Miracle at the Higher Grounds Cafe

by Max Lucado

Sawyer’s face fell a bit. “Yeah, we’ll see . . .” he said.

  They rode the rest of the way in silence.

  Chelsea forced her reeling mind to the café and the mouth-watering, multilayer cake waiting for her in the kitchen. She hadn’t heard from Manny and Katrina since morning, so she assumed the day had been uneventful.

  But the moment Sawyer pulled into the drive, Chelsea knew something was wrong. The front door of the café was swinging on its hinges in the wind. Shattered glass covered the porch. A trail of shards led to the supply closet, where coffee beans had spilled onto the floor in a heaping pile. But these were the least of Chelsea’s worries.

  The router was missing. The God Blog was gone.

  Chapter 35

  Take the kids and get back in the car. I’ll call the police.” Sawyer handed his keys to Chelsea.

  “C’mon, kids.” Chelsea scooped up little Emily and raced out the door with Hancock beside her.

  “Who would do this, Mom?” Hancock asked as they piled into Sawyer’s black Escalade.

  “I don’t know, honey.”

  “What’s Daddy doing?”

  “He’s making sure you’re safe.”

  For the first time in a very long time—so long she couldn’t remember when—Chelsea was relieved that Sawyer was with them. From behind tinted glass she watched as one by one the windows of her café and living quarters were illuminated as Sawyer launched his own investigation. When the police arrived, they confirmed his findings: only the router was stolen, and there seemed to be no immediate danger.

  By the time the police had filed their report and left the scene, it was well past midnight. Chelsea’s original plan was to find a hotel for herself and the kids, but Emily was now fast asleep in the backseat, and Chelsea hated the idea of waking her.

  “Can’t we just stay here? Dad could stay too,” Hancock suggested.

  Sawyer looked to Chelsea. “I could sleep on the couch downstairs. You’d have to be crazy to mess with an NFL all-star, right?”

  “Yeah, sure. That’s probably a good idea.”

  As Sawyer lifted the sleeping Emily from his SUV, he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. Chelsea hoped this wasn’t a mistake.

  After a restless night, Chelsea overslept, then descended the stairs to find an eerie, unsettling scene playing out in the café: her world, running without her. Manny and Katrina were reorganizing the raided pantry. Hancock and Emily were quietly eating breakfast at a table. Sawyer and Bo were replacing the broken glass. Chelsea toured the scene like a ghost, invisible and unnoticed.

  “Well, good morning, everyone!” she declared.

  “Hey, Chels!” Sawyer glanced up from his window repair, looking way too at home in her home.

  Manny and Katrina raced over to her. “Thank God you and the kids weren’t here when this happened,” Manny said.

  “Yeah, I’m grateful,” Chelsea said. “But I’m still worried. What do you think our customers will say when they discover the God Blog is gone?”

  When the café opened, Chelsea got her answer, and it was much worse than she imagined. With Sawyer Chambers in the house, the café had a new star. Of course there were disgruntled and disappointed customers, but Sawyer had a way with people like no other. He could turn snark into a smile in a matter of seconds. By lunchtime he was drawing his own crowd, signing autographs, taking photos with football fans, and charming even the athletically illiterate. When he rounded the corner with a giant slab of her precious multilayer cake, Chelsea had seen enough. There was no way Sawyer Chambers was going to have her cake and eat it too.

  She marched upstairs to her bedroom and grabbed the legal envelope stowed in her dresser.

  Petition for Dissolution of Marriage. The words no longer appeared stiff and formal; they leapt off the page, calling for Chelsea to join the ranks of the dreaded 50 percent. She signed her name on the dotted line and headed downstairs. It was time to let Sawyer know he had been drafted.

  At the first opportunity to speak with him alone, she handed him the packet.

  “You already signed it?” Sawyer’s jaw clenched as he steadied himself on the stainless steel kitchen counter.

  Chelsea wasn’t sure if he was holding back a tirade or tears.

