Before I took monastic vows and entered the monastery I lived in Burbank. There was a small locally-owned diner that I used to go to occasionally, the kind of place where most of the customers were known by name. But one evening, there was a stranger. I would learn later that his name was Carl.
Carl sat at one of the tables with his backpack, as though he carried his whole life with him. I guess that is true for all of us in a way. We all carry the invisible backpacks of our lives with us. He had the look of one who has been traveling under the sun for a long time. A single cup of coffee sat in front of him. I sensed both a heaviness and pleasantness about him.
The energy in the small diner space felt more like hostility than hospitality. People cast suspicious glances in Carl’s direction as if he were some sort of bother or intrusion, of which I could see no evidence. He sat quietly in his booth keeping to himself. Every few minutes the waitress would come by with the coffee pot, and with a certain sophistication, he would sip from his cup before offering it politely for refill. She would refill the cup and walk away rolling her eyes.
After a while, Carl got up from his seat and went into the bathroom. That was when people stopped being so reserved in their impoliteness. With each passing minute that Carl was still in the men’s room, the mood of those working in the diner grew increasingly impatient. One of the waitresses knocked loudly on the door and called for Carl to come out. A muffled response came from inside.
After another moment or two, Carl appeared and quietly made his way to his seat. His dignity defied the unwarranted hostility of those around him. The waitress followed him, now asking – not in any kind or respectful way – that he leave the diner, saying he was bothering the customers. It seemed to me that the only bother was that Carl appeared different. And he was different. Unlike those around him, he remained polite, respectful, and dignified through it all.
When the waitress raised her voice because Carl apparently wasn’t moving fast enough for her, I couldn’t take it any longer. Leaving my meal, I walked over to Carl, and asked him if he would like to join me at my table. He looked at me, sizing me up I suppose. But then, looking me squarely in the eye, he said “yes.” I looked at the waitress and said: “He’s with me.” Much to her chagrin, we moved to our booth. Carl ordered a meal and we began to talk.
I learned that Carl was from Seattle. He told me about his wife and how he had not been able to regain his footing after her untimely death. He told me about his daughter and two grandchildren who were living in Oregon. That was where he was heading: home, to family. The waitress, who had been nice enough to me before, lost her cheerful disposition as she served Carl his meal. She gave me a look that said, “You sure have a lot of nerve.” She was right.
In the meantime, Carl was a perfect gentleman, always saying, “thank you” and “please” and expressing his appreciation. He was the kindest and most respectful person in the room. I felt like I was dining with Jesus.
Afterward, I asked if I could drive him anywhere, and Carl said he would love to go to the library. As we headed out, I left a tip for the waitress. If Carl could have so much grace, I could at least try. The words of Jesus were in my ears: “To love those who persecute you, this is the real test of love.” I added another dollar to the tip.
Once at the library, Carl said he had something he wanted to show me. He led me to one of the computers, logged in to his email, and began showing me photographs of his daughter Ruth and his two grandchildren Chloe and Andrew. His face lit up with excitement and his eyes sparkled with love and pride as he told me about his family. I took my eyes off the clock and allowed myself to be gathered into this experience of real hospitality.
Later, we sat exchanging stories on the bench of the Greyhound bus terminal waiting for his ride to Oregon. My last vision of Carl was of him climbing aboard with my phone number in his pocket and waving goodbye. I never heard from Carl again. I think of him often. Even though we had only two or three hours together, we had friendship, and I am grateful we met. That day, I learned from him that hospitality isn’t only about opening ourselves to others, it is also about allowing hearts to be touched by others. He taught me that humility is about being honest with yourself about who you are, and when you hold that kind of truth for yourself no one can define you, not even a waitress in a diner.
Brother Dennis
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