Coffee Shop Lessons

Anne here. A white pick up truck just turned the corner in front of the large window front of my home town main street coffee shop. In the back of the truck bed, a huge stack of six American flags rides hanging over the edge as it accelerates, and I'm reminded that I just watched the movie The Patriot last night. The final pre-battle scene flashes through my mind, where Benjamin Martin's character has just lost his son to pure honor-less hatred and he's given up the fight, defeated by all he's seen and experienced. But as he packs his saddlebag, he catches sight of the American flag peeking from the corner of the leather pouch and pulls it out, running his hand over it's patched colors. 

The next scene is the flag waving free in the wind over the crest of the hill, riding closer to the line of soldiers marching to fight Cornwallis. We know they defeated Cornwallis. But they didn't know they would. They knew pain, tyranny, hatred, prejudice, anger, oppression. And they fought it--at great cost. They protected each other's hopes.

I refill my coffee cup and sit down as my dear friend texts me about the terrible impact of media-crazed misinformation that is swirling in her town. Like a tyrannical enemy, the mob is claiming a group of students who were asked to give a "high-five" sign for a picture for their parents has gone viral online. The story has been twisted worse than the silly telephone game we used to play at my Amish babysitters, suggesting the students were flashing a hate sign. 

I ponder how times have changed as I sip my hot dark brew and watch out the window where six little Amish kids sit quietly entertaining themselves and talking kindly to one another without the use of any electronic devices and I smile at the simplicity of human kindness unfolding before me. 

It hurts and it's sad that the whole world can't be so beautiful a place as my little hometown coffee shop this morning. I pull out my laptop and open it to begin edits, wondering if I can find the right words. Wondering if it really matters if I write them. Speak them. Share them. The gaggle of Amish children soon leaves, replaced by two young mothers having lunch, an Amish lady having coffee with a Mennonite lady, and a Millennial Asian girl who drapes her mod-dressed body on a lazy chair in front of me and puts on headphones as her fuzzy clogged foot hangs over the armchair. 

I hear the coffee grinder in the background. The cat needs let out at home and I begin to wonder if I'd have gotten more meaningful words accomplished at home. My friend texts again from Wisconsin, asking for prayer for her community as the controversy is blowing up on social media, her coworker is in tears, and death threats have been sent.

Suddenly the Asian girl throws her phone, jumps to her feet, and starts jumping up and down squealing out loud. The moms look up, I look up, the Amish lady and the Mennonite lady look up and say, "whatever it is, congratulations...?!"  She exclaims that her visa has just been approved. And just like that six women unknown by one another, laugh together.

I want to hug her or buy her a coffee to celebrate but she's gotten up to meet someone. So I look back at my laptop and wonder about meaningful words again. About the power of bad words. The power of good words.

The Asian girl sits back down, joy still exuding from her as she rapidly texts someone. A small Amish boy walks up to her about ten feet away, staring at her, he smiles. She looks up and smiles. He grins wider. She waves at him. He waves back.

And just like that. Asia waves at Amish. Woman smiles at boy. Strangers share joy. Without words. 

And I see them. I see Asia. I see Amish. I see boy and woman. I see kindness that makes us more the same than different. More united than opposed, or defeated by hate or division. 

We are supposed to see the differences and the sameness, the connections and the hearts. We are supposed to care about what we know, who we know, and who we don't. We are supposed to overlook offense, and see hearts. We are supposed to celebrate together.

My coffee is cold now. 

My heart is warm. 

I offer a prayer up for my friend's hometown, and thank the Lord for mine, which suddenly seems not so small-town.

Then I remember that flag again. The sacrifices for liberty.

The Lord's sacrifice for liberty.

And I remember the feeling of hope when Benjamin Martin decides not to give up.

How can we possibly give up?

-------------

Blog post by Anne Love-

Writer of Historical Romance inspired by her family roots. 





Nurse Practitioner by day. 





Wife, mother, writer by night. 





Coffee drinker--any time.

Find me at: www.anneloveauthor.com

Find me on:Facebook

Find me on: Pinterest

Find me on: Goodreads

Find me on: Twitter

Find me on: Instagram
Old posts at: Coffee Cups & Camisoles

Welcome to My Dirt Road...

Anne here. That's how many of you know me to post on my old blog that started five years ago with Jaime Jo Wright and finished to include Erica Vetsch and Gabrielle Meyer. But the time has come to close down our blog at Coffee Cups & Camisoles where you'll find all my old posts, and begin anew.