  “Delaying the process will only confuse the kids,” she said, holding her ground. “Having you stay the night and hang out in the café probably isn’t helping either. Not that I don’t appreciate your assistance.”

  “Here,” Sawyer said after an unsettling stretch of silence. He extended the papers to Chelsea.

  “What?”

  “I can’t sign these.”

  “What do you mean you can’t sign? You already agreed to this!” Chelsea’s voice rose and dipped as she spoke.

  “Well, I don’t agree anymore,” he said, slamming the envelope on the counter.

  “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I’ll just send them to your lawyer.”

  “Do what you have to do.”

  “Chelsea?” Manny swung through the doorway, but the tension in the room stopped him in his tracks. “Sorry.”

  “No problem,” Sawyer grumbled. “I was just leaving.”

  Manny escaped into the café as Sawyer stomped toward the door.

  “Don’t leave like that, Sawyer,” Chelsea called.

  Sawyer stopped, turning on his heel. His intensity radiated through the room. “What do you want me to do, Chelsea? If you tell me to stay, I will stay. I can’t promise to be perfect. But I hope to be the kind of man you want to have around. The kind of man you want to raise a family with and share a home with. I am becoming that man. I’m doing it for Hancock and Emily and for myself. And I’m doing it for you. Because I love you, and I’m in love with you. So just tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”

  Chelsea sank onto the stool behind her. The wind had been knocked from her chest.

  “I think you should go,” she said in a small voice. She hoped she wouldn’t come to regret it.

  Chapter 36

  Mr. Darling will see you now.”

  Chelsea followed a curvy brunette through Dennis Darling’s swanky office in the Alamo Heights district. The rhythmic tapping of the young woman’s six-inch heels might as well have been a wagging finger, ridiculing Chelsea for her wardrobe choice. Chelsea had hoped her linen ensemble and matching flats would exude an air of casual confidence, but in this ultramodern office she felt as out of place as Betty Crocker. The homemade layer cake in her hands didn’t help.

  “And what can I do for you today, Chelsea?” asked the George Clooney of San Antonio real estate.

  “I hope you like raspberry chocolate layer cake!” Chelsea entered Mr. Darling’s office, presenting her decadent creation.

  “Thank you.” But that darling grin was missing.

  “I was hoping we could resume our conversation. You know, from last week,” Chelsea said.

  “Britney, we’ll just be a moment,” Dennis said to his office assistant, who promptly closed the door and clicked her way back to her workstation.

  Dennis turned his chair to face Chelsea. “And how is the Higher Grounds Café? Now that the God Blog is gone.”

  “Well . . .” That was the question of the hour.

  There was no denying that, after six solid days without her café’s famous blog, business had declined. In her first three months Chelsea had managed to make her monthly $9,555.64 tax payment without too much difficulty. But with added business came added expenses: the new ovens, the parlor remodel, her two employees, not to mention the cost of providing for her and the children. Chelsea had managed to make her April payment with just a few hundred dollars to spare. With five more payments to go, Chelsea was grateful Hancock and Emily didn’t mind peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Still, she was ready to relieve herself of the burden.

  “Business is okay,” Chelsea continued. “I want you to know I’ve been thinking about our conversation. A lot, actually. I have a scenario that I think might
interest you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Partners. I could sell you 50 percent ownership of the café for half the number we discussed. Of course I’d still be managing the day-to-day affairs.”

  “And what was that number exactly?”

  Chelsea folded and unfolded her hands. Why was he making this so difficult? Where was that trademark charm?

  “Well . . .” Chelsea’s mouth felt dry, nearly too dry to speak. “One million dollars is the figure we discussed. But I’m proposing half.”

  “So five hundred thousand?”

  “Yes.”

  “For 50 percent ownership?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And all this without that magic little blog of yours?”

  Chelsea shifted in her chair. “Yeah . . . The blog was never really under my control. Per se.”

