November 8, 2015
It’s not a restaurant, per se. But I am thankful.
It’s a bakery and cafe. With chalkboard menus and local art adorning the walls and day-old breads for sale down the hall, it is a never-ending entourage of locals, of strangers, of students, and of stories. There is a half-dozen or so men (who remind me a lot of my uncles, or of Wick and Dash) who are there every morning–oh, every morning, but on Tuesdays they go to the Bagel shop to “shake things up.” And there, at the long table, they drink cup after cup until their stories run dry. Last I heard, they were solving international problems.
They caught me chuckling at their antics one morning, and since then, I’ve been the Keeper of Stories. I think they honestly believe that my journal is filled with their crazy tales of their days in the Corps, the neighbor’s dog who barks before sunup, the nun who used to discipline them as kids, and Sandy’s brother’s wife’s mother’s sister’s kid who forgot to mow the lawn. If only they knew that my Saturday morning jotts had more to do with my own brokenness and longing for God! But I’m glad they don’t. I’m thankful that they think I am preserving their stories.
And suddenly, I’m a bit ashamed of myself that I’m not.
I suppose it is never too late!
Either way, I’m so thankful for these men–who are growing more like friends each weekend, and the life lessons I learn from listening to them (and the lessons I learn from not taking them too seriously!).
Father, thank You for Dan, for Don, for Walt…for the whole gang. I’m so blessed to have stumbled randomly into their world (or maybe not so randomly…did You plan that?). Bless them today, and each day, drawing them to You and bringing about good in their lives.