Entering the Stories of Ordinary People

The other morning I headed for the Egg Shell restaurant just down the road from our home to join a friend for breakfast. My PDA scheduled us for 7a.m; but his, I later learned, said 7:30. Result? I had a half hour to drink coffee and observe life around me.

Sitting at 2 or 3 shoved together tables not far from my booth were ten baseball capped men in working clothes and mud-caked boots. The same group is always there whenever I breakfast at the Egg Shell. They sit shoulder to shoulder saying little to each other. Mainly, they read their copies of the New Hampshire Union Leader and shovel down omelets and home fries.

I once asked Cindy, a server at the Egg Shell, who they were. She said they were retired guys who had met for breakfast for years. “They’re like a bunch of brothers,” she added. “They do lots of stuff together.” She didn’t say what the stuff was.

When these mostly non-verbal men finished their breakfasts, they paid their bills, grabbed their coats and grunted goodbyes to Cindy. Some of them even give her a “sisterly” hug. I could see why she likened them to a band of brothers. As they passed my booth, I said, “Make the world a better place today, guys.” One of them responded, “Great idea. We’ll do it.”

Two women (middle aged) were at another table. Unlike the men, they were spirited talkers, their conversation bouncing between laughter and whispered confidentialities. When they finished eating and started for the door, one called out to Gloria, the other server, “Behave yourself, Gloria. But if you decide not too, it won’t matter much.” This breezy goodbye tickled me because—and I mean no disrespect—Gloria doesn’t look like the kind of person who would misbehave even if she had the opportunity. It was clear that the comment was an indication of affection between people who share a lot of history together.

When Gloria started to refill my coffee cup, I asked, “Known them for a long time?”

“Neighbors,” she said. “One of them may lose her home. We’re pretty shook about it.”

“She’s fortunate to have friends like you,” I responded.

“Well, we’re going to have to stick close to her.”

In one of the booths was a woman with a boy I guessed to be about 8 years old. She talked while he ate. My sense? She was a fretful single mother in the process of taking her son to school and then heading for her day job. Their clothing suggested financial austerity. Her facial expression hinted at deep motherly concern about something going on between them, and she was trying to talk it through. His body language said, Get this over with so I can get out of here. How hard it must be for both of them, I thought, to keep life steady and keep it whole.

I prayed for them.

Since I was sitting by the front window of the Egg Shell, I was able to see a van pull into one of the parking spaces. A small-built man (80, maybe) got out, opened the back door and unloaded a wheel chair. Then, sliding back the side door, he began operating a hydraulic lift that allowed a disabled passenger (obviously his wife) to exit the van and, holding on to him, settle into the chair.

All of this was done slowly, very carefully, because of snow and ice conditions. But neither husband nor wife evidenced the slightest impatience. They functioned as a team, and it was clear that they’d made this move from van to wheel chair a zillion times.

When they approached the front door of the Egg Shell, I jumped from my seat and opened it for them. I said, “Good morning, everyone’s been waiting for you.” The woman in the wheel chair brightened and instantly retorted, “Well, let the party begin.”

He helped her with her coat, Cindy poured them coffee, and soon they were talking. I was too far away to overhear their conversation, but not so far that I couldn’t appreciate the way they touched each other and maintained eye contact as they spoke. There was obvious enjoyment between them.

As I kept stealing occasional glances in their direction I wondered if they could ever have anticipated on their wedding day (55 years ago?) that a time might come when they would share a life dominated by a physical disability: a time when a simple breakfast at the Egg Shell would require special effort. Had they ever, back then, anticipated a day when the “for better or worse” clause in the marriage vows might be activated?

Watching them caused me to think appreciatively back across the years of my marriage.

When I first met Gail, love seemed such a simple, spontaneous matter. It was mostly about romance and dreams. There were valentines, chocolates, flowers, and frequent kisses. There were fantasies about homes, babies, and changing the world. Our energy and zeal for life and one another—we had little else—was in abundance. The possibility of a wheel chair never entered our minds.

A few years later, our love grew in the ups and downs of family formation: tight budgets, taking out the garbage, deciding who would comfort a child having a bad dream. We learned to communicate and cooperate, to encourage and, when necessary, to correct. We figured out that changing the world was more daunting than we’d thought. Still, we pushed ahead and found love’s deeper ways.

At mid-life, our love matured in the process of raising and then saying goodbye to teenagers. We had to come to grips with the physical, emotional, and spiritual changes that mark life in one’s forties and fifties, and love was occasionally tested, even toughened, through disappointments and failures. Now and then we felt like we changed a tiny bit of the world ….but only a very tiny bit.

Then, not too long ago, we reached the days of social security checks. Now, our fiftieth anniversary looms on the horizon. But that love, once expressed by chocolates and kisses, continues to grow into something greater. It is framed in a life of grand-parenting and mentoring a younger generation. It’s about discovering fresh ideas and spiritual deepening. Oh, and it’s about simple things like watching our diets, debating the efficacy of vitamins, and bragging about achievements in our daily workouts.

We pray more together these days. And at night—if we’re not traveling7amp;mdash;we find it easy to turn off the TV and head early for our bed where we can hold each other closely. This love in the aging years is a deeper, more resilient kind purchased over time at great expense. Of course it’s a love with scars. But underneath those scars there are no doubts.

Watching the eighty-something couple at the Egg Shell suggests still another iteration of love—one I have not experienced, but could. It’s a love that comes when life’s limitations—perhaps a chronic illness or disability—accumulate and one partner must totally depend upon the other.

This version of love between two people does not just happen. It is the result of years and years of both building and discovering new layers of love’s meaning so that when two people get old (really old!), there is nothing they are not prepared to do for the other and be glad for the privilege of doing it.

The “pastor” in me had wanted to give something to that couple, but they beat me to the punch. Simply by being there, they unknowingly gave a gift to me: a simple reminder of how beautiful aged love can be. Most young people know nothing about this.

That morning I was thankful that my friend and I had botched up our meeting time. I’d been given 30 valuable minutes to do something I’m often too busy to do. And that was to enter the stories of everyday people who like and love each other—some old guys, women friends, a mother and son, a tender husband with his beloved wife. It was a time to enjoy simple, human encounters that all too often go unnoticed.

Gordon MacDonald is editor at large of Leadership and lives in New Hampshire.