  “Hmm. So this”—Dennis pulled his cell phone from his sport coat pocket—”was not your doing? Per se?” Dennis showed Chelsea a text message he had received. It was a picture of an entry from the God Blog:

  “I know all your secrets, even the one tucked inside your wallet. If you only knew the gift I have for you and who you are speaking to, you would ask me, and I would give you living water. I would cleanse you from the inside out. I love you. I always have, and I always will. God.”

  Chelsea remembered the entry. “Um . . . nope. Definitely not me. Like I said, I really didn’t have anything to do with the answers on that blog.”

  “So it was God?” Dennis’s tone was unpleasant, uncharming, and altogether undarling.

  “I really can’t say if—”

  “You want me to believe that the woman I was seeing—who just happens to be a personal friend of yours—asked a question at a blog in your café and got a very personal answer from some all-knowing God? Why would he—or should I say she—break up a relationship between two consenting adults? Jealousy perhaps?”

  “I’m sorry, I really had no idea—”

  “About the hotel key in Deb’s wallet?”

  “What? No!” Chelsea waved her hands as if to deflect Dennis’s accusatory bullets. But then an idea struck, one that made too much sense to ignore. Chelsea stood and pointed an accusing finger at Dennis. “You! I told you where I kept the router. How do I know you didn’t steal it from my café? After all, your other business, Café Cosmos, is certainly benefitting from my misfortune!”

  “Do you realize how crazy you sound? You know what? Forget it. I’m not interested in you or your café. Or 50 percent ownership. Or whatever blogging scheme you come up with to market your next business venture.” Dennis swiveled in his chair to face his laptop. “Oh, and I’m allergic to raspberries.”

  Chelsea exited Dennis Darling’s office, cake in hand, her mind racing as she put the puzzle pieces together. Deb Kingsly, the quintessential Alamo Heights housewife, and . . . Dennis Darling? To think that Chelsea had been flattered by that cheating, thieving grin. At least whoever, or whatever, was on the other side of that blog had steered Deb in the right direction.

  Chelsea held back a wave of emotion as she fumbled for her keys, all the while balancing her perfectly delicious raspberry chocolate cake. Once again she was left with a painful realization. There would be no partnerships. No 50 percents. No tax relief. No fairy godmother to whisk her away in a magic pumpkin. Chelsea was on her own.

  Though she did manage to find one silver lining. In her rearview mirror, of all places. As Chelsea drove away, she relished one last glance at her delectable raspberry chocolate cake splattered across the windshield of Mr. Darling’s shiny BMW.

  Chapter 37

  The courtyard of the convent for the Sisters of Divine Providence had become of place of refuge for Manny, particularly during Evensong. There was something familiar about the angelic choir, their sacred songs wafting through the night in perfect harmony; he always felt close to heaven here. And heaven knows he was missing his holy home. He had not seen or heard from Gabriel in weeks. The lack of communication was taking its toll on Manny. And on the Higher Grounds Café, no doubt.

  The soft grass welcomed him as he sank to his knees, inviting the worship to wash away the cares of the day. But his mind raced against the tempo of the choral melody, his clamoring thoughts creating a dissonance only Manny could hear. He felt like the conductor of an orchestra gone rogue.

  Rest! Manny forced his mind into a moment of stillness before allowing his thoughts to resume at a more melodic rhythm.

  How had he allowed the God Blog to be stolen? Why hadn’t he been warned? Had he failed Chelsea and, even worse, God? Was this apparent silence from the heavens his punishment?

  Staccato beads of sweat dripped off his anxious forehead. His heart was beating like a bass line. He had never felt so human, so weak. He knew the ultimate victory belonged to heaven, but that did not mean every battle would be won.

  The spirit is willing, but the body is weak.

  The words came through loud and clear, a calming refrain written by the Maestro himself. Manny recalled the great oratorio, first heard in a garden called Gethsemane. He found comfort in knowing he was not alone in his distress. Heaven had not abandoned him. Nor would heaven abandon Manny.

  Not my will, but your will be done.

  The words struck a chord with Manny as never before. He repeated them aloud with resolve. “Not my will, but your will be done.”

