'Last Chance Cafe'

            The sun was sliding into the western horizon as I maneuvered my perfectly restored ’59 Stingray onto the crunching gravel. I slowed vigilantly to avoid throwing pebbles from the tires and chipping the sea-foam green paint. It had been a strenuous day of traveling from my hometown to, well, wherever here is.

The sun reflected off the filmy window of a small café and momentarily blinded me. I maneuvered the chrome-trimmed roadster into a slim parking space and stopped. My body reverberated with the memory of the vibrations of the road. It was only now that I took a deep breath and paused to study my immediate surroundings.

            The vehicle door clicked open and I was surprised to find that the air was nippy and laden with a mist that hovered in the tree-lined creek fringe. A thin layer of evening frost was beginning to form over the damp rocks and puddles in the drive-way. I wanted to dash indoors to a roaring fire and a steaming cup of cocoa.

            The diner was nothing special to look at. It was a flat-roofed, squat, square building that covered roughly a one thousand square foot area. Remnants of a flowerbed lined the front of the modest structure. The flowers were long dead from the cool autumn air that had replaced the warm summer breezes that they loved so much. Frozen, hanging low and stiff, the leaf points made miniature rainbow-like arcs against the faded paint. The trim color around the door looked as if it had been neglected for twenty years. It was peeling in jagged slivers that shuddered when the air stirred. The weather beaten wood was faded from seasons of sweltering sun and frigid wind.

            The only distinct sound, other than the other cars blindly speeding past the establishment, was that of a trickling brook somewhere behind the humble shack. Misty wisps of fog hovered in the air above the ambling stream like dancing apparitions.

            In the murky door window a randomly blinking and buzzing neon sign says, “Come one, Come All, Always Open, All the Time!” It beckoned me from the comfort of my plush vehicle. I stretched lazily and took in a breath of the refreshing cool air and began to walk toward the cozy looking refuge.

            As I stepped onto the sidewalk, I sensed something curious about the atmosphere of this café from the parking lot only five feet away. My pulse quickened and my blood thinned. I tugged on the door handle and pulled it open. As I stepped inside I smelled a heavenly scent and inhaled deeply. I closed my eyes to let the memory burn into my senses. It smelled like fresh baked bread, but even fresher. I was transported to a time in my life when I felt secure and loved without any doubts.

            Before I could exhale, someone walking by shook my hand. It wasn’t a flimsy fish grab, but a real ‘boy-are-we-glad-to-see-you! Sit-yourself-down-and-enjoy-your-stay!’ handshake.

From across the room someone yelled to me. They called me ‘friend’ and said, “Here’s your table waiting here!” I was momentarily shocked that they would have a table set and waiting for me. ME!? As I tentatively took my place, an old familiar face said, “Sit on down and welcome to the ‘Last Chance Café’!”

            I glanced at my watch to check the time. I knew I hadn’t been in the café but one minute, yet it felt as though I had been there all my life. I had never been much of one to follow parallel time lines, but I recognized that there was something very different about the way time moved in the café. It was if I were floating on the very edge of time. What a thrill! Suddenly, it didn’t matter what time it was. I sat back and drank in the sweet release from the dictates of societal rules. I didn’t HAVE to be anywhere! Oh, the taste of freedom from schedule pressures was intoxicating!

            As I sat there, I noticed that more people were coming in the diner door. I began to wonder how all these people would fit into this tiny café. But miraculously, they all came in and became part of the atmosphere. It was as though they all belonged there. Still, more people came and yet no one was turned away. I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes and thought, “This could only happen here, at this mysterious ‘Last Chance Café’.

            The man who had spoken to me a few minutes before put his hand on my shoulder in a way that was gentle, yet full of power. I never wanted him to remove it. Somehow, just this simple touch was a comfort to my very soul. He leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Look around, this is a holy place”. A shiver shot up my spine.

I opened my eyes and beheld, as if for the first time, family and friends everywhere! In a flash, happy memories flooded through my mind. The visions of the past swept over me as we laughed and cried in each other’s arms. I knew that I had arrived at everywhere I had ever wanted to be. I was completely satisfied and fulfilled here in this humble café. I never wanted to leave this rapturous place! I felt as though I could spend forever here. I felt no shame as tears of joy streamed down my face without hesitation or pause.

All this time the man with this all-consuming presence continued to stand by me. I was acutely aware of him. I was enjoying the presence of my friends and family immensely, but his quiet strength seemed to press against me. I felt urgency within my self to give my attention to him, too. I felt slightly divided.

