Talking to Strangers

The sun is coming back to us-it’s been in some other land for hours now and is finally peeking over the edge of the end of earth. As I step out of my car into the crisp, misty, air, I decide that Sunday mornings were made for this. The door creaks as it always does when I open it (I wonder if they think that WD40 is bad for the environment), alerting everyone in Spring Garden Bakery that another passerby has stopped in for some warmth. I pass tables of chatterers and readers and writers and breathe thankfulness for all of the hours spent in this little Bethel spot… hours of reflecting, studying, writing, and conversing with other women about the God that saves.

One of my favorite parts of this bakery is that the front wall is basically one big window looking out into Spring Garden Street… I used to love watching college students walk to class and couples laughing over tea on the patio set and pretend for a moment that I was in some foreign place with nothing to do but observe and write. Stories. They are everywhere.

Baker is in his apron as usual, as powdered with flour as the dough he is kneading. His knowing hands move over it all so naturally, shaping it into exactly what it was created for. Hands. Creating. I suddenly feel small.

I take it all in:  the fragrance of chai tea and fresh bread, the antique side table that has probably been re-painted at least 7 times, the tin basins full of cream and soymilk that create exquisite art when its contents are slowly set free into a mug of dark coffee. Old friend with bushy beard remembers my order, despite the fact that I haven’t been back here since I graduated 5 months ago: iced coffee with a shot of caramel and one blueberry muffin. I hand him a few faded dollars and he hands me a welcoming smile, as if to say “It’s good to have you back.” 

My spot is a little wooden table a mite bit higher than the rest of them in the room, angled between a yellow and purple wall. Magical things happen here.

Light brown delicious finds its way to my lips and I let it go down slowly so that every taste bud has the opportunity to say hello before it passes by. Fork falls with slight resistance into blueberry muffin and crumbles decorate the dark wooden table. Journal falls open to fresh page and Ezekiel speaks to me of God’s power, His sovereignty, and the fear of Him. 

The corner of my eye holds a hunched-over figure standing at the doorway of the restroom across from me, but something tells me that he’s been there for a little too long. My head dares to rise as my eyes meet his, and there is no shame in his staring. The creeps inside of me can’t decide if they are legitimate or not… life experience tells me that it never ends well when men are bold enough to stare unabashedly, but this seems a little different. This man has joy in the creases of his eyes and is too old to be my grandpa.

As if waiting for an invitation, he hesitates, and then decides to walk over. 

“What are you reading?”

Oh! I think, maybe this is a divine appointment! Maybe I’ll get to share my Jesus with him!

“Well, this morning, I’m reading the book of Ezekiel.”

“Ahhh.” He chews on it for a moment. “Are you a Bible student?”

My smile gives me another moment to choose my words. “No, not necessarily. I’m a Christian and I want to learn more about my God, to know Him more.”

This character straight from the movie Up with his black, square glasses that make his eyes look bigger than they really are and the tweed flat cap that covers what I perceive to be a head full of white hair, focuses in on me, meeting my eyes on purpose. “I like your answer, young lady. The people that get the most of life are the ones that ask the big question,” he takes his half-shriveled, wrinkly hand and forms an invisible question mark in the air, “and you, my dear, are searching for the answer, aren’t you?

I don’t know quite how to answer, but I know that there is something in this man that I am meant to know more of. “Yes. I have found the answer, but there is so much more to seek. It’s a never-ending search.”

Eyes smile so big that cheektops and eyebrows nearly touch and I wonder if he can see at all. “I won’t keep you. You keep reading.” He waves me off and finds the nook on the other side of the wall from me.

The writer in me can’t let this go. There is definitely a story in this man. There is an unspoken joy in the fabric of who he is, and a wonder that only children know. I glance at my watch. 8:55. Church will begin in 20 minutes and it’s a 10 minute drive. I should probably go ahead and leave. But my heart strings tell me that I will be breaking the law of my spirit if I ignore this man, so I pack up my things and walk around the corner to his table. 

