A GRANGER 2nd Cup of Coffee for 5/14/26: SOMEBODY TOLD ME YOU PRAY
"SOMEBODY TOLD ME YOU PRAY."
"You Granger?"
I'd been wool-gathering. It's one of the few times anyone had ever shown up in my office door without me first hearing them. I mean, other than Raven Wing. Points for stealth. As I looked up it ran through my mind. He didn't leave the 'Are' off because of poor diction. I agreed with myself. Nope, no casual passerby. He's here to see me for a reason.
"I seem to be." It was a pleasant soon-Spring day, too much so to be irritated that he's managed to get up the stairs without my hearing him. Happens so infrequently that anyone pulling that off deserves an extra look. Besides, there's that stylized 'G' carved into the wooden door frame just below the pebbled window glass of my door. Gives it away, sort of.
I motioned a welcome to him, gesturing to one of the old comfortable stuffed chairs I keep here. Mismatched. Seems like it makes them more comfortable. He sat.
My Delonghi coffeemaker burbled pleasantly. I smiled pleasantly. Mr. Pleasant.
The stranger shifted as if trying out a new bicycle seat. I remember a new Shimano I once tried out. The memory makes me wonder again whatever became of Preparations A through G. . .
Waiting usually works. It did now.
"A friend told me you pray." Odd. Many pray. In times of trouble, we ALL do. What differentiates between us? What does this guy need so much he can't trust those whose praying he normally seeks? Are there levels of praying? Degrees of intensity? Some who are okay for regular, generic praying but wholly inadequate when things in life get real? Can you be trusted to be a "go-to" pray-er or are you aware when people you know need SERIOUS intercession they politely look elsewhere?
It was a lot to think about.
Silence also works. Once again, it did. Quietly I observed him. The shifting edged into his face. He had a thoughtfully puzzled air about him, his expression vaguely uneasy as if revisiting a place he'd known when young and now saw very little he still recognized.
I continued quietly waiting. The man was plainly dressed, but it was a well-chosen, comfortable plain. Earth tones. Butternut turtleneck, cream-colored flannel-lined jacket, chocolate khaki slacks, brushed suede oxfords. Not intentionally flashy nor ostentatious. Comfortable.
His gaze, mildly troubled, was direct and clear. "Sparks suggested I talk to you."
My interest ratcheted up a couple more notches. Most of my young deputy sheriff's friends were his age. Mid 30s. The stranger had a somewhat longer shelf life, being closer to my own age. Though my observational gifts are breathtaking, in the interest of full disclosure, his well-trimmed silver hair might have tipped me off.
"How do you take your coffee?" You can tell a few things about a person by the way they appreciate a good cup of joe.
"Seriously. Very seriously." Even troubled, he had a good sense of humor. Always a good sign. I grinned and waited.
"Just the way you pour it is fine."
He took the mug, easily balanced in a big hand. With a friend like Sparks I guessed he was a veteran. As I poured, I assessed my visitor whose name I still didn't know. Didn't matter. Strangely enough, I was okay with what in other circumstances would be thought a social insult.
My guest's general air was one of quiet confidence. Inner assurance. No unnecessary talk, yet articulate where it mattered. The LED numbers on my Curiosity gauge began ticking upward. I managed to control it. Waited some more.
It seemed to please him, his controlled, protective features relaxing a few more notches. Seeing both our mugs seriously depleted, I figured pouring us both a refill of hot java would be equally agreeable.
I did that with characteristic aplomb. I managed to get it all in the cup, not on his sleeve.
Sitting back down, I looked directly into his eyes, waiting for return contact. It worked.
His eyes momentarily held mine, then lifted, gaze moving past me into a mist of memories drifting across his vision like dust floating in a projector's beam. "You've already figured out I need to process my thoughts with someone I can trust. Sparks says that's you." He paused, eyes actively flickering as he organized thoughts.
"I'm classed a senior citizen by all measurable demographics. Restaurant discounts, the whole bit. Within a few years of what's considered classic retirement age." Here his eyes sharpened. "I don't think 'old', though. I refuse to use being over 65 as an excuse to somehow ease up on my lifelong pursuit of excellence. To slow down, as if that's to be expected."
