I’m walking across the parking lot headed toward the deli when I spot him. Light brown slacks. Leprechaun green polo shirt. He stands out because he is a large man. Not Suma wrestler large, just large. Size 14 shoes. His head is big.

It’s like when you see a statue of Abraham Lincoln, or Thomas Jefferson, or Mickey Mouse and you think, “Boy, it looks like they made his head too big for his body.”

I’d say he is upper 70s, maybe pushing 80. His white hair is cropped close, but it covers his massive crown. No bald spot, just a high front hairline. Even his forearms are bulky, and his hands are thick.

What also stands out is that his wife is holding his arm. It’s not a romantic gesture, though I can tell it is tender. He doesn’t look feeble at all, but he doesn’t look nimble either. She is helping him stay steady. He hesitates at the curb and steps up carefully.

He holds the door for his wife, and I notice he is carrying a plastic grocery sack in the other hand. Marion and I follow right behind them.

Marion tells everyone that I am a three-meal-a-day kind of guy. When she’s not with me, she eats next to nothing. Maybe a yogurt cup for breakfast. A granola bar for lunch. A salad for supper. I require more substance in my life. Thus, I am in line to order a Philly steak & cheese with plenty of onions and peppers. She orders the mini sandwich.

While we are in line, the man with the grocery sack comes up to us.

When you’re in a deli line, you expect to rub shoulders with other people in line. Nobody pays anybody much attention. We’re all just cattle nudging our way along the feed trough.

But I can sense that he is there before he speaks. I don’t know if it’s the little hairs on the back of my neck or just a sensation that comes when someone gets closer that the socially acceptable deli line distance. But I looked to my right, and there he stood.

“Would you like a heart?” he asks.

He’s holding a small heart in his hands. It’s made of wood and painted red. About 3” tall. It rests on a wooden base painted white, and on the white background is a scripture reference. “Eph. 2:6.” Not the text, just the designation.

He’s a complete stranger. I’ve got melted cheese and grilled onions on my mind. I smiled best I could.

“No thank you.”

He tries two or three other folks in line, all of whom turn him down.

I overhear one lady tell him, “You gave me two hearts last week over at Firehouse.”

We are finally at the end of the line. I’m watching a young lady tuck our sandwiches into a paper wrap like I’ve seen a loving mother roll up her infant child into a baby blanket. Folded, tucked, and locked down.

“You do that really well,” I tell her.

“Thank you. This is my second day. I’m trying to do it like they taught me.”

God bless her.

We settle into our corner table by the front window. The sandwiches are hot. The steak and cheese is extremely satisfying. I am making guttural noises.

I notice the heart gentleman and his wife are joined by a host of others. Tables are being moved around. Sandwich wraps are being distributed. One couple is maybe mid-fifties. Then a younger couple with three young boys, 8 to 12.

I am a people watcher. I should be embarrassed at times because I stare across the small dining room and encroach on their privacy. They all hold hands and bow their heads. I can’t hear any words, but I know what’s going on. I look away out of respect.

The sack full of hearts is lying on the floor next to his chair. He is seated close to the exit door.

Part of the fun in watching people is in trying to speculate about the family dynamics. I make guesses about who they are and what their lives may be like. I have absolutely no basis for my conclusions, yet I draw Marion into my game.

“What do you see over there?”

She is confused. “What do you mean?”

“I see grandma and grandpa. The middle-aged woman is the daughter and the guy next to her is the son-in-law. The young woman is that couple’s daughter. The darked haired guy is her husband, and the boys belong to them. Four generations at one table.”

“I can see that.”

Marion is getting into it. “The young couple must be farmers. The boys are all wearing jeans and boots.”

“I don’t think so. There’s no sun on dad’s face and arms.”

“Yep. That doesn’t fit.”

A young lady heads for the door and grandpa is ready. He is close enough to the exit to reach into his sack and offer her a heart. She is more gracious than me. She takes one to his small pleasure.

Then I start putting all the puzzle pieces together.

“Gramps was a postal worker. A forty-year guy. On his feet all day. Walking the beat. His knees are bad. The son-in-law? He’s wearing really nice slacks and shoes. Maybe real estate, and the daughter and her husband both work in the family business with him. The boys wear boots and jeans just because they like cowboys.”

“I can see that, I guess.”

Marion is wondering if I’ve lost my mind, so I move on to something simpler.

“The old man has a small shop, and he cuts out the hearts on his bandsaw, or maybe a scroll saw. Making stuff is how he fills his time.”

Marion adds to the story. “The wife paints them. They’re not just filling time. It’s like a ministry for them. Giving away hearts.”

I’m not trying to be weird. I know it’s strange to be making up imaginary stories about total strangers. My friends who read this are going to start feeling all creepy if they catch me watching them, now. And, well they should.

We finish our sandwiches and I gurgle up the last of my sweet tea through the straw. We head for the door, and I can’t resist. I walk over to their table.

“Tell me about the hearts. What’s the story?”

The big guy is humored by my question. “There’s no story really. We just love making hearts and giving them away.”

I dig for more. “I’m guessing you cut them out, and your wife paints them.”

“Kind of,” he says. “I make them and paint the base coat. My wife does all the artsy stuff.”

The son-in-law chimes in. “There’s more to the story he’s not telling. He made a bunch of them for all the guests at their 50th wedding anniversary. That was six years ago, and he’s never stopped making them. He’s given away over 19,000 hearts.”

“Well,” says grandpa, “18,543.”

“It’s a ministry for us.” Then he adds this. “You give a heart away and it touches people.”

Yes sir, it sure does.