With actions and in truth

My mind was engrossed in my computer when Kevin walked into the coffee shop.

Even without looking at him, I could tell he was different from other customers. His chin was down, eyes scanning the room, hands pulling a ragged jacket a little closer about him.

I was in the middle of editing a month’s worth of devotions due to a St. Louis publishing house in a couple of days. Given freedom to write on whatever topic interested me most, as long as I stayed within the lanes drawn by my church body, I had used many of the devotions to prod readers to notice and care for the humans around them, especially those facing life’s biggest struggles.

Four years of working the cops and courts beat at a local paper taught me a lot about the hurts that can knock a person’s life off-kilter. Many of the people who find themselves locked up or living on the street got there via one life problem layered on top of another, each challenge creating another and decreasing the chance of climbing over it all to safety.

Fixing the factors that lead to poverty and crime starts with looking past the external things that separate us and seeing the scarred, scared, longing human being on the other side.

At least, that’s my pollyannaish take on it, and that’s what I was writing about as Kevin walked in the coffee shop door.

He was poor, his clothes said that. His face said he had gotten used to it. I glanced his direction, then quickly turned away. If he saw me noticing him, he might come over and strike up a conversation, and there was no time for that.

Good grief, I chided myself, suddenly aware of my hypocrisy. How could I write about extending kindness to the struggling and then turn away from it myself?

I looked back at the man ― not Kevin to me, not yet, only a man in ratty clothes in the doorway of my coffee shop ― and waited until he looked my direction. Catching his eye, I smiled at him.

In moments, we were in the middle of what would prove to be a long and, frankly, tiring conversation.

He wasn’t homeless, but he might be soon. Recent law changes meant his landlord could kick him out, and he’d arrived home a few days before to an eviction notice. The agency trying to help him said there wasn’t much they could do. He’d fight it in court, but he didn’t have money to hire an attorney. A series of jobs hadn’t worked out, and his criminal record for a minor crime decades before didn’t help.

He wasn’t like other poor people who aggressively panhandled passing pedestrians. That was rude, he said. He didn’t like asking for help at all. It was embarrassing. But he was running out of things to try and didn't know what else to do.

What he really loved was to write poetry, said the man I now knew as Kevin, smiling. His teeth, rotted and gnarled, made his face seem even gaunter than it was. I wondered how much spare money his mom had had to take him to the dentist as a child, and whether potential employers gave him a quick pass, fearing what customers might think if they saw him.

I offered to buy him a cup of coffee. No, he said, he was OK. The workers at that shop knew him, and they gave him free coffee when he needed it. Finally, guiltily, I told him I simply had to get back to work. He thanked me for the conversation, and I gave him a little cash and a notebook, encouraging him to write more poems.

I hadn’t changed his life or fixed his problems, but I left the encounter feeling good. I saw him. I had been kind.

And then I saw Kevin again. It was a month later, maybe two. I was at the same coffee shop, same stool, once again working on a writing project, once again up against a deadline.

And there came Kevin, walking on the sidewalk outside the window where I sat.

I’m sure he could see me. The windows are big and open, right up against the sidewalk. He approached a table just on the other side of the window, turned, and sat down, his back to me.

I don’t know if he looked at me and recognized me. I don’t know if he tried to make eye contact.

I don’t know, because I kept my eyes on my computer. I knew he was there, just on the other side of the glass, and I didn’t look up.

The deadline, I told myself. I had to make the deadline. I didn’t have time for a conversation, and the little cash that was in my wallet needed to stay there because I might need it. It wasn’t like we were friends or anything, after all. He was used to being alone, maybe living on the street. He was fine, and I needed to get my work done.

But the simple fact is, I didn’t want to be kind to him, so I wasn’t.

It was a horrible thing to do.

Living generously is nice when it’s convenient. When you have the time, when you’re feeling giving, when you want to feel the warm glow of selflessness, it’s easy to show kindness, even to a stranger.

Giving when giving is tough ― that’s the real deal.

Dear children, let us love not with words or tongue but with actions and in truth. Of all the Bible verses I’ve learned, that may be the one that rattles around my head the most ― probably because I do such a rotten job of living up to it. I say I love my car, but I don’t get an oil change. I say I love my cat, but I don’t give her her eye drops. I say I love my family, but I grump when I have to put their needs first.