I sipped my Columbian Supremo appreciatively, acting far wiser than my actual capabilities by remaining silent. It had worked so far. I saw no compelling reason to fiddle with a good thing.
"I'm at that stage in life where kids take one look, smile and shake their heads. The crazy part? I get it. I remember how I used to look at anybody with gray hair." He shook his head, the left corner of his mouth quirked in self-reproach. "I never knew it at the time, but those were some of the dearest friends I never knew I had."
"I was so busy hunting around for a better 'There' that I was clueless about the real value of my 'Here'." He paused again, thinking.
I waited. It was working so well I considered going online to Vistaprint and going pro. "Granger - Professional Waiter". My ardor was cooled by the thought of senior dye-haired mavens named Donna or Shirley besieging me with requests for menus and directions to the restrooms to "freshen up". Not so much the requests as the exaggerated winks. What is it with older women?
"Truth? 'Here' is what you make it. 'There' is just somebody else's abandoned 'Here'. Mine were no different. It's not where we are; it's who and what we are where we are. And who with God's guidance and help we're becoming."
He stopped for a moment, watching me with a slightly more intense gaze. My face must have shown him Washington's courage and Paine's wisdom. Or something. He went on with a subtle but noticeable sense of more openness.
"Somebody once said life really does begin at 40. Up until then you are just doing research."
"Carl Jung."
"Yeah. Looking back at 40, I believe that's true. When I was younger I thought I was brilliant, too. “ He snuffled a sharp breath through his nose. "We all need to forgive ourselves for our youth. All those times we were just sure we had life's answers. . . I'm amazed the seniors around us didn't just put us out of our collective misery.
"Forgiving myself for youthful mistakes, horrible judgment, stuff like that is one thing. If I'm still choosing to revisit and keep perfecting those same errors at 50 I was exploring at 15, then it's time to accept some responsibility for being a self-absorbed jerk. Like I read recently, you only grow old once but you can remain immature indefinitely."
I grinned and nodded. I can identify. I know I need to mature. Grow up? Nah. Not so much. I'm having way too much fun to let myself 'get old'. The trick as I see it is to learn to slow down in all the best possible ways.
He went on. "The life I'm living is the lesson I'm teaching. If we don't - can't - learn from one another then our journeys, as specifically individual as they are, are a total waste." As he spoke I sensed him focusing more on the reason for his visit.
"To me now, the most valuable collectibles any of us have are our old friends. I've lived long enough now to assess the long-term effects of choices made when I was young. I've also figured out that growing older is fun, the absolute best time in life if you do it with the right people." Implied: with the not-so-right ones it can be a frightful thing, a drudge. Too many, if honest, could define what passes for friendship in their lives as "daily contact of no particular depth".
2
MY ETCHY-STRETCHY HEART
Here he turned on me a powerful set of eyes I'd not yet seen.
"We must be getting down to it", I said to myself.
"Ever feel you might have unwittingly stepped away from God's first-best for you? Like you might have made choices back there that at the time seemed logical and right, only to find out later in life you might've missed His preferred path for your life?"
He quieted himself, centering his thoughts. "I was the youngest in our family. My next eldest sibling was 9 plus years older, so I found it hard to know where I belonged, spent a lot of time alone though that never felt awkward, and it took me a long time to grow up." A slight smile quirked the side of his mouth again. "Some would say I never will." The smile was replaced by the slightly-haunted look I'd noticed earlier.
"There were a few friends back there I was too immature to appreciate." The way he said it made me look a little closer.
I sat observing my new friend. What else could I call him? He was revealing things I could sense he was unwilling to entrust to just anybody's mind. The silence wasn't oppressive, just present. As I sat and considered his words thus far, my impressions began to get sharper and better defined.
"She must have been mighty special to you."
His eyes widened, sharpened, as his head turned directly toward me. His gaze softened again as he said, "Sparks warned me about that part of you." He was quiet then, organizing his thoughts and memories.
"Yeah. She was a lot more to me than either of us knew back there."
"Were you together a lot?"
