The parking lot had probably 20 more vehicles in it than typical. I saw the trucks—they were all red. Ah, I realized. The fire department leaders are here.
Every Thursday Doug and I have breakfast at a little local restaurant. It began after a desert time in our marriage when we took an intense look at our regular practices. You build in time for what you value, for what you need, for what keeps you alive. Think brushing your teeth, eating food, even going to the bathroom. Carving out space for our relationship, we realized, keeps our marriage healthy and strong. Routine doesn’t take away the specialness of the practice. It underscores it.
But that’s a different topic. At this local restaurant, we know the waitress. I realize I started to type “our” waitress. She feels like ours, part of our world, part of what makes breakfast even better. Our relationship with her has grown as we see her each week. She knows my dad is in hospice. We know her Mom struggles with health. We know her favorite music group (Phish). I’ve even exchanged phone numbers with her, and we text occasionally to share bits and pieces of life.
There is community there in that little diner. Not only do we know her, but we recognize other Thursday morning regulars with their quirks too. There are the 4 men who regularly discuss a book between bites. One man, maybe in his seventies, drives his motorcycle long into fall and early into spring. Another regular sits at the countertop and while exploring the news or emails or who knows what on his phone. We’re the ones who sit in the same spot on the same side of the table on a bench seat facing out to the world. Hmm. What a little picture of our marriage.
Today, however, was the fire department day. Since it is early, only our one waitress and the manager (who fills in as a cook until more staff come in after 7 am) is there. We sit down and within moments receive our coffee, diet coke, and water. The waitress is running a marathon all within that rectangular space complete with obstacles like booths, tables, chairs, and a bakery item display.
The normally quiet slow morning was a rush of orders, refills, and deliveries to tables. The two employees were working their tushies off; yet the amount of people needing to be served and the paid hands available made an impossible ratio. The manager/temporary line cook saw us come in and, because we always order and split Veggie Hash, started making it for us without us knowing. She even ran it out to us between cooking as she knew our waitress literally and figuratively had her hands full.
When it was time for a refill of Doug’s Diet Coke, he quietly got up and filled it himself, grabbing jam along the way for our toast. Another woman, probably in her late 60s or early 70s, saw the need, shared her years of experience as a server herself, and refilled everyone’s coffee.
People were patient overall. No one ranted. No one stormed off, upset. They waited. They saw the situation and showed understanding and grace. Community happened there this morning. Instead of a bunch of individuals all seeking to fill our own needs, we helped each other and cared for customers and staff alike.
What a gift community is. It doesn’t take much to add a little into our everyday life. I was mulling over a part of Tish Harrison Warren’s Liturgy of the Ordinary this morning. She says, “The new life into which we are baptized is lived out in days, hours, and minutes. God is forming us into new people. And the place of that formation is in the small moments of today.”
Lord help me in the small moments of today be formed newly by you, and then may I form newness into the minutes and hours of today, reflecting you.
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