Miracle at the Higher Grounds Cafe

by Max Lucado

  Congregants rose to their feet. Chelsea was overwhelmed by the gesture and collective support. Frank gave her a warm smile before addressing the crowd one last time. “Just meet me at the lobby café after the service. Together we can wake up our community. From the inside out!”

  Frank’s speech was a caffeine jolt to the congregation. A quadruple-shot buzz was coursing through the line, which now snaked around the lobby. It seemed every single member of Faith Community Church was ready and waiting to contribute. And Chelsea and Katrina were ready to serve them. With the tip jar overflowing, Chelsea made a note to find Tony and Sara and thank them for putting her on the receiving end of this generosity. But they found her first.

  “It isn’t right, Chelsea,” Tony said, pulling her aside. “We’re in the middle of remodeling the youth room, and our congregation is pouring their money into what? A marketing ploy?”

  Chelsea was stunned by Tony’s response. She looked to Sara, who attempted the role of a mediator.

  “I think what Tony means is that there’s still so much that can’t be explained. Even if the God Blog is recovered. We want our congregation to be good stewards.”

  “All of this—” Tony gestured to the line of people Katrina was serving. “It’s a distraction.”

  “So you want me to leave?” Chelsea asked. Neither Tony nor Sara answered, which was answer enough. “I see,” she said, fighting back a string of words that should never be uttered in church.

  Just before Chelsea lost the fight, Sara interrupted, her face filled with concern. “Hi, Marcus. Are you okay?”

  Chelsea turned to see her youngest regular customer, his shoulders sloped beneath the weight of his blue backpack, his face drenched with tears.

  “Mrs. Chelsea, I’m so . . .” Marcus struggled to speak. His slim frame shook with each sob. “I’m so . . . here.” The boy wiped his tears on his sleeves and pulled the backpack from his shoulder, handing it to Chelsea.

  Chelsea tentatively tugged at the zipper. Nestled amongst comic books and dirty clothes was the missing router, no longer glowing but completely intact.

  “Marcus . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Chelsea. I’m so sorry.”

  “But why?” Chelsea asked, placing her arm on the boy’s shoulder. In spite of his transgression, her soft spot for Marcus remained.

  “My mom. She’s real sick. Like really, really sick. And I thought maybe . . .” His eyes drifted toward Frank, who was bowed in prayer with another church member. “My mom had a question for the God Blog. But it didn’t even work in the hospital.” The young boy’s eyes filled with tears once again. “I didn’t mean to ruin it for everyone.”

  “Come here.” Chelsea pulled Marcus into an embrace. “Sometimes we do the wrong thing for the right reason. We’ve all been there.” Chelsea glanced at Tony, who looked away. “But you’re doing the right thing now, and that’s what counts the most.”

  Marcus nodded.

  “So where’s your mom now?” Sara asked. “It’s been a while since she’s been in church. We’ve missed her.”

  “Santa Rosa Hospital. I’m taking the bus there now.”

  “You can ride with me. I’m coming with you,” Chelsea said, much to everyone’s surprise.

  “What?” Marcus asked.

  “I still haven’t asked the God Blog a question. She can have mine.”

  The boy’s face brightened one hundred watts, which only darkened the grim expressions Sara and Tony wore. Marcus scampered across the lobby toward the door.

  “Manny, will you take the router back to the café?” Chelsea said.

  “This is ridiculous!” Tony spoke through gritted teeth.

  “I’ll just ask the question for her.”

  “Chelsea . . .” Sara interjected.

  “What?” Chelsea said sharply. “We have to do what we can to help this family.”

  Chapter 40

  Is it working yet?” Chelsea waited as Manny tinkered with the router on the other end of the line. “It is? Oh, thank God! Be sure to let everyone know. In fact, post a sign. I’m at the hospital now. I shouldn’t be too long.”

  She followed Marcus around the corridor to a row of sterile hospital elevators—where she found Tony and Sara waiting for them. They had accepted Chelsea’s challenge and were ready to do what they could to help Marcus and his family.

  “The God Blog is up,” Chelsea said, keeping her tone and emotions at bay. She could almost see Tony biting his tongue.

