Coffee Shop Musings

A woman -- middle aged, simply dressed -- stood before me in line. As the man behind the counter made her drink and sandwich, she chatted about where the store purchased the bread, how it was stored, and the like with genuine interest. Once prepared, her order was brought out and she, sitting alone, began to eat. There was nothing awkward, no sense of pity or sadness, just peacefulness. 
I ordered, paid for my drink, sat down in a large arm chair and immediately wrapped myself around my book. Sunken into this seat, I had a perfect view of the lunching woman who by now had finished eating and had moved on to her book. I don't know why I found her so fascinating -- she had this complete sense of peace about her. A woman at peace, treating herself to lunch, alone with her book in the silence of a coffee shop with the exception of the soundtrack livening the background happily accompanied by the barista. After only an hour she marked her page, cleared her dishes and left. Maybe to pick up children from school, prepare dinner, go to a work shift or attend to some other duty...
Next a father with his young son and daughter came in; he ordered them chocolate milk and muffins. The little girl chose a table right next to my nest of an armchair -- "Noooo!" was my jerk response, assuming the kids would be loud and obnoxious. This was not the case. The three sat either in silence or quiet conversation. The father was so content: happy, soaking up this time. The children oblivious to the trial of life awaiting them; the pain of death and the imminent coming of the day when they will stand by a graveside missing their father. Ignorance is bliss.
Nestled away in my chair I can't help but observe and find great interest in simple human interactions: a long-haired hippy couple happily holding the door open for a work-worn elderly man needing coffee just to get through his day, a business man with his laptop looking for a change of scenery and a woman having her day made by the barista calling out "I like your dress!" as she left the building (the same barista who sang and lent me the pencil I used to write out my musings.)
These simple observations help me separate "people" into "the left-handed business man", "the cheerful barista who apparently loves Korn" and "the old friends reunited, talking long after their mugs were drained empty." It helps me appreciate the uniqueness of each individual and the care with which God brought them into being.