For the Love of God

During a short jaunt to NYC with my family to take in the sights and scenes of the holidays, we came upon a small diner in Brooklyn. We all needed fuel for the day, so we happened inside. The windows were cloudy, the interior hadn’t been updated since at least the 70’s, there was a box of discarded Halloween decorations in the corner, and the menu board was filled with misspelled food items.

Having been who I was for the past 15 years, I would have turned abruptly on my heel and walked out. In fact, I wouldn’t even have walked in. I would have, in all honesty, Yelped the most highly Zagat-rated café in the neighborhood. I would have made sure they had soymilk, gluten-free bread, and possibly vegan cheese, for my non-omelet, since I’m allergic to eggs. I like options.

I’d have walked in there, and had a hair been out of place on the host’s head, I’d have walked out of there as well. I demanded perfection.

I’d have enjoyed a delicious meal, surrounded by highly self-aware individuals like myself. I’d have checked off ‘Highly Satisfied’ on the comment card, wiped my perfect childrens’ hands very quietly, and moved on with my day.

The hostess at this diner was a woman in her early 70’s, hair spiked straight up, and a scowl on her face that could make a grown man cry. When we entered, she discouraged us from the table that seated six right by her podium, and waved us towards a booth that seated only four further away. She didn’t like children, I assumed. I understood. It happens. But we were ushered quickly back by the server, who assured us that, “The five of you won’t fit in there.”

I tried to explain to the hostess as we returned that I was sorry, the other woman had sent us back, but she avoided eye contact with me.

We settled into our uncomfortable table, a dried coffee stain greeting me at my spot. A woman sat on the barstool in the corner, her knees just about touching my back. Under normal circumstances, I’d have walked out. Just uncomfortable in too many ways. But something inside me said, ‘Just stay. See how this plays out.’

We were sitting at the table with little room for our coats. The woman at the counter motioned towards a barstool.

“Put their coats here,” she offered. I didn’t realize she’d been paying attention to us. I graciously thanked her and piled their winter gear up onto the stool.

I tried to make eye contact with the woman behind the register again. I’d decided that she probably needed a hug.

After a pleasant interaction with the server, we settled down to eat. I continued to eye the woman behind the register and the items that surrounded her — a mishmash of dog-eared black-and-white photos, a few Christmas cards, plastic Christmas decorations. It was as if I were looking into her home.

She was kind to those she knew, smiling and chatting, but continued to give me the cold shoulder. ‘Eventually, she’ll cave.’ I told myself.

A few minutes later, one of the servers emerged from a back room full of patrons and said, “The guys in the back want to sing a song. Does anyone mind if they sing? They’d like to sing a Christmas song.”

Everyone within earshot responded that they didn’t mind.

We continued to eat.

Suddenly we heard a chorus of beautiful voices, a cappella, singing words I couldn’t quite hear. Still not making a connection, I thought someone had turned up the Christmas channel on the radio in the kitchen. Applause thundered through the diner, and I realized the folks dining in the back room were singing.

They broke again into a short verse, followed by more applause, then filed out of the restaurant one by one, taking pictures of each other as they left.

How nice, I thought to myself. Who’d have thought…in this place…

The waitress was sweet to us, and kind to our children. When I brought my children to the restroom to wash their hands, a server refilling salt shakers, a kindly woman, barely scraping five feet, looked up at me and said, “The world needs more nice people. You know, it doesn’t cost anything to be nice. The world would be such a better place.”

I pointed at her, smiled, and nodded, as it was exactly what I was thinking at that moment. If more people smiled…

I brought my kids back to our table and sat at the counter. The woman, mid-fifties, in a sweatsuit, clutching her coffee asked, “Are they twins? They look like twins.”

“Yes,” I responded.

My children started talking with the woman — about Christmas, ice skating, the friend we were visiting, the tooth fairy (they had each just lost a tooth), and the subway.

I glanced furtively at the woman behind the register. She was smiling and nodding at my daughter’s enthusiasm, despite her best efforts to remain stolid.

When I turned around to put on my jacket, she was bent over my kids, handing them red and pink lollipops.

My mission, I felt, for that trip, had been accomplished. Get that woman to smile. I’ve made it my mission so many times. I don’t know why. Sometimes it’s so fruitless, and others believe it’s a waste of time, but it’s something I do.

It’s who I am.

We said goodbye and waited outside for our taxi. As we waited in the sun, I thought about what an unlikely place this was for grace to happen. This run-down diner, full of cranky people (and clutter and dirt), that, before I knew Jesus, would have been a place I’d have never bothered to notice. Several people smiled at me that morning — in New York City. In that big, scary city where we’re taught people don’t smile, that people don’t care. But they did.

Sure, the table was wobbly, and my breakfast could have been better, but when I walked out, I didn’t care. That place with the misspelled menu items, rickety booths, and a less-than-shiny counters is where I found kindness, I found love, and I found grace during that cold day in December.

I learned that He might not be in the Zagat-rated café, that though the Nutella crêpes might be Instagram-worthy, they may not nourish your soul. I learned that you can find Jesus in most unlikely places, but you must be first willing to venture there yourself.

I learned that we must give others God’s love, even though they may avoid us, because it may be those who need it the most.

There’s something to be said for giving of yourself, of not being so wrapped up in your own mind that you miss something beautiful happening right in front of you. There’s something to be said for letting go of our expectations in order to know Jesus.

And it’s our willingness to wander into those places and share His unselfish love that could ultimately save us all.