Coffee Date With The Past

She doesn’t know precisely what she wants. But the next 15 years will be exactly what she needs…

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This week my writing group tackled the following prompt: “Fifteen years in the past, you meet yourself for coffee...”

I’m curious; what might it look like for you to tell the story?

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I catch her eye and offer a half-wave as she breezes toward our table for two—a blondish girl in her early twenties—excellent posture, dress cornflower-blue, her stride confident in those Chuck Taylors she always wears. A fashionably oversized bag (with precious little inside) is slung across her left shoulder while the opposite hand grips a sleeved paper cup emblazoned with barista sharpie: “skinny SF caramel latte.” (She is yet woefully unaware of the delicious merits of full-fat dairy.)

I already know everything about this young woman. But were this not the case, I’d be willing to bet my Americano with heavy cream that she isn’t a mom¹ yet. Figure too slim. Face curiously free of under-eye circles. Her complexion is that particular brand of brightness which is only available during your twenties—or courtesy of very expensive serums. Her arms obviously know about Pilates.

The part she doesn’t know (at least beyond a hazy theoretical) is that a young, healthy body can turn kamikaze in the space of 24 hours.

Or that 5 years from now she’ll be learning how to dance exhausted circles through countless midnights.

Or that her precious Friday cleaning schedule is about to be decimated by toddling cyclones who are always hungry. I suppose I could try and gently break the news. But why ruin the surprise?

She wouldn’t believe it anyway.

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She settles into the café chair opposite mine, keen eyes skimming over the drink I’m cradling and casually inquires what I’ve been keeping busy with—though I know underneath she is eager to move past the small talk.

“Well, we just got back from annual meeting yesterday,” I say, biting my lip in a failed attempt at hiding a smirk. (I’m just dying to spill the tea.)

“Help us all. I could never handle being around so many Mennonites,” comes the quick and predictable response. “Or sitting still for that many hours straight. How do you not go completely bonkers?”

I admit that, yes, the sitting part is not my favorite, (my lower back still rebels) but tell her there are kindred spirits to reconnect with too—and so many stimulating conversations to be had that it nearly compensates for the restless legs.

She’s not buying it.

If I had to guess (which I don’t have to) I’d say she’s not exactly the type to give much elbow room for difference of opinion. Thank goodness she’s young. Time and wise friends will do wonders for her on that front. Or at least make a decent start.

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The subject matter meanders into our current hobbies. She dabbles in painting and brush-lettering; I share my recent foray into baking sentences from scratch. We laugh at the discovery that we both have too many books on the nightstand.

Her expression grows animated with the details of her latest obsession: the old-timey-turned-novel exploration of all things wild yeast, aided by hefty books she totes home from the library and sticky notes scribbled with fermentation schedules.

She says most people think she’s a little crazy—after all, commercial yeast is much faster and more reliable. I tell her to hang in there, fifteen years from now nearly everyone will be coddling a sourdough baby on their counter. (Or fermenting kombucha in their pantry while they ride out a global pandemic.)

Our talk turns to the changing seasons and our mutual enthusiasm for all things outdoors. She is working at a small, local greenhouse this spring—alongside a 15-year-old girl—planting new heart connections as their fingers break up gritty chunks of potting soil and push fragile transplants into plastic cells. I lean in, encouraging her to keep that conversation flowing. Little does she know that God will use this seedling friendship to grow acres of beauty far into the future.

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She casually drops her husband’s name multiple times throughout our conversation; we still have that in common. She says he’s her favorite person ever, the best friend she never saw coming. You tell her that twenty years in, marriage will be even richer, more intimate, steadier—and still a grand adventure.

There’s so much I’m desperate for her to understand. But all the sage advice I might offer now can’t replace fifteen years’ lived experience, nor supplant the burn and bloom of ongoing sanctification. She has yet to discover that she will never be strong enough, disciplined enough—or ever fully “arrive.”

She will learn the terrible joy of letting go. Experience a multitude of heartbreaks, each one an opportunity to practice dependence. In return, astonishing grace will define her days—a cosmic cartographer drawing generous boundary lines in pleasant though unforeseen places.²

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A hazel ring is all that remains of our coffees as we reluctantly scrape chairs away from the table and head back into our respective lives.

Navigating the gravel road to my home hemmed in by scruffy pines, I pass the Ebenezer stone and whisper, “Wow.”

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1. Things she does not yet know about being a mom: Your morning writing routine may be interrupted by an ecstatic, early-rising 7-year-old who has freshly procured his very own (very alive) groundhog.

2. Psalm 16:5-9

[5] The LORD is my chosen portion and my cup; you hold my lot.

[6] The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.

[7] I bless the LORD who gives me counsel; in the night also my heart instructs me.

[8] I have set the LORD always before me; because he is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken.

[9] Therefore my heart is glad, and my whole being rejoices; my flesh also dwells secure.