barriers

I look around this place cluttered with people and coffee cups. Amid the smells of roasting Guatemalan beans and the buzz of churning espresso, there is an undefined need swirling from table to table. Some don’t feel it because they are either immersed in conversation or in a self-imposed urgency to get things done. Others, however, experience this need—either trying to avoid it by perusing written distractions or by just sitting in it, sipping and staring out the window.

The space is open enough and the tables and chairs close enough, but most of the humans here choose to operate inside of invisible barriers. I know I do. I catch myself being surprised by interaction when I come here prepared for some alone time, to read and write and do my own thing.

Despite my chosen introversion, however, I often catch myself, and others, being drawn to the rare occurrence of barriers broken by strangers interacting with one another. Like when that Nebraska couple introduced themselves to me that one time, when “what’s his name” who works here (really, Tracy?) again says hello and nods approvingly at my open Bible, or when the group of young gossiping girls to my left are interrupted by an older woman keen on offering them some crocheting tips.

“You don’t always have to loop it like that, did you know that?” she said.
“Oh yeah, I heard that once…” replied a girl, adjusting her technique.
The older woman beamed.

Barriers broken. People—very different people—encouraged and interacting. It was beautiful. It made my Spirit soar for a moment.

A middle aged man across from me—I’ll call him Glen; he looks like a Glen—rests his elbows on a small table. His necessities are scattered atop the wood—cell phone, keys, wallet. Yet, he doesn’t bother with them. In fact, there is no book or Ipod or computer screen to distract this simple presence of himself. Clutching his cold, nearing empty, paper cup, he fixes his gaze on the unknown through the window on his left. Glen shifts his eyes inside at the people conversing around him, open to a breaking of his barrier, but seemingly unwilling to take the first step. What is he thinking about? What stirs his heart so profoundly that he takes no action to pacify the lonely, silent moments at that table? In the midst of my sorrow for the loneliness his stooped shoulders and tired eyes convey, there is something admirable in his commitment to sip slowly and be still.

And then there’s the dirty guy in the beanie. Lost in his hand-me-down garb, the young man paces around a parked, red-rimmed motorcycle. He stares at the bike, then turns to face the window of the coffeeshop, searching inside as if someone there had some answers or acknowledgment to offer him. The bike steals his attention back, and he walks again to its rear then back up to its front. Another halt. Another search for connection. He doesn’t recognize, however, the three men perched under the umbrella right across from the bike looking at him—shaking their heads and muttering.

I can only imagine:
“Imbecile. What is that guy doing here?” says the guy in the sweatshirt.
The polo shirt guy turns to look.
“Someone should call security,” he miffs. “He probably wants our money and is trying to figure out how to steal that bike…What a bum.”

And what do I do? I catch his eye, hold it for a second, then look away. What does he want, Lord? What does he need? Do you want me to help him—buy him a cup of coffee? How embarrassing it would be to walk out there. I don’t feel like having a conversation, and I’m not even sure that it’s safe for me to do so…and…

O God. I’m such a hypocrite.