            When at last I did turn to face the man, smiling he said, “For two thousand years, I’ve been waiting here for you to come and join me at the ‘Last Chance Café’. It’s been waiting here, throughout all the years, this heaven made for you.”

            Could it be true? Heaven is in his tatty diner? No, it was far more than that. It was my destiny. I was in the midst of the relationship I had longed for all my life. I had finally arrived. I wept openly as all the desires of my heart were met in the company of this man. Leaning heavily on his shoulder, his arms supported my relief-wracked body. The fight, the battle, the tension of all my years was gone.

            “Yes, my darling. Welcome home. Well done.”

(inspired by the song, Last Chance Cafe, by Allies)

Hero

I recently watched the movie Footloose. I was pleasantly lulled back to a time when Kevin Bacon was a ‘fox’, the ‘Brat Pack’ set the fashion trends, and feathered hair ruled the prom.

I love the messages of Footloose. ‘Celebrate!’ ‘This is our time!’ ‘Dance!’ ‘Break free!’ Yet somewhere, between the bouncing music, peach chiffon dresses and frilly tuxedoes, I had forgot that those kids were angry. They were angry at being fenced in, tied down and cooped up. The rules and restrictions placed on them pressed in relentlessly. They just wanted a little space to be young and to dance.

I was one of those angry teens. I was angry that life did not work out the way I thought it was supposed to. I naively thought that if I liked my friends enough, then they would automatically like me, too. Instead, what I learned was that betrayal and mistrust was my ‘normal’.

The weight of the unwritten rules was oppressive. ‘Conform or be shunned’. I felt caught in a boxing match with no training. I was trapped against the ropes, cringing in fear of the next blow.

The best help I received? Well meaning adults telling me that ‘Life is not fair. That’s just how it is.’ In other words, give up. Resign yourself to thinking that “This is as good as it gets.”

I often thought, “What?! THIS is God’s best for me? THIS is God’s great plan for my life?” What a colossal disappointment!

Ohhhh…yes. It made me angry.

Though time and maturity have healed many old wounds of my heart, I have made a fresh discovery. I am still angry.

I admit, I am a little angry when I run out of coffee. I am slightly more angry when tools break when I need them most. But ultimately, I am angry when dreams begin to come true but come unraveled. I am angry when I think I’m right only to find out later that I was wrong. I am angry that my friends suffer physical pain. I am angry when my own doubts and fears disappoint me. I am angry when a friend loses a needed job. I am angry when a relationship ends. I am angry when people I love stay mired in their mess. I am angry when a loved one dies. I am angry when I feel guilty for being angry!

However, the Bible says there is a time to be angry. It’s okay to be angry at pain, suffering and injustice. It’s okay to rage against poverty, destruction and death. That’s how bad situations get better. Someone usually gets very angry which turns the tide and breaks the “status quo”.

The question facing me is this: what will I do with my anger? Will I lash out? Will I push it deep, deep within myself, pretending to ignore it?

Or will I choose to run headlong into it with a fiery defiance that channels the emotional energy to bring justice and relief? Will I get angry enough to take a stand against the lie that says, “Life is not fair. That’s just how it is. It doesn’t get any better than this”?

I would like to think that my anger has been refocused and redirected to create some positive change in this rough world. I wish that someone were a little better because they were friends with me. I hope that I have been strong enough to make some sort of impact against the forces of opposition.

In reality, some days I wonder if I am effective in my prayers and my actions. I feel torn between giving up and going on. Some days I feel worn out by the fight. I feel hopeless, trampled down, and completely inadequate. In those moments I say, “I can’t do this!”

That’s when I think to myself, “I need a Hero!”

I need Someone who will be strong for me. I need Someone who’s perfect timing thwarts the onslaught of the fiery arrows of wicked accusations. I need Someone who knows how to outwit the plans of evil; Someone familiar with the enemy’s tactics and will counterattack on my behalf. I need Someone who has the power and authority to bring change that lasts, to bring justice and truth to any situation. I need Someone who is secure enough to not let the dark places of my heart scare Him. I need Someone who protectively watches over every move I make and knows exactly what I need to keep fighting. I need Someone who also knows when it’s time to give me a reprieve from the raging battle.

Sometimes, when I sleep, I dream of a Gandolf-like figure that surges into my desperation on a white stallion and sweeps me off my feet to a place of triumph, security, rest. In my reverie He approaches me with power and gentleness, authority and peace, safety and wildness. Being with Him revitalizes and invigorates me. His presence burns like fire in my blood.

When I awaken, my passion and intensity concentrate into a fierce desire to fight for freedom for the imprisoned, the oppressed and the burdened once again.

