We stepped out of my car and walked towards the glass door of the coffee shop. I held it open for her, and then followed my nose into the shop filled with the enticing aroma of gourmet coffees brewed-to-order for the yuppie elite. I, however, was no yuppie. I was sixteen, tall, thin, reserved, and cynical. I had Adidas on my feet, and was dressed in bland khakis and a black polo as mandated by the overlords who ran my private Lutheran high school. School had finished for the day, and I had succeeded in securing the company of an attractive girl to join me for coffee. We had journeyed in my very unattractive-yet-unabashedly-functional maroon-colored Buick to a place called Meg’s, which served magnificent, if not slightly overpriced, coffee and baked goods. The joint was furnished with red couches and throw pillows, a giant beanbag chair, bookshelves with last years novels shelved haphazardly on them, and of course the little round tables impressed with checkerboard patterns. It was basically the aftermath of a supercollider experiment involving a Starbucks and a pediatrics waiting room set in a suburban Illinois city.
Stepping up to the counter we ordered our respective beverages, I a double shot of espresso and she a frappuccino. We collected our drinks and seated ourselves at a table for two situated against a wall beside a basket of books. One of the books, I noticed, was a paperback copy of Thomas Harris’ Hannibal, a book I would start reading that year and finally, after an extended hiatus, complete in the February before my twentieth birthday. We sat facing each other for a few minutes, silently taking in the atmosphere. Our meeting was one-on-one, as I preferred, and uncomplicated by flirting and the usual teenage insecurities involving a semi-formal date due to the ruggedly handsome boy whom she was already dating.
She was unequivocally gorgeous. Wisps of her golden hair fell loosely at her cheeks, framing her soft face, perfect eyebrows, and light pink lips. Her soft blue eyes, twinkling like twin dewdrops in the morning sun, were vibrant, engaging, and hauntingly mysterious. Her smile put me perfectly at ease, as though I had known her my whole life. Her posture radiated self-assurance, her bracelet-clad forearms leading to hands that were no strangers to the dog-eared pages of literary masterpieces. There was no façade about this girl. She was straightforward, honest, and to-the-point in an almost brutal way. Not one to ever be taken for a loop, she meant what she said and said whatever she meant, and expected the same from whomever sat across from her.
There was very little laughter in our conversation. We both knew enough of each other’s backgrounds to feel comfortable, allowing us to bypass the normal conversational puddles of witty banter and entertainment preferences, instead diving right into topics of philosophy, worldviews, and religion. She believed in a single loving God who had a purpose for her life; I was beginning to reject my Baptist upbringing, instead choosing to believe that religion was an opiate for the masses and I was part of a forgotten generation; the all-singing, all-dancing scum of the earth. Until I met her I had reveled in belittling my Christian peers who, as I saw it, blindly followed the God of their parents. She, however, was the first person whom I had ever met who was not fazed by my criticism of her beliefs. I suppose a better way to say it is that she was the first person I met whom I didn’t feel was threatened by my rejection of the/her Christian faith. She was the first person who accepted my beliefs, and in return expected me to accept hers. And I did.
I didn’t feel attacked when she would smile at me and ask, “So how’s God?” I would freely answer, “Well, not much is going on with him right now. I guess god (in our online chats I made it a point to specifically not capitalize god, while she made it a point to hold shift for point-three seconds) is around but I don’t really care about him right now.”
Our conversations usually ended the same way. She would smile and encourage me that God was after me, at the same time assuring me that I could rebel all I wanted because if God wanted me, I was going to come around sooner or later. I smiled and told her that I thought her naïve.
She finished her frapp (I had downed my double shot by the time I finished reading the testimonials on the front of Hannibal), and I drove her back to our school parking lot where I dropped her off at her car, thanked her for her company, waved goodbye, and drove home.
These meetings were to be the basis of the beginning of our relationship. They were also the spark for my spiritual search for truth, and the beginning of my journey to take ownership of my own beliefs. It was another two and a half years before God finally claimed me; before I finally submitted myself to His will. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I have a friend named Julie to thank.
Thank you.
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