Knowing eyes look up. As if expecting me, he pulls the chair out beside of him for me to sit in.

On the table in front of him lays a notepad guarded by a leather folder. On the header of the page, in true journaling form, is the day’s date, although I can barely make out the writing because of the shaky hand of its writer. 

“So, you’re a writer?”

I could have told him that he had just won the lottery. Actually, even that can’t light a person up this way. Only the things that God has sewn into the threads of who we are make us come alive like this. Purpose. 

This man is a deep, deep well and this morning, God gave me the pail to dip into its water. And once I drop the pail in the water, the flood comes pouring. Sweet stranger opens his box of memories, wisdom, fears, and hopes and hands them to me, freely. And I realize that for this divine appointment, my role is not giver. It is receiver. So I listen.

Mr. Q shares my writer’s soul. We were given sibling eyes to see life in the same way. He spoke of a deep loneliness that sometimes comes from our souls of deep, deep reflection.

“My dear, writing is an affliction, you know.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, you don’t ask for it. It’s just given to some of us. You can’t not write. It’s like there is this dimness, and the dimness turns dark until you can’t take it anymore. And so you write. And when you do, there is light. Yes, it’s an affliction because you can’t get away from it, you can’t live without it. But I’ll tell you this, my dear, I have never-not once-regretted this affliction.”

I feel warm come up from my chest and I think it might spill out of my eyes, but I fight it off. I already feel like a little girl here and I don’t want to completely fall apart in front of this stranger, but he is speaking from my soul. How does he know? Kindred spirit.

Mr. Q continues sharing his soul with me in words that only an experienced wordsmith can. This character, straight from the book of God’s writing, tells me about his love of 62 years and that every single day when he wakes up beside her, he wonders how he could ever be so blessed.

“You know, there must be some tragedy out there, but with her beside me every day of my life, I’ve never quite touched it. I know it will come, though, because that is part of life.” Even through his smile, a tear falls down his rough cheek, irrigation watering dry land. “I just don’t want to live without her. But I can’t go first. No, I have to take care of my bride. I don’t ever want her to have to live without me to take care of her. But I know I can’t go long without her, either. All I can figure’s we hold hands and we…” he takes his hands together and flings them, as if he is releasing a couple of doves into the air, “…we just walk off together!” He throws his little head back and chuckles, as if knowing that what he just said is crazy, but still cherishing the thought. “Maybe, just maybe, God will take us both together.”

I look down at my engagement ring. My soon-to-be-groom and I are still learning each other. I think about the coming months, all the arguments still to be had in the becoming one, the unknown… and I see this man, lover of his wife for more than two of my lifetimes. Life. This is what it’s made of. Feeling. Seeing loss. Cherishing what you know is not really yours to keep.

“I need to tell you something very important, my dear.” He leans in closely, holding my eyes with his, so I lean a little closer to grasp at this cherished wisdom. “If you’re going to be a writer, to seek, to reach out and really feel, to attempt to put it all into words, you’re going to hurt. You have to.” He throws his hands up and shrugs his shoulders as if to make it final. “But life’s not worth anything if you don’t.”

Raspy voice with still a bit of kick in it offers to me, “Goodbye, my dear. We’ll keep going and nothing can stop us until it does!” Sweet little man in failing body and black leather jacket throws his head back and laughs at his own words. Here, this man is probably much closer to death than the majority of people in this college city, and yet, he is fuller of life than almost anyone I’ve known.

I thank him with words that don’t seem to suffice. With journal in hand, the temptation is to run out the door as quickly as possible and write down all I can remember from this conversation with the angel. But I linger. He asks my name and tells me his. Reminds me that I owe it to my name to really live. Holds out withered hand and I take it. Tells me that we’re connected now, and that there are others like us out there. Aged writer and inspirer who knows much of life hands the baton to me, tells me that I am to pass it along. And I feel the weight of what I’ve been given. There is a story in every person and I’ve been given the role of seeker. 

 “Sometimes I write because I have something to say, and other times I write because I want to remember how to see." -Emily Freeman