In the red-skied dawn my Hero and I charge from our mountain fortress with a purple and gold banner splayed, proclaiming “Victory!” to those who will join us in battle! Joy is our strength! Love is our motivation! Hope is our message!

So, COME! DANCE! CELEBRATE! Our Hero is here!

(Inspired by Holding Out For A Hero, by Bonnie Tyler, from the movie Footloose)

A Writing Assignment...

This story was inspired by a writing assignment for The Writers Guild. (The underlined words/phrases were required for the assignment.) 

I am inviting suggestions for how to show this story more. It seems to just tell the story. Please email me with any ideas! Thank you!

She waited in the shadows at the glossy piano with trembling fingers. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes then curled and uncurled her fingers three times, her ritual. In anticipation of the events of the evening yet to unfold, she strained to control her inner vibrations. The spotlight clunked on with a glare. The emerald dress enhanced her crimson hair glistening in the intense light.

            Gradually exhaling, her fingers began dancing gracefully through their rehearsed routine. They winged over the keys of ivory and ebony with the agility of a ballerina performing a pirouette.

The final notes faded amid cheers and applause of the crowd. She stood to her feet with poise and bowed to the eager audience. One tall, distinguished, man stood out from the throng. He smiled broadly through his neat 3-day stubble. He was so strong and being with him made her feel safe. She could hardly wait until she was in his arms.

She turned and floated off the stage with a sense of pride and accomplishment. It was the only time in her illustrious career with no mistakes during the performance. She felt like she glowed, her cheeks hurt from smiling.

Backstage, she waited with the others participants for the concert to end. She paced the floor and looked at the backstage door wishing he would walk into her waiting arms. In reality, the time was shorter than a New York minute.

In a self-confident manner with all the pride he could muster, he slowly swaggered up to her and swooped her off the floor. He kissed her cheek and spun her around twice. The adoration was apparent. She’d never been so happy. She giggled like the schoolgirl she really was.

“Daddy!” she exclaimed.

“Sweetheart, you were magnificent! You played perfectly! I’m so proud of you!” he gushed, re-setting her on the floor and taking her hand.

“Do I deserve a treat, Daddy?” she asked bashfully.

“A treat? What a good idea. How does triple chocolate cheesecake with an Oreo crustsound to you?”

“It sounds good, Daddy, but that’s not even close to what I want!”

“Okay, okay, let me guess again. How about a hot fudge sundae with a cherry and rainbow sprinkles?” he suggested.

“Nope.” She loved this game.

They began walking toward the doors to the parking lot where their blue, faithful, rusty Ford pickup waited.

“Oh, I know what you want; a hot brownie with vanilla ice cream, drizzled with caramel syrup.”

She squeezed his hand and said with playful reproof, “Daddy! You know what I really want.”

“Hmmmmm”, was his reply as if he was deep in thought. They walked slowly in silence for another moment.

Suddenly, he stopped and in one very stealth move, he reached into his coat pocket and said, “Maybe I do know what you want…”

Their eyes locked with full expectancy. He magically produced the long awaited, wax paper wrapped treat. In unison they shouted, “A pickle!”

Circling St. Ives

Optimistically, they thought, “Who doesn’t love a coastal town with the briny wind, the boisterous surf, the confined, winding street lined with touristy merchandise shops?” This was purported to be a magical overnight stay filled with images of pirates and tales of swashbuckling heroics - an idyllic getaway for a hopeful romantic. The lure of these adventure-laden shores had emboldened two wide-eyed American tourists to venture to the southern most tip of England. St. Ives to be exact.

For all intents and purposes, the day started out perfectly despite classic grey April skies and constant rain. These hearty tourists had lived in moist conditions for most of their lives and were emotionally undaunted by a little spitting drizzle.

The rented blue car resembling a used soap bar slipped down the narrow ‘A’ road with ease as the carefree travelers mindlessly hummed along to the only CD they had with them. The jazzy tunes of British artist, Seal, heightened the potential and nearly impending romance of the voyage ahead.

Moment by moment, the scenic English Moors of Dartmoor National Park glided past. Never had the vacationers experienced something as wild and rugged as this. Yes, they had seen the jagged, snow spotted mountains of Glacier and Yellowstone National Parks in America. They had also seen tundra strewn hillsides in remote places of Alaska. These locales feel rough and desolate, but are somehow compelling. They invite one to into the mysterious side of adventure.

However, the English Moors were a beast of a different kind. They were desolate, rugged, rough, and wild to be sure. However, there was another element that permeated the atmosphere. It felt eerily majestic. It was as if the spirits of kings, queens, knights and warriors of the centuries past hovered there like a barren purgatory. Gradually, the loneliness and bleakness of the terrain began to envelope the soap shaped vehicle. Optimism waned.

