Serendipity

A funny thing keeps happening. Several times a week, something in the RV malfunctions. The delay for repairs alters my plans—and, as a result, I end up in just the right place at exactly the right time.

Three weeks ago, a dead battery in Sedona led me to a classical guitarist named Esteban (www.estebanmusic.com), who was playing in an outdoor market. I’ve been enjoying his CDs ever since. Two weeks ago, a leak in the outdoor hose—which occurred just as I was leaving Tucson—put me in the quaint little town of Globe, Arizona, at lunchtime.

In addition to being hungry, I also had a package to mail. So I parked near the post office, which is one of the prettiest I’ve ever seen. I was the only customer and the clerk was quite friendly. I asked if there was a nearby coffee shop. “Believe it or not,” he smiled, “we actually have two!” After directing me to the closer one, he added, “You’ll walk right past the old courthouse. It’s been converted into an art gallery. You might want to check that out as well.”

Globe is an old mining town in what seems the middle of nowhere. I’ve driven through others like it, and most are far less vigorous. As one resident explained, the town has remained vital due to a network of small business owners who support each other. The coffee shop—“Vida e Caffe”—is, I’m sure, integral to that cooperative fabric.

I knew I was in for a treat when I saw the cinnamon buns. I mentioned to the clerk—a young woman named Jordan—that I was searching for the best bun in America. “I hope this measures up,” she said—and recommended an iced cinnamon-vanilla latte as well.

Both hit the spot. After eating, I informed Jordan that, while the bun was a strong second so far, her coffee was the best yet. And I confessed that my primary quest was for God. “Funny you should say that,” she replied, “because this is a church on Sundays.”

Jordan explained that her father, who owned the place, helped start “organic churches”—small, home-based gatherings of believers modeled after the early Christian communities. The six-year-old coffee shop is an economic driver for the family’s more encompassing evangelical mission (detailed in her father’s book, Primal Fire)—and a convenient place for believers to assemble on Sundays.

I encouraged Jordan to have her father write me. Then I headed to the courthouse gallery, where I was greeted by an equally gregarious woman. Susan had moved to Globe from McMinnville, Oregon eight years ago, to help care for her retired parents. She’s a host in the gallery three afternoons a week; as assistant circulation manager for the Arizona Register, she’s up every morning at three.

While nosing around the gallery, I found a lovely ceramic mug. “For $4.50,” I said to Susan, “this is a steal.”

“You want to know the story about that?” she asked—then continued before I could answer. “The woman who made it is a pharmacist. Pottery is just her hobby. That’s why it’s so inexpensive. She doesn’t do it for the money.”

I paid for the mug and started for the door—mentioning my search for God on the way out.

“Nature,” Susan said in a tone that was both confident and humble. “That’s where I find God.”

She pointed out the window, calling attention to the natural landscape, adding, “I can’t stop the waves and I can’t stop the wind. But I get the beauty of the sunrise and sunset every day.”

Now there’s a prayer. Amen to that.

(Colorado Springs, CO)