Two Cups of Tea at Hope’s Café
When I was in high school, my father told me he had a story he had thought of writing. Perhaps my taking journalism and writing a lot of stories for the school newspaper brought on his sharing that with me. I don’t recall that he told me a lot of details. I remember his tale’s setting was in pioneer times. I was impressed enough that I bought him a “Nothing Book” filled with blank pages and suggested he write his story in there. There is some irony to that gift. My father was a linotype operator on the local newspaper and could easily have typed his creation.
Some years passed. Out of college and employed, I was home on a visit. I noticed his Nothing Book on a shelf. Curious, I picked it up. It was totally devoid of any writing. Not. The. First. Word. Not even a scribble. I was surprised and so disappointed. I said “Daddy, tell me your story. Let me write it.” In the saddest voice, he said, “I don’t remember it anymore.” I was stunned. He sounded so resigned. What happened in those intervening years that he felt so disconnected from his wish to write his story? Somehow, the subject seemed closed, and I didn’t pursue it. Only mid-fifties at the time, he was much too young let a dream die!
I write this to remind us all to pay attention to stories: those of relatives who harbor history we will never know if we aren’t listening, asking questions, taking note. They hold the power to enrich us. Pay attention to our own experiences and opportunities to voice them, write them, share them. We hold that same power to enrich others.
The invitation is open to share “two cups of tea” anytime at Hope’s Café, or anywhere you share companionship and conversation.
May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter. Shalom, Kate
Hope's Cafe 