  “My mom’s on the tenth floor,” Marcus said.

  Tenth floor. ICU. Chelsea had scanned the sign at the hospital entry.

  The elevator ride was long and silent. Marcus left Tony, Sara, and Chelsea in the hall so he could prepare his mom for visitors.

  “I still think this is a bad idea,” Tony said. “As a pastor I can tell you this: pat answers don’t fly in hospitals.”

  Before Chelsea could respond, Marcus returned. “You can come in, but she’s not doing too good today,” he said.

  They followed Marcus into the room where Desiree Johnson lay, her skeletal frame wracked by cancer. Burrowed deep beneath her brows were honey-colored eyes that no longer sparkled but managed to glimmer at the sight of her son. Chelsea gripped her sister’s hand, steeling herself at the heartbreaking sight.

  “Mama, this is Chelsea, the lady with that website.”

  “Hi, Desiree,” Chelsea said. “I heard you have a question you wanted to ask the God Blog.” She flinched at her own words. They sounded trite in such desperate circumstances.

  Desiree gave a grateful nod, then turned to her son. “Will you step outside, baby?”

  Once Marcus stepped into the hall, Desiree motioned for her visitors to be seated on a bench beneath the lone window in her stark room.

  “Thank you all for coming, especially you, Pastor,” Desiree said.

  Tony stroked his chin, concealing a quiver. “Desiree . . . we had no idea,” he said, looking to Sara, who had tears forming in her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. I’m glad for the chance to see you again. And to meet you,” she said, fixing her gaze on Chelsea. “You’ve been good to Marcus. Thank you.”

  Chelsea forced a weak smile.

  “I only have one question for God before I go. Everything else can be answered in heaven.”

  “And what’s that?” Chelsea’s voice trembled.

  A gentle stream of tears began to trickle down Desiree’s face. “Besides my precious boy, the only family I have is my mom. She doesn’t have long on this earth, so I want to know . . . Who will take care of Marcus when I’m gone?”

  Chelsea took the long way home. The trials and tribulations of her own family had cordoned her off from the world around her. But the harrowing sight of Marcus gripping his dying mother’s hand had pierced through the isolating veil. The extra scones and hot chocolates she’d been giving the child seemed trivial in the light of his overwhelming need. The desperation in Desiree’s eyes, the purehearted hope in Marcus’s—it all made her feel so helpless. Desiree’s question was forever etched in her mind. Who will take care of Marcus when I’m gone?

  Chelsea wanted to hold her own children, to say she loved them over and over. And for a moment, albeit a passing one, Chelsea considered calling Sawyer. But alone with her thoughts, she drove on. Chelsea’s SUV weaved through the sullied streets in Lavaca where Marcus lived. She proceeded through her own district of King William and wound her way through the upscale shops in Alamo Heights. She hoped to continue her journey for yet a little while more, until she spotted a rather alarming scene playing out on the crowded patio of Café Cosmos.

  Sawyer. Sitting across from a redheaded beauty. He was wearing that snug blue oxford shirt he knew he looked good in. And the woman, well, she looked good and probably knew it too.

  Chelsea slammed on the brakes and watched. She considered her options. She could call Sawyer on his cell, confront him on the spot. She could roll down the window and
start yelling. Maybe snap a picture, find a way to use it to her advantage in the divorce proceedings.

  Honk! Honk! Chelsea’s scheming was interrupted by a line of cars behind her. She continued on, until she had settled on the simplest and most civilized option. She fished her cell phone from her purse, and at the next stoplight she sent Sawyer a simple text. DIVORCE PAPERS WILL ARRIVE TOMORROW.

  By the time Chelsea arrived at the café, her cell phone vibrated with Sawyer’s response. STILL NOT SIGNING. STILL COMMITTED TO MAKING THIS WORK WITH YOU.

  Chelsea gritted her teeth. What Sawyer Chambers didn’t know about commitment could fill a volume of books. Chelsea should know—she was a walking encyclopedia.

  Chapter 41

  Excuse me, ma’am. Yes, you. Do you work here?”