It’s all well and good to say, “I love you.” To really love, though, is to DO, and not just when you feel like it. I pretended to love Kevin as a fellow human being. But I sure didn’t follow through with actions and in truth. I had the chance to practice what I preach, to see him as a real, important human being, and I turned away.

I haven’t seen Kevin since then. If I do, I hope I’ll behave better, but I can’t promise it. The world is full of shining examples of people who, at least on the outside, live lovingly, giving when it’s tough and not just when it’s convenient. I want to be one of them, but I haven’t done a very good job of that thus far, and I’m hardly in a position to encourage others to do better.

I guess the best we can do is close our eyes and sigh with thanks that we are always seen, always acknowledged, always loved in action and in truth by a God who was not content with simply saying, “I love you.” A God who gave when the giving was as tough as it gets, not just for the people who live like they should but even for me, ragged and full of fault as I am.

To those of you reading this: I hope you know He loves you, too. Just as you are.

And, fully aware of my own most grievous fault, I encourage you as I encourage myself: look out the window. Be kind. Even when it's not convenient.

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If you’d like, in the comments section below, tell us about a Kevin in your life, someone who needs us to see them and love them just as they are.

Sweet and warm

I want to tell you about Kevin. But first, I need to complain about coffee shops.

I don’t know when coffee shops became a thing. They only entered my life a few years ago, when I took a newspaper job and the corner shop a half block from the newsroom became a convenient place to meet for interviews.

To the uninitiated, coffee shop menus offer a dizzying array of exotic words with round endings: macchiato, cappuccino, espresso, Americano. In the fanciest places (I swear I’m not making these up) you can order cortado, doppio, ristretto, affogato... There’s lattes and frappes and flat whites and pour-overs and cafe au lait, and cold brew coffee and iced coffee which, apparently, are two different things, even though they both sound like the leftovers at the bottom of the pot that people throw out the next morning.

To a girl who never learned to drink coffee ― they say it’s an acquired taste, and I never saw a need to acquire it ― the wall-mounted list of options on my first coffee shop visits loomed daunting verging on terrifying.

Trying to appear competent in the eyes of my interview subject, I would step to the counter, pretending to weigh what delightful drink best suited my fancy that day.

And then, invariably, I would crumble into a heap of helplessness, confessing to the nice young person behind the counter that I just wanted something sweet and warm.

And, invariably, the kind person taking my order would smile, tell me it was OK, and hand me a cup that warmed me inside and out and made my anxieties melt away, or at least helped me put them into perspective.

Many’s the hour I have since spent at a coffee shop table with my laptop and a cup of hot something and maybe a scone, wrapped in soft music and gentle chatter and clinks and laughter, freed by the caffeine and the sweetness and the warmth of my surroundings to think new thoughts and see the world in a new, quietly breathtaking way.

Snitches of life glide in and out of your periphery at a coffee shop. The animated conversation of the Bible study at the corner table. The mother and daughter sharing a smile. The bleary-eyed college students comparing class notes, the nervous job interview, the couples and strangers and friends stepping out of the busy stream of their days and talking deeply, sitting quietly, breathing, hands wrapped around warm paper cups.

Truth be told, I still don’t know what to order at a coffee shop, although I know enough to be able to ask for a chai latte with confidence. Most of the time, I still tell the barista I just want something sweet and warm and nice. And, bless them, they always come through.

I have never actively wanted to be a business. But, if I had to pick a business that represents the person I would like to be, I would choose a coffee shop.

I want to be a place where people turn for comfort, for warmth and strength. I want to make everyone feel welcome, just as they are. I want to be a place where it’s OK to let your mind expand to explore new ideas and big thoughts, and a place where it’s OK to just sit quietly.

I’m not, though.

Eyes turned to my own stresses and messes, I too often miss opportunities to be a refuge for others. I grumble about my little tribulations, blind to the emotional aches of even the people I love best and ignoring the reaching hands that just want something warm to hold.

One of the lovely parts of being human is that we always have the chance to do better.

Maybe today I’ll look up from my self-absorption enough to give a smile to the hardware store worker who asks if I need help. Maybe I’ll shoot a text to the friend with whom I’ve lost touch or take a few extra moments to make an email a little warmer, a little kinder.

Maybe I’ll set aside my self-focused frets and ask a frazzled colleague what I can do to help, or treat someone who looks different than me as though we are the same.

A little warmer, a little kinder, a little more welcoming…perhaps I’m just being naive. But I can’t help thinking the world would be a nicer place if we were all a little more like coffee shops.

