Kicked in Ribs

I, coincidentally, am the back-of-the-coffee-shop mystery. I bring thrifted books, sharpies, and sharp eyes. I scribble blackout poetry and sip on iced coffee and listen to James Arthur and pop my fingers again and again. My tote bags are overflowing with straw wrappers, Midliner highlighters, and forgotten stories.

Today, a friend joined me. He's busy working on engineering homework and drinking his iced latte, his mind running circles around 5-panel hats and cross necklaces. I've long since run out of work to do.

I'm at my usual table, watching young adults of west Texas file in through outdoor patios and the sprawling park. They're clutching school bags and Bibles and pens- prepared to learn something this afternoon. The barista smiles at everyone, even though she's feeling every moment of 22 years and not a day older.

Tall boys fill the seats in one corner, bent over Bibles open to Matthew, listening as one of them speaks. He's got long hair piled into a bun atop his head, staring back at expectations, scribbling notes in The New Testament with an inked hand. A macchiato sits to his left and he laughs when one of the other boys tells him you're not what I expected in a Bible study leader. But he retreats into himself a little, knowing. And he says you can love God and still look like this- he smiles- and God still loves you, too. And I realize he's 6 feet 3 inches of boy curling in around kicked-in ribs, weariness, and promises that were not kept, loving Christ and others and himself for it all.

There are two women with smile lines creasing their eyes, running shoes on their feet, drinking hot coffee on a late summer day. They wear hats with patchwork crosses on them and Magellan shirts and the heat of the day. Two mothers visiting over the trials of their children, who do not even know each other, but struggle the same. Like we all do, but refrain from speaking about it, thinking we are alone.

A regular breezes in with friends, tossing easy smiles between themselves and taking the largest table. She's obvious and a whirlwind and still guarded. You can see it in her eyes, the leftovers of harsh teammates or forgetful boys. A friend sets a coffee in front of her, making a joke, and she leans back- unsure of whether or not she can accept the love given. Unsure if it's hers, or someone else's, or something more than it seems. Unsure if she can take it, even if it is hers. She smiles anyway, of course- what else could you do?

The manager hangs new pothos vines from the rafters. She's wearing the same outfit as the barista- unplanned- and sporting a new tattoo. Galations 6:9 her left arm reads. Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. Let us not become weary in doing good- the reminder stares up at her every time she writes or reaches.

The more you learn about people, the more you learn about yourself. I complete my blackout poetry page with my own smile. I have ended up scratching out almost the entirety of page 8 of The Book of Wonder Voyages to make:

I would gladly sit here by you in peace.

This boy has become a glory, and his song; a shout, a wild wound.

And I know myself better when I look away from the page, towards the 6 feet 3 inches of boy sitting across the room, to the two women saving their children, to the girl playing at safe smiles, and the manager with perseverance inked into her skin.

And what would people think about me, the question mark in the back of the room with a crumbling copy of The Book of Wonder Voyages in her hands? What would they say about me, with my 8 piercings in my ears, heavy thoughts, and nightly prayers? What would I teach them about themselves?

What would you?