President’s Day 2018. I parked my white Toyota Sequoia in front of the Hanbury Road Starbucks just as I had countless times before. I pushed the café door open with my shoulder, dropped my bags beside one of the small, round tables, and walked shakily to the counter to place an order. When the barista in front of me asked what I wanted to drink, my brain froze. “I don’t know,” I stammered, staring at the menu blankly. “I have no clue.” And then I started to cry.

Right there in the middle of Starbucks, the stress of the day leaked out all over the register display of gift cards and packaged sweets. My shoulders shook as the silent tears increased and all the bottled-up tension finally escaped.

I had made a mistake that morning—did something I thought would be helpful and would definitely make life a little safer for me—and it was not well-received. By any stretch. I had paid. Over and over again—all day long.

I had been coming to this Starbucks for years, but during the hellacious fifteen months in which my marriage went from bad to dangerously toxic, I practically lived there. Mostly I worked—developing curriculum and grading papers for online English courses. I started to recognize other regulars and knew many of the baristas by name. It was a friendly, comfortable place—my “third place” as defined by sociologist Ray Oldenburg.[1] But as the months went on, it became so much more.

I took my dinner there every night so I could eat it in peace. Each evening, I watched out the front window of our home, so I could perfectly time my exit and guarantee sparing the children exposure to another uncensored encounter.

Seven minutes later, I opened another door where my heart rate returned to normal and the tension I carried could dissipate—for a few hours at least.  My “third place” became my safe space. A space free from caustic words and actions that were eating away at my soul.

It eventually became a place to plan my escape. A place to meet the realtor who would help me find a peaceful home for myself and my kids. A place to talk freely to my parents and brother who made it financially possible for me to even consider doing that. A place to meet friends who would help me bolster the strength it would take to walk away from all that I had known for the past twenty-six years.

On President’s Night when Sarah and Levi decided that a Black and White Mocha seemed the appropriate drink for someone in my condition, walked the drink over to my table, and asked if there was anything they could do to help me, I stammered an apology and mumbled that I was in a marriage that had become “kind of abusive” and had just had a really bad day.

Sarah offered to pray for me. Said she hoped I didn’t mind if she said that. I told her I didn’t mind at all. I would really appreciate that.

In the coming months, I got to know Sarah. And Ryan, one of the other regulars. And Sam and Stephanie and Mateo and Jake and Sing and Rehoboth. And then Dakotah and Liz and Mackenzie and Hayley. They knew my drinks. They knew my kids. They knew my story. And I started to know theirs. They were part of God’s provision in an unimaginable tempest.

Some of them helped me move my belongings—one carload at a time—into my new, peaceful home. Some of them spent their tens and thirties encouraging me through the hardest days—giving advice or just listening. They wrote messages on my cups—“We love you, Mom! You’ve got this!” They gave me rides, helped with my kids, watched our dog, visited our home. They became family.

There is a void in the system for people who experience invisible abuse—the kind that leaves internal scars. And when you have multiple kids with special needs, you aren’t exactly portable or welcome to crash indefinitely in a friend’s guest room. And in your search for safety and peace, the most unlikely place—an icon of pop culture, a chain, a place like thousands of others around the country—steps up to provide what nothing and no one else could.

I have been to a lot of coffee shops over the years. They are great places to work, meet friends, and get a sugar or caffeine fix. And I have met some friendly, kind baristas over the years—Marcus and Paco and Taylor and Nick, among others. But there is something special about “my Starbucks.” An atmosphere of community and warmth created by the people who work there—people who do more than craft beverages. They go beyond their job description to really see people and care about them. And sometimes, without even knowing it, they throw a lifeline to a drowning person.

When Sarai and Abram took matters in their own hands and “helped” God fulfill His promise of a child by having Abraham sleep with Sarai’s servant Hagar, the two women understandably lashed out at one another. Hagar fled to the wilderness. It’s easy to imagine how alone she felt there—pregnant with her mistress’s husband’s child, guilty for treating Sarah “with contempt,” battered by Sarai’s “harsh” treatment of her, alone, afraid, worthless? But then “the angel of the Lord found her by a spring in the wilderness” and asked where she was going. When she said she was fleeing from her mistress, the angel told her to return and submit to her and then made incredible promises to her about the power of the son she would bear. And Hagar “called the name of the Lord who spoke to her,” saying, “You are a God of seeing…Truly here I have seen him who looks after me.” And she named the well “Beer-lahai-roi,” which means “well of the Living One who sees me.” (from Genesis 16:1-14, ESV)

I used to go to Starbucks for the drinks. For the workspace. To meet with others. I guess I still do those things. But last year I went for protection—a safe space where I could breathe and eat and not be afraid. And in that space, God saw me and provided for me.  My Beer-lahai-roi.

I still visit the Hanbury Road Starbucks almost every day—I’m primarily a drive-thru customer now because single motherhood doesn’t lend itself to hours in a coffee shop. But that’s just fine by me. I recognize their voices on the intercom, and they know my drinks—usually a “Venti Blonde Latte, add Chai” and “two tall, iced Decaf waters” for my constant companions.

I no longer need a safe space. God provided me a beautiful home where I can eat and breathe and sleep in peace. But I still have hard days, and one of my first instincts is to go to my “third place.” Because I am guaranteed to see a friend there, to get a smile and a word of encouragement. To remember that God sees me and provides. Always.

And the drinks aren’t bad either.

 

“I am weary with my moaning; every night I flood my bed with tears; I drench my couch with my weeping. My eye wastes away because of grief; it grows weak because of all my foes. Depart from me, all you workers of evil, for the Lord has heard the sound of my weeping. The Lord has heard my plea; the Lord accepts my prayer.” (Psalm 6:6-9, ESV)

 

[1] https://www.nytimes.com/roomfordebate/2014/04/13/the-pros-and-cons-of-gentrification/every-community-deserves-a-third-place