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Shoot. I haven’t told you about Kevin. That story will have to wait until next time. Kevin deserves his own post. But I’ll take one extra moment, as promised, to complain about coffee shops: They’re just too dang awesome.

Shout out to Cabin Creek in Alpena, MI, best little coffee shop I know; to MI Northern Espresso in Rogers City, MI, host of many coffee shop computer dates with my husband and home of the exquisite Quarry View Latte; and Jackson Coffee Co. in downtown Jackson, MI, where the plants all have names and there’s an upstairs, which, needless to say, is amazing.

Oh, one more thing. If I ever opened a coffee shop, I would name it the Angry Bean. I will never open a coffee shop, so the name is up for grabs, and I happen to think it’s a good one. If you use it, please let me know and I will come to your shop and order something sweet and warm.

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Gotta run

To my husband’s delight and my unending befuddlement, our youngest offspring turned out to be a runner.

More of a plodder myself, I watch in awe as Jonah steps up to the starting line at cross country meets, ready to tear up the turf. 

Gorgeous, magical things, cross country meets.

A mass of runners waits restlessly, shaking legs, slapping thigh muscles. The starter raises his pistol. They tense, ready, listening.

And then they’re off. In moments, the fast ones have surged to the front, the slower ones tucking in behind, all moving purposefully, swiftly, faces serious.

Cross county parents don’t stand still. As soon as the runners pull away, moms in hoodies and dads in windbreakers scurry in all directions, hoping to get to their favorite cheering spot before their athlete passes.

At the one mile, the two mile, all along trails that wind through fields and into woods and up and down hills, energetic onlookers hoot and holler and clap and clag bells, racing from post to post, the air thick with their encouragements. All the while, the runners run, one foot in front of the other, breathing hard, determined, focused.

My Jonah is not one of the fastest runners. He falls in the middle of the pack, or maybe further back, depending on the meet.

With cross country, though, it’s not about being first.

It’s about PRs.

Oh, the joy that beams from the face of the runners who cross the finish line with a new personal record. It doesn’t matter if they didn’t reach their season goal. It doesn’t matter if they had a crummy race or if they finished at the back of the pack. If only they can set that precious PR, shaving even one second off their personal best, they are victorious.

And if they don’t PR? Well, there’s always the next meet.

The runners inspire me. I end almost every meet in tears, moved by the depth of their commitment and desire. But what gets me almost as much is the parents, hollering from the sidelines, scuttling from place to place, bouncing on their toes with fists clenched as they watch the last few moments before the finish line; “Come on, come on, come on, come on,” they whisper, the entirely of their being offered in support of this person they love and the quest for one more PR, one more victory.

That’s good stuff right there.

It’s easy to close our ears to the people cheering us on as we run our daily races. They don’t mean it, we tell ourselves. They’re just being nice. If only they really knew me, they wouldn’t believe in me. 

But I watch the faces of those parents at cross country meets and see the love and hope and heartfelt support that fills them, and I’m washed with awe at the realization that those eager faces who cheer me along my way have that same love, that same hope, that same all-in desire to see me do a little better, go a little harder, finish a little stronger.

You can do it, the cheering throng shouts to the runners. Don’t give up. The end is in sight. Push. Try. 

You can do it, say the voices cheering me on.

The stalwart friend standing by my side as I take on a big and scary project.

The church members, friends, semi-acquaintances who tell me they believe I can do work that matters.

My kids, my husband, patient with my fears and ready to tell me again, and again, that they believe in me.

Many days, I’d prefer to run alone, with nobody to see me fail, no one to disappoint if I drop out of the race or get lost in the woods.

But the people at the sidelines won’t give up. They holler and hope and hold out their hands and call my name, and it’s so doggone lovely I can’t help but grab a Kleenex and keep on running, striving, giving it my best.

I’m not gonna PR every day. Heck, I might not even finish the race every day. But I can keep moving toward that finish line one foot at a time, those blessed voices ringing in my ears.

And then it’s my turn to holler.

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To those of you cheering me on, thank you. I need you.

And to those of you fighting your way forward, PR in sight: You can do it.

I believe in you.

I’d be honored if you would share a link to this blog to anyone you think might be interested. If you’d like, leave a comment below and tell us about a recent personal record that you totally crushed, or about a goal that’s just out of reach. We’d love to cheer you on.