A Beautiful Stranger

The bell chimed politely, announcing the arrival of yet, another customer.

I turned to smile, expecting to see the friendly faces of The Golden Girls, an endearing name I've given to a group of three women, 60 years or older, who regularly meet Sunday evenings--a tradition they started 20 some years ago to get away from their husbands during Monday Night Football. Now they just meet Sunday night, since the men don't watch football as much anymore.

However, instead of seeing Izzie, Marcy and Dale, I was surprised to see a man I've never seen before.

He looked like he had not showered in weeks. His matty and knotted hair was gray. His wrinkled forehead and checkered grin showed conclusive evidence of a man who has weathered, endured and seen a much harsher side of life. As he walked towards the register, the general atmosphere of the small coffee shop immediately became tense and uncomfortable. The man was softly muttering unintelligible things to himself, occassionaly looking to his left, at something, only he could see. I noticed many of the other customers ignored him, or pretended like he wasn't there. I was starting to become anxious. I was not quite sure what to expect from a man, who was showing signs of schizophrenia.

The man walked up the counter and put $2 down without saying a word to me.

"What can I get for you tonight, sir?"

He was still muttering to himself, muttering things that made no sense. He looked to his left, still muttering softly but started gesturing, waving his hand up and down, as if he was trying to "shoo" someone away. He looked at me listlessy, and then as if trying to get a crick out of his neck, he tilted his head slightly and clenched his jaw. He took a deep breath in and looked at me again. It was then that I saw his kind, gray eyes fill with tears. He gave me a look of helplessness and frustration as he tried to communicate with me.

"I just-- I just-- I JUST---want..."

Before he could finish his sentence, he began to mutter uncontrollably once again. He put his hands to his head and began to shake it violently. He stopped after a few seconds and sighed. His eyes looked at me apologetically, and then looked away. He began to mutter again, sounding more angry by the moment.

Something happened to my heart, right there and then. A rush of compassion warmed my entire body, I felt blood rush to my head and as if a lamp was lit inside my mind, my eyes were opened to see this broken man was a human being made in God's image--a beautiful stranger. I wasn't afraid of him anymore.

"Sir," I asked gently, suddenly finding myself trying to fight back tears, "do you want... a cup of coffee?" I wanted to help him. I wanted to do everything I possibly could to help him. It was, however, too lofty a goal to attain at that point in time. Because I was at work, I could only help him with his coffee.

The man, still looking away, nodded. His mutterings died down to a steady lull. Though every now and again, he would bite his lip, as if he was trying to suppress something that he did not have control over. He slowly and gingerly pushed the $2 towards me.

Usually, coffee is self serve at the coffee place I work at--meaning, in a very obvious way, that the customers get their coffee themselves from the airpots placed on the counter.

I handed the man his change and a coffee cup. He nodded a "thank you," and walked over to the coffee pots. He stood there for awhile, looking carefully at each option, obviously confused about what to choose. Fortunately, there were no other customers waiting to be helped, so I walked over and tried to help him: "The House Blend is the more popular choice by most customers here and it's milder than the Tanzanian Peaberry...though the peaberry has kind of a weird, fruity taste...and I wonder sometimes why something fruity would have much more caffeine than a--" He looked at me and snorted a laugh, indicating that I was sharing information that he did not really care about. I smiled, "I mean, the vanilla nut is good." The man nodded furiously in agreement and began filling his cup--still muttering to himself.

I helped him pour creamer in his cup, since he did not seem to know how, or maybe could not get his brain to tell him how. Either way, I was glad to help him. Before he left, he bowed his head politely to me--still muttering his unintelligble words--and walked out the door. The bell chimed again, this time announcing his departure. And I watched him walked across the parking lot until I could not see him anymore, wondering if I would ever see him again-- The strange man who reminded me of something very important: People are worth our time and care because they are made in God's image, and there is something profoundly beautiful in that.