  Chapter 38

  Chelsea winced at the price tag inside the shiny new sneakers Hancock had picked. “How ’bout we look at a different store, bud?”

  “Fine.” Hancock shrugged.

  Chelsea led her sulking son through Rivercenter Mall’s grand atrium where a mariachi band played an upbeat, festive tune. Chelsea had imagined a mother-son shoe-shopping spree would be a welcome distraction from the stresses of the café and their changing family dynamic. Instead, it was a painful reminder of their new walk of life. The last time she had taken Hancock shopping, they left the mall with boxes of new shoes, and she hadn’t even looked at the price tags. Today she could hardly afford to replace the Air Jordans bursting at the seams on Hancock’s feet.

  Chelsea could recall similar moments from her own teenaged years, shopping with her mom for off-brand Dr. Martens. At school the next day she had felt just as inferior as the imitation leather boots on her feet. She survived, and so would Hancock. That’s what she had been telling herself the last few days, as she worked up enough courage to broach the long overdue divorce conversation with her son.

  “So, Hancock.” Chelsea tiptoed into the topic. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about—”

  “Yeah, I know. And I don’t really want to talk about it right now, Mom.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “But when it happens, I wanna live with Dad.” Hancock bolted past Chelsea, avoiding the inevitable pain his admission would bring to his mom.

  Chelsea paused to give her son some space—and herself a moment to breathe. She had to hold it together. At least until she made it home. She had accepted that her family needed a new rule book. It had just never occurred to her that she wouldn’t be the only one writing the rules.

  Chelsea caught up with Hancock, her emotions in full control. “What about these?” she said, pointing to a pair of monochromatic slip-on Vans.

  “Hmm . . . They’re okay,” he said, attempting politeness. “I like these more though.”

  Chelsea’s eyebrows rose at the sight of her son’s choice of footwear: skater lace-ups emblazoned with florescent graffiti. At least the price was right. “Great. Let’s get ’em.”

  Hancock stole a glance at the price tag. “Can we still go out for dinner?”

  “We’ll grab a burger and a milkshake before we leave.”

  “Really?”

  Graffiti sneakers and junk food. Chelsea was already abiding by the newest rule in her rule book: Choose battles. Carefully.

  Chapter 39

  Chelsea slid into the last pew beside Hancock and Emily midway through a standing
ovation, for what she didn’t catch. Without the draw of the God Blog, she had to make the most of every opportunity to earn extra cash. On Sundays that meant arriving at the church an hour early and entertaining chatty church members until they retreated into the sanctuary, sometimes well into the first half of Tony’s sermon.

  “What’d I miss?” Chelsea whispered to Hancock.

  “There she is.” A familiar voice boomed through the sanctuary, even without the aid of a microphone. “Thanks to that woman right there, and the work God has done in her café and in my niece, I walked to church today. She’s a saint in my book.”

  The congregation erupted into another round of applause. Except for Chelsea, who sat dumbfounded. She’d heard, of course, that Katrina’s wheelchair-bound Uncle Frank had started to walk in her café, but she’d counted the rumor among other tall tales surrounding the God Blog. From the reuniting of long lost siblings to the discovery of grand inheritances, talk of many so-called miracles was common in the café. But she was seeing this miracle with her own eyes.

  She watched in awe as Frank stepped down from the platform with ease and walked through the center aisle, right past Katrina.

  I’ve never seen her here before.

  “Chelsea Chambers, God gave you a great gift.” Frank was now standing right beside Chelsea. She sank into her seat under the unwanted attention.

  “With the God Blog, your café became a place for people to meet God just as they are. In the world they live in. I think we could do a better job of that here in this church,” Frank said sincerely, to more applause. Chelsea’s eyes darted over to Tony, who seemed to be the only one not clapping.

  “As many of you know,” Frank continued, “the God Blog was stolen. It was all over the news when it happened, but a week has passed and still no response. So I’d like to offer a two-thousand-dollar reward for the missing router, and I’m going to ask you all to chip in and make that number even higher. If that’s okay with you, Chelsea? And Pastor, of course.”