back, then turned to Jack.

Jeeny: “You see that? That’s what Kent meant. The ordinary revealing its grace. You just have to look long enough.”

Jack: “You really think art belongs in a place like this?”

Jeeny: “Art begins in places like this. You think revelation only happens in churches or galleries? No. It happens here — under harsh lighting, between aisles of necessity. It happens when you stop consuming long enough to notice being.”

Host: The sound of a barcode scanner broke the silence, its red beam flashing like a pulse of life. The cashier, a young woman with tired eyes, greeted each customer with the same quiet, automatic kindness — a rhythm as steady as breath.

Jack: “You make beauty sound democratic,” he said. “But if everything is sacred, then nothing is.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true,” she replied. “If everything is sacred, then life stops being divided. No more lines between the holy and the human. Between art and survival. Corita Kent didn’t paint saints — she painted soup labels — and somehow, that made her closer to God than any cathedral.”

Jack: “You talk as if God shops for groceries.”

Jeeny: “Maybe He does. Maybe He’s the one who waits patiently in the longest line, holding a basket of apples and forgiveness.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, tracing rivers down the glass. Somewhere, the loudspeaker crackled with an announcement — closing time in ten minutes. The words dissolved into static, but the tone lingered like a soft farewell.

Jack: “You know, I used to think inspiration was something grand — something you had to chase to the top of a mountain. Now you’re telling me it’s sitting between aisle six and seven, next to the spaghetti sauce.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said, her eyes glowing. “Because life isn’t built out of mountains — it’s built out of moments. And when you stop waiting for wonder to arrive, you start realizing it’s been standing in line with you all along.”

Jack: “You think that’s what she saw? A kind of holiness in habit?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because routine is where the soul learns humility. The sacred doesn’t need spectacle — it just needs awareness.”

Host: Jack stared at the floor tiles, each square shining faintly under fluorescent light — uniform, anonymous, endless. Then he looked up at Jeeny, her face soft and alive with conviction.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what kills us,” he said. “Not the work, not the errands — but our inability to find meaning in them.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what saves us,” she said. “When we finally do.”

Host: The cashier rang up the last customers. Bags rustled like paper prayers. A man with tired hands lifted his groceries, smiled politely at no one in particular, and stepped into the rain.

Jeeny watched him, her expression almost luminous.

Jeeny: “Corita Kent once said, ‘Love the moment.’ That’s all she did — she loved the small moments until they glowed. Until the grocery store became a cathedral.”

Jack: “And we’re all just worshippers in checkout lines.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Paying for grace with coins.”

Host: The lights above flickered once, then dimmed. The automatic doors opened with a sigh, letting in the wet smell of the world outside — earth, rain, asphalt, possibility.

Jack picked up a bag of groceries he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Jeeny stepped beside him, and together they walked toward the exit, their reflections stretching in the glass.

At the threshold, Jeeny paused, her voice low, almost reverent.

Jeeny: “Isn’t it strange, Jack? We walk into places like this to buy what keeps us alive — and if we’re lucky, we walk out remembering what it means to live.”

Jack: “You’re saying enlightenment costs whatever’s on sale.”

Jeeny: “No,” she smiled. “It costs attention.”

Host: They stepped into the rain, each drop catching light like falling stars. Behind them, the automatic doors slid shut, sealing the silence of the store once more.

Inside, the aisles glowed faintly under their tired lights — rows of quiet abundance, waiting for morning.

And in that stillness, Corita Kent’s words seemed to hum through the hum of refrigeration and time:

That beauty doesn’t wait on mountains or museums. It lives in every act of sustenance — in the hands that buy, carry, and share. That the divine hides not above us, but in the ordinary — glowing, patient, and eternal.