So...welcome to my dirt road...where love for vintage Americana thrives, history is rich and deep, words and stories are power, and the coffee is always on...

Vintage Americana.
What's that, you say? To me it's anything historically inviting, lost, preserved, or treasured...from our American past. If you love vintage, you know it when you see it--that thing, or story that pulls on your curiosity, that reflects days gone by, that item that holds a memory, that holds a story, that once affected lives... And you just haaaave to wonder about who made it, touched it, or wrote it.
A quilt. A desk. A tool. A faded color. An old photo with nameless faces. A curled document, yellowed with time, with old cursive script. If you love vintage...you know what I mean.

Click here: What Vintage looks like to me!

History addict.
That's me. Oh. My. Word. My high school history teacher would never have guessed that's me. He was the high school baseball coach and very old school. He was white-haired tough old breed type of coach and teacher. He scared me a bit but I still joined up to become a bat-girl for the boy's team because I loved baseball--what vintage loving girl doesn't love baseball?! But it was the study of the Stamp Act early in the term on a quiz of ten questions worth ten points each that I quickly realized I could flunk history if I didn't get serious. I managed to pull my C minus to a B by end of term, but it was in the archive room at Fort Wayne, Indiana, scrolling through microfilms of 19th century census records with my mom, that I actually fell head long in love with history. Oh, well, maybe it was before that in second grade when Mrs. Andrews read us all of the Little House books, and in fifth grade when I slept under a hand stitched quilt on a hay tick at my great aunt's Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Still, it wasn't until the Stamp Act quiz of 11th grade that I knew...history is a thing people can get sucked into...it's one ginormous fascinating story!

Click here: Pinterest Page: historical-things-i-love

Words and stories...?
My father is a story teller. My mother is a story keeper.
From little up, I was enthralled with my father's good story telling, whether of his childhood adventures, misadventures, or faith stories, or his reading aloud a well-written story to my mother around the table that brought a tear to our eyes, or reciting a poem he'd memorized, such as When Father Carved the Turk from Uncle Charlie's Poems, or a hilarious half German-half English tale of humor that had me and my cousins in stitches, holding our sides. It was my mother who always had notebook in hand, a pencil at the ready, down on her knees to look into my bent over great grandmother's eyes to ask her the details of her life, committing memory, names, details, and dates to the page. My mother recorded details, how much things cost, how her grandmother thought of the Great Depression, and the memory of touching the horses noses in the barn. She taught me how to sleuth through genealogy records, tromp through cemeteries for dates, and how primary research of original documents is paramount to good research. Then, at the kitchen table, while in tears over my first major writing assignment in middle school, she coached me to put my thoughts into words. I cried. She edited. I stammered. She helped me make sentences. I hated it--until I realized that words hold power and stories become lost unless we take the time to tell them and write them.

Why all this coffee on my dirt road?
Because I love everything country and backwoods. I live on a dead end dirt road in the woods. I love everything about quiet country living. I was raised mushroom hunting and berry picking with my toes in the garden dirt and my feet running around fresh cut grass on a summer's night. There is nothing better to brew than a hot cup of joe while I reminisce about my childhood here, about raising my children here, or preparing for the next generation. There is nothing better to brew while I dig into some genealogy, or brainstorm my next story. I joke a lot that it's the black brew that fuels me, but it's truly prayers, faith, friends, and family that fuel me.

So if you love a little vintage, 
if you get sucked into history, 
if you're addicted to a great story or cup of brew, and if you love hearing how faith is woven through family life...you're on the right  dirt road. 
Pull up a chair at my country table. Sit next to the fire. Let's chat.
I hope to share her about my stories, my writing, my research, and about
faith, family, and life.
I'd be honored if you'd share your comments from time to time.
Welcome to my dirt road...
P.S.  I love tea too...

Please leave a comment, add yourself as a follower of the blog, or subscribe to my author website for a chance to win a give away:

a Rafflecopter giveaway
-------------

Blog post by Anne Love-

Writer of Historical Romance inspired by her family roots. 





Nurse Practitioner by day. 





Wife, mother, writer by night. 





Coffee drinker--any time.

Find me at: www.anneloveauthor.com

Find me on:Facebook

Find me on: Pinterest

Find me on: Goodreads

Find me on: Twitter

Find me on: Instagram
Old posts at: Coffee Cups & Camisoles

SaveSave