You see, I have this table at Starbucks. It’s “mine“. Everyone knows it’s my office of sorts. Every morning I arrive early and work there for several hours.
The toddler who peeks around the corner each day looking to share his cheese crackers with me knows where I am.
The ever-present chatty Brit – the “Norm” of our “Cheers” knows where to find me.
Mark, the doctor, stops by to say “hi”.
Anyone who ever meets with me ever knows where to come.
I like to think it’s a place where kingdom work is being pursued.
And I like to think there’s a special ambiance or aura around my table. I feel more inspired when I sit there. It’s comfortable. I can spread out. And it’s the perfect distance from coffee and people. Close enough to be convenient, and far enough to not be interrupted too much.
So here’s the problem.
Last week I was in D.C. at a conference hosted by a fantastic organization called Telos. We were talking about peace and reconciliation, you know… over there in Israel/Palestine. I was simultaneously inspired by those wise and patient enough to tackle this, and indignant with all the unreasonable, proud, close-minded folks who won’t talk or listen to each other.
But when I got home and went to Starbucks Friday morning SOMEONE HAD TAKEN MY TABLE!
And he kept taking my table. Every morning he was arriving earlier than me and camping out.
It was wrong. So wrong. Like a settler illegally taking my land. Or a terrorist, trying to scare me away from what I thought was mine.
All the regulars commented on it. People were confused. Like dominos, I took someone else’s table, and they moved to another, usurping someone else. It upset the order of the universe for Pete’s sake!
Forget Ghandi. Forget MLK. Forget Lynne Hybels! I decided, “Ok, Bub, it is so on!”
This morning I was waiting outside when Anna unlocked the doors to coffeeland. It was dark and cold. I could see my breath. But this was a matter of justice!
I took back my rightful place by the cheery fireplace, glancing out the corner of my eye every once in awhile to see if usurper guy was going to come in and challenge me.
I know probably 52 regulars at my Starbucks by name, but I don’t want to get to know this guy. He’s different. I’m afraid to talk to him. I don’t want to look him in the eye. This is my territory and I don’t care what his story is. He needs to be put in his place.
Now he’s where he belongs.
And now, sitting at my table, I need to get back to memorizing the Sermon on the Mount and learning how to bring peace in the Middle East. More later…