I wasn't going to come to the coffeeshop today. I didn't sleep well last night again, and my plan was to find a way to carve stamps without moving from my bed without making a mess or injuring myself. Tim had other ideas. "Honey, get up and go to the coffeeshop. You'll feel better."
When I put up a half-hearted protest, he shooed me out of bed, saying, "Get your butt out of bed, and get to work, woman."
Okay, okay. Coffee didn't sound half-bad. As I toted all my supplies out to the car: laptop, art supplies, purse, headphones, and journals, I felt myself transported back in time to that little fifth grader whose anxiety demanded she cart a half dozen bags loaded with paper goods to school each day. The more things change, they more they stay the same?
I set up my little workstation at my usual table, second from the couch, and got plugged in. I was ready to work- how I wish this were my job. A couple of hours passed as I played around in my journal, and listened to music that had me swaying in my seat like a loon. God only knows what people think of this behavior, probably that I am deeply unwell...which would be dead on, come to think of it.
Over the last couple of months, I've gotten past my shyness of drawing or painting in public. Often people are just curious about what you're up to, and will take a peek. Sometimes, they stop and talk to you, others times, not. It's okay. Halfway through my second cup of coffee, a gentlemen in his late forties with kind eyes stopped at my table on his way out the door, to-go-cup in hand, and gestured for me to take off my headphones. When I did, he asked me if I was an artist.
"Umm, not exactly. But my daughter was." I answered. When I shared about Cory, handing him a picture of the handful I carry with me at all times, his eyes widened.
"I lost a daughter, too. She was seven." he said, his eyes meeting mine, and pain slowly rising to the surface, out of sync with the pleasant smile he was still wearing. "What was your name?" he asked.
I told him, and he responded, "Well, Nicole, I don't think it's a coincidence that we met here today. Would you mind if I prayed with you?"
And I, who have not personally called God's name since the fifth of July last year, nodded without hesitation. This man, in the middle of Brownstone Coffeehouse, bowed his head, and began a beautiful prayer, a plea for God to bring me comfort and peace, this day, and all the days of my life. He intoned, "God, you give us only 'this day' and on 'this day' Nicole is here living her life and enjoying her art, a talent given to her by you to help her through these difficult times. Let her continue to find joy in it. Let her remember what you told me years ago when I lost my girl in '98...that it is a huge gain for the one that is now in heaven who now has everything they have ever wanted and needed, and a smaller loss for us. Bring her the peace that she so desperately needs. In Jesus' name. Amen."
I opened my eyes, flooded with tears, and asked for his name. Mike was in town for a men's church retreat, and would keep me in his prayers.
Yes, people are put in our lives for a reason.
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