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Coffee with Staci
by Camerin Courtney
July 18, 2007
We agree to meet in the middle. Staci arrives by train and I by car in the suburb that splits the distance between our respective Chicagoland homes.
There turns out to be a festival down the street from the outdoor café we'd picked for our Saturday afternoon coffee rendezvous. There are vendors, carnival rides, edible things on sticks. And laughing, sticky, face-painted children galore.
So here we sit, sipping coffee in the shadows of Americana. Two single women sharing caffeine, creative dreams, trivial details, and angst.
Staci and I catch up on our respective jobs, volunteer pursuits, mutual friends, movies we've seen and loved, movies we've seen and hated, books the other just has to read. We sip and chat and occasionally sit in contented silence, breathing in the spectacular summer day or taking in the bustling happiness strolling by.
Of course the topic eventually turns to guys. None in my life at this time, but last I'd spoken with Staci, someone had caught her eye. Staci now speaks with both giddiness and agony about this new neighbor. Giddiness because he's smart and funny and, best of all, pursuing her. And agony because he doesn't share her faith in Christ.
"I know I shouldn't be going down this road," she says, "but I can't help myself. I know I'm going to get hurt, but it's just so wonderful to be liked back." As she talks about being torn, her eyes grow teary.
I know she doesn't need a lecture from me; she knows all the right answers. What's left is for her to do what she knows is best. So much easier said than done concerning matters of the heart. We haven't come for answers and advice as much as for hearing and understanding. So I simply say, "I'm so glad someone has noticed how great you are. Though I wish he got all of what's great about you—including your faith. I just long for more for you."
We sit in silence for a few moments, her fragile predicament perched on the table between us. Cushioned by the strength of being vulnerable and resilient and friends.
A woman talking on her cell phone walks by and prompts a memory. I tell Staci about a voicemail message I received from my parents a while ago. It cracked me up and warmed my heart, so I've been saving it for several months.
The message is from my dad, but I can hear my mom dictating info as she washes dishes in the background. "Hey, Cam, it's your dad," booms his baritone. Mom in the background: "Hi, darlin'!" Clank. Clank. "Sheila had the baby," he reports about a family friend. I hear my mom adding, "Seven pounds, nine ounces. Both are healthy." My dad repeats all the specs. The call continues like this for a couple minutes. Dad talking, Mom washing and adding details across the room, Dad repeating them, dishes clanking.
"I love that it took both of them to remember everything they wanted to tell me," I say to Staci. "I think their syncopation and rhythm with each other was what made me save the message for so long. I know it's born of years of communicating and miscommunicating, of loving and choosing to love each another."
After a few moments of silence I add, "I found that message a wonderful little snapshot of long-term, committed love." I surprise myself by continuing quietly, tentatively, "That's what I want. Someone to dial while I wash. To help me remember everything that needs to be said. Heck, to help me do the dishes. I want to be in synch like that with someone someday." Suddenly the lack and the longing overwhelm and a few tears are escaping my eyes.
People are walking by with helium balloons shaped like cartoon characters, and we're sitting at a café table with tears rolling down our faces.
And the most beautiful part of this quintessential summer Americana day is that I don't care about the tears and neither does Staci. Throughout our two-hour coffee gathering, we share, we question, we agonize, we grieve, we laugh, we cry, we encourage. We're fully present with each another in the face-painting moments, and in the moments when the tears threaten to wash that joy away.
As we prepare to leave, I feel as though we've just pulled out our baggage, opened the cases, and removed fragile pieces to examine and discuss. And as I fold up the contents up and put them away, they somehow fit better for having been aired out in the presence of a trusted friend. And as I click shut the lock, I feel something like release and relief. The bag—and I—feels lighter.
And I realize one of the great gifts of singleness for me is sharing these rich times with fellow single friends. Being able to confess my issues and longings. To be completely honest and messy with someone valued—someone who doesn't flinch at the tears. And someone who returns the gift by entrusting me with her own hurts and wrestlings and giddy feelings.
Someone who allows me to talk out my stuff until I find myself using words and descriptions that suddenly make sense in a way they hadn't before.
As we hug and walk our separate ways—she to the train station, I to the parking garage—I glance once more at the festival down the street. I hear squeals of delight from atop some twirling ride, I see couples walking hand in hand, I pass a girl with a rainbow painted gaily on her cheek.
I wonder if she can see the joy emanating from my face. Joy born of friendship's security, of knowing and being known, of shared faith in a God who shows up at random Saturday coffee get-togethers. In laughter and hugs, tears and silence. At Americana, and at the café table just down the street from it.
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