  Chelsea could not believe her eyes. The ginger witch who had placed her spell on Sawyer at Café Cosmos the day before was now sitting in the Higher Grounds Café. And she was calling her ma’am.

  “It’s miss. And I don’t just work here. I am the owner of this café.”

  “Great,” the woman said, sliding her mug toward Chelsea. “Two complaints. One, I ordered the house brew, and it’s very weak. Two, your Internet is broken.”

  Chelsea plastered on a fake smile. “One, you’re welcome to order another beverage. Two, it’s not broken. In fact, it’s our number one attraction.” She turned to walk away.

  “Miss? I’d like a skinny hazelnut latte. Venti, or whatever you call the biggest size here. And please make sure it’s skinny.”

  “One large skinny hazelnut latte. Extra skinny.”

  “And make it to go!”

  “Can I get a name?”

  “Ginger.”

  Of course.

  “I’ll get that right to you, Ginger,” Chelsea said with a smirk.

  “You want me to get that started?” Katrina asked.

  “I’ve got this one,” Chelsea said, reaching for the heavy whipping cream.

  As Chelsea brewed Ginger’s latte, the pressure inside her head began to build. Sawyer had always had a weakness for gingers. Especially tall, curvy ones with a penchant for sass. Now Chelsea was steaming. She added an extra pump of sugary syrup to the latte and served it to the vixen with malicious glee. After all, revenge is sweet. At least it’s supposed to be.

  “It’s good,” Ginger said, taking a sip.

  Watching Ginger consume the extra calories did not bring Chelsea near the satisfaction she’d imagined. She felt her temperature rising, her sense of propriety evaporating. She was reaching her boiling point.

  Walk away, Chelsea. Quick.

  “Can I get a lid for this?” Ginger piped.

  Ginger never got her lid, but Chelsea flipped hers. In an instant her resolve vanished, and she decided she would much rather live with a tinge of guilt than a load of regret. She whirled back around.

  “Look, lady. I don’t know what you’re trying to do here. Prove a point? I don’t care. I’m done with Sawyer Chambers. He’s all yours now. All the lying, drinking, cheating. The late nights and lost jobs and empty promises. And that’s just the last three years! I’ve got decades of material. Volumes!”

  “Clearly there’s been some mistake.” Ginger began packing up her belongings, indignant. “I am a happily married woman. It’s very, very apparent you are not, but I suggest you take that up with Sawyer.”

  “Then what were you—”

  “Ask your husband.”

  Ginger huffed out of the café, leaving Chelsea buried beneath a load of guilt and a mountain of regret.

  It was late when Chelsea got the call from Sara. Desiree Johnson had passed away early that morning. Chelsea took the news harder than she expected. Partly because she still hadn’t brought herself to ask the question of the God Blog. Now it was too late. Too late for Desiree. But her question haunted Chelsea. Who would take care of Marcus?

  She was on the porch worrying about the boy when a black SUV came screeching into the drive. Sawyer. He hopped out of the car and stormed toward her.

  “That woman was interviewing me for a job, Chelsea!” Sawyer was livid.

  “How was I supposed to know?”

  “And she was about to hire me, but she’s not anymore! I just got the call. They’ve retracted the offer, thanks to the stunt you pulled.”

  “Look, Sawyer, I’m sorry. But I see you yesterday with some hussy in tight jeans. And you’re looking all cozy with your . . . your . . .” Chelsea scrambled for a defense. “Your charming face. What am I supposed to think? With your history? Potential employer is not the first thing that comes to mind! It’s not even the last thing that comes to mind. And then she shows up in my café? So yeah, I got mad. Of course I got mad!”

  Sawyer stared at Chelsea, shaking his head in disbelief. “Can we not make this about you for a moment? Every day since you left, I have taken steps in the right direction. Hard steps. All because I made you a promise that I would change. A promise I have kept because I think we have a future. A good one. But there is no way we can move forward together if you’re going to hold me hostage to the past.”

  “But it happened! What you did. It’s in the books. Forever. That’s not my fault. And I’m not even saying it’s your fault. It just is.” Chelsea finished more calmly than she had started. When she finished speaking she was cool. Cold.

