“As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.” (Proverbs 27:17)
As I flip through the chapters of my life, I have become ever increasingly grateful for the men with whom I’ve crossed paths. Not that there haven’t been some incredible women who have influenced me as well. After all, I am married to one of them.
Sometimes the male figures have joined me on my journey for a short time, while other guys have been along for the ride so much it’s like we’re grizzled cowboys sitting around the nightly campfire together. Short-timers and long-rangers have both been instrumental in my personal and spiritual development.
A recent “cowpoke”, so to speak, is an older fella’ named Alan, who sits at the same Starbucks counter as I do. Alan is nearing eighty, drinks his coffee from an actual Starbucks mug (just like my parents did…minus the Starbucks label), and shares the same faith view of life as I do. We talk about chess, our health status, the latest class that he is auditing at the local university, and life. Our lives can not be separated from our faith.
Alan reads my blog and, no doubt, will be slightly embarrassed that he is the prime focus of this one, but it’s true. My life is a little better because of our early morning chats. He tells me about books that he has read, or is reading. John Mark Comer is one of his favorites, while I lean towards Philip Yancey.
Alan shares simple wisdom with me, not wisdom that requires a theological surgeon to decipher. Our wives have the same first name and he hails from my neck of the woods. As we talk, questions arise about the confusing situations of life and how we sometimes have learned what’s paramount in importance by walking through the fires.
We don’t go to the same church, eat at the same restaurants, or drive vehicles of similar models. In fact, I always know he’s at Starbucks by the fact that his anciet Jeep Cherokee is backed into a space. At 5:30 in the morning, it stands out in the midst of the near-empty lot. He’s absorbed in his reading, often his bible close at hand, and unaware of my entry until I say, “Good morning, Alan!” Sometimes he’s in mid-swig as I say it, but at 5:30 he’s usually ready for a refill.
In return, he greets me as I walk the ten more feet to the other end of the counter and deposit my backpack. After I get my Yeti mug of the Pike Place brew, he strolls down to my position, white mug in hand, and we update each other on the goings-on of yesterday and the hopes of the day we have begun.
In some ways, we walk another day together, two brothers privileged to have come together in a most unlikely place, simply because we like coffee.