The quaint and artistic village of St. Ives sits wedged into the crevasse of a rocky outcrop of land. The harsh waves of the Atlantic Ocean beat unceasingly against the seawall. Fishy, salty and grassy smells carried up the side of the hill by a relentless wind draw attention toward the stone houses stacked one on top of the other like one massive terraced garden broken up by occasional bits of jagged, dark rocks poking through.

The map’s address simply read “14 Rose Cottage Way” to the charming bed and breakfast room awaiting. How hard could it be to find in this tiny, yet attractive fishing village? The travelers’ methodical search began by descending the lengthy hill into town.

The view was spectacular even through the rain. The white-capped waves of the open ocean lay before them on the right mirrored by the white house-covered hill on the left.

At the bottom of the hill the road unexpectedly changed into a one-way system of streets that dictated the journeyers’ direction of travel. Circling through the tiny city centre was fun and intriguing the first time through. There were several shops that the tourists wanted to inspect the next day – kite shops, souvenir shops, historical points of interest, the seawall walk and enticing eateries. They noticed a split second too late that they missed the turn to their necessary street. Amused, they finished the loop through the town and began the second round.

Turning onto the desired street proved an adventure in itself. It reminded the pair of a camel going through the eye of a needle. It forced the travelers to creep past parked cars and stone half-walls to avoid damaging the rented car. Tensions mounted as adrenaline surged with the challenge.

At the end of the row of houses, the deceivingly charming street continued to narrow into what looked to be a bicycle path and seemed to wander off down a precarious precipice. Unlike an actual soap bar, this blue car would not slide gently down the obviously uninhabited ravine wall, nor did the travelers want it to.

Somewhere in the last 30 feet, desperation for a respite crept into the minds of the hungry and frustrated couple. Any trace of adventure and romance vanished. Frustration soon gave way to misdirected open hostility. Angry words were exchanged before the driver extricated himself from the vehicle in order to avoid further escalation. However, after a few minutes to catch their breath, the couple reunited, made apologies and changed their plan of attack for the situation.

Gingerly, they picked their way back to the circuitous city route that was gaining annoying familiarity. The return trip did not change the fact that the map provided by their travel agent directed them to a house that was clearly not a “charming bed and breakfast with ample parking”.

With wry and ironic smiles, they noticed that the appeal was fading as they circled through the village centre yet again. They noticed that shops were beginning to close for the evening therefore, they were rapidly losing options for assistance to their goal. Climbing the long hill back out of the town to a petrol station became their only hope.

After gaining the correct directions from the dirt and grease-laden station attendant, the two now weary travelers once again descended into the village. Following these new directions, they were surprised to discover that they were going in a direction opposite to the other attempts to locate their evening target. Insecure glances were exchanged as they asked an elderly, friendly couple walking the white flower dotted sidewalk for more information. Grateful, the assured travelers tentatively continued on, up a hill parallel to the road leading into the village.

Near the pinnacle, like a lighthouse’s beam of hope, they saw the white sign with black letters: “Rose Cottage Way”. Turning left, they were rewarded with a sign further up the street that indicated that they had reached their ‘home’ for the night – #14.

Snuggled under the poofy duvet after a hearty meal and hot showers, the couple reflected on the day’s adventure. Not any time soon, but someday, they decided, they would appreciate the adventure and enjoy the humor of circling St Ives.

Sounds

Contentment a purring cat on my pillow

Comfort the exhale of a friend during a hug

Anticipation the ‘wah na na na’ of a motorcycle motor

Cheer birds faithfully chirping their reports of winter holidays

Fear a ringing phone at an unusual hour

Empathy a friend delivering bad news through her tears

Acceptance the excited greeting of a parent or friend

Anxiety a thumping heart through an important interview

Confusion snapping & popping of ligaments from a strange illness

Grief silent tears in remembrance of past losses – a spouse,

grandparents, a creative mentor, an inspirational

and beloved family member

Selfishness a squeaking, cracking voice interrupting a prayer for

someone you just don’t know if you could live without

Hope the ‘ding’ on your computer indicating an email with fun

plans enclosed

Confidence God’s voice saying, “Take My hand. We’ll go together.”

Novocain Life

Paralyzed

Empty

Useless

Ineffective

Bloated

Limp

Lame

This Novocain life

 

Temporary

Escape

Lethargic

Apathetic

The nitrous of my soul

 

Urgent

Tingling

Thrill

Alive

Free

Just one breath of holy

oxygen to fill my spirit!