  “You’re never going to forgive me, are you?” Sawyer took a step back, realization setting in for the first time.

  Chelsea felt her lips press together. “I don’t think I know how.”

  Chapter 42

  It was a rare if not unprecedented sight for Faith Community Church. Every pew was filled. And then some. Folding metal chairs lined the perimeter, and what little floor space remained was packed with standing people. From their seats in the back corner, Chelsea and the kids witnessed the Homegoing Celebration of Desiree Faith Johnson.

  During the rousing chorus of Desiree’s favorite hymn, Chelsea couldn’t take her eyes off Marcus. The young boy stood by Katrina’s Uncle Frank, who had generously used the reward money he had set aside for the router to pay for the funeral expenses. Through tears the boy lifted his voice. “I sing because I’m happy! I sing because I’m free! His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me!”

  Through the life of Marcus’s mother, the Lord had indeed watched over the sparrows of the Lavaca neighborhood. From the stories of loved ones, Chelsea pieced together a portrait of a rare and generous soul.

  “No one would take me in. But then I met Desiree . . .”

  “I hadn’t eaten in three days, and then Desiree . . .”

  “My husband was in prison. We had nowhere to go, not a prayer left to pray, but then . . .”

  There it was again: Desiree, the turning point in each story. The loving embrace, the healing word, the generous gift. Desiree’s humble apartment was a crossroads for the needy and downcast.

  Chelsea could learn from her example. And from the looks of it, she wasn’t the only one.

  Tony stood behind the pulpit to offer the closing benediction. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn . . .” Tony glanced up from his pages of prepared notes. His eyes welled with tears as they met the gaze of so many mourners. At long last, his church was full, overflowing even. Though Chelsea guessed this was hardly the crowd he had imagined filling his pews.

  Tony looked down at his notes and began again. “Blessed are those who mourn . . .” But once again he could not finish. Something was amiss. Gone were Tony’s comforting smile and practiced pastoral demeanor. Though he hardly knew Desiree Faith Johnson, Pastor Tony was undone with emotion. His head fell to the podium, and the sanctuary echoed with his sobs.

  Sara approached Tony, placed her arm on his shoulder, and picked up where he had left off. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

  Chelsea startled at the sound of someone pounding against the front door of her café. It was ten p
.m., far too late for customers. She hurried down the stairs, her phone ready in case of emergency. When she flipped on the lights she saw Tony standing under a torrent of rain.

  “Tony! What are you doing out there?” Chelsea rushed to unlock the door.

  Tony entered, disheveled and soaking wet, though far more composed than when Chelsea had seen him at the funeral just hours before. “I’m sorry. I would have called, but I lost my phone sometime today. I wasn’t thinking when I left the house.”

  “Are Sara and the kids all right?”

  “They’re fine. I’m here for me, actually. I was hoping I could look at the God Blog. For myself this time.”

  “Yes, of course. Anything you need. Coffee?”

  “That’d be nice.”

  Tony settled in at a tea table near the register while Chelsea prepared them both a mug of caffeinated comfort.

  “Listen to this one,” Tony said, perusing his laptop screen. Chelsea sat across from her brother-in-law with their coffees and a few scones.

  “Dear God (if this really is you), I hate the church. I hate religion and everything about it. It seems so obvious that religion causes more problems than it solves. It manipulates and separates people with fear. The church is nothing more than a place for people to pose as someone they’re not. How can you defend all this hypocrisy?”

  Chelsea chuckled. “That’s from someone named Spencer, if I remember correctly.”

  “You’re good,” Tony said.

  “Dear Spencer, I don’t even try to defend hypocrisy. Now I have a question for you. Do you really think I started that? Don’t you think I’ve had my fill of worship charades, religious games, and fearmongering, as you and your friends say? You think I want this? No thank you.

  Yet, Spencer, I haven’t seen much compassion out of you, have I? You pride yourself in authenticity, yet behave like everyone in your own circle. You make irreligion a religion. Leave the hypocrites up to me. And from time to time, look up. Focus on me. I think you might be surprised by what you’ll find. Love, God.”