His mouth quirked. "That's the crazy part. I mean, we had classes together, but no. I didn’t know at the time why, but I always had a keen pre-sense when someone didn’t like me; and I knew she didn’t. We attended different churches and our families didn't know one another. But her folks were wonderful believers, and they lived on a street I could walk past every morning on the way to school."
The memories might have been fading, but their effects were fresh. He sat slightly hunched, head canted to the right, a resigned, pensive expression on his face. "I've always been hard to convince somebody doesn't like me." Once again he snuffled, exhaling sharply through his nostrils.
"I was there like an eager puppy every morning. A few times she'd come to the door herself, and once in a great while she’d walk with me to the high school. Most of the time, though, her mom or dad answered, saying she was this or that... Looking back, I now see they knew what was going on. They were always cordial and seemed unhappy that she was giving me the cold shoulder. I was always respectful, thanked them and headed off up the railroad tracks toward the high school. I don't know when it finally dawned on me she wasn't interested. I kept going by her house, though. Every morning. . . until she graduated and disappeared the very next morning."
His words had softened, their volume decreasing as he spoke. His eyes seemed to be seeing behind him, long memories stretching deep into his past. Is there such a thing as a mental selfie? An album of old memories now made so much clearer by looking back through the filters of Experience?
"How can I help you in praying for one another?"
Surprised, he glanced up, then his eyes gently fell again as he considered his request. “Good question…” He thought for a moment, ordering his impressions.
"I've had an eventful, colorful, challenging but overall-blessed life with those I'm sharing it with. We've loved and depended on each other and are so used to one another's presence and influence that I can't remember what it was like being alone before."
"Say more." I'd learned that little phrase. It was right up there with, "Go on." I wasn't being smart. My soul at this point was sort of holding its breath.
He continued. “We both married, had families and moved on through life, each still involved in Christian worship of one sort or another. Only recently did we become aware of each others' location and what kinds of 'all things' we'd both experienced."
My office got very still, then, as I realized I'd been holding my breath. I waited until he looked up then nodded, raising my eyebrows, silently encouraging him to go ahead.
3
ONLY GOD: TRUST HIM
"I think I missed somebody who God intended to be very important to me back there. Because I was ignorant of how my introverted, empathic personality was being misread as “too nice, too quiet, too—whatever”, I was unable to open myself, to be honest about how smitten and adoring I really was. I believe she just got tired of it all and skipped town. I responded by ‘slamming the door’ and shutting her and her super parents out of my life. I had a crushed heart with no clue what to do with it. So I guess I drove her out of my life back there – a young woman with whom I could have shared some meaningful, great experiences during those years."
"Stunned" might be too strong but not by much. Having studied different personalities, I could see he’d overcome the effects of being, in his mind, abruptly abandoned by someone to whom he’d fought through his inner defenses to totally give his love, who’d meant so much to him, without even a goodbye.
Okay, Fount of Brilliance. What do you do with that? How does God sort that out? Funny, just this morning you're looking at Romans 8:26-28, smugly reading, "If we don't know how or what to pray, it doesn't matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans. He knows us far better than we know ourselves. . . That's why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good."
Now it's my eyes that are unfocused. Isn't it wonderful how sure you can be about how Scripture applies when you've decided beforehand where it fits and where it doesn't? Problems arise when I put conditions on what God says is unconditional. Pretty sure when God says 'all' that's what He means.
Knowing The Message words things a lot different, I pulled out my trusty old NIV.
"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him. . ."
When I asked, he met my eyes with a luminous and obvious love: “Oh, I switched gears and married an amazing, talented, gorgeous woman who was and remains my best friend in this life. Though we’d never lived close enough to date, our families were close, we’d known one another since early childhood, and despite how different we are, we’ve been married now for over fifty years and are sharing an amazing life together.”
“Different? In what way?”
He grinned. “Total opposites. I’m passionate, creative, musically talented, and an empathic introvert. She’s matter-of-fact, blunt, a math expert, has a business mind, and is her company’s Controller.”
“And?”
“And we complete one another in every reasonable way.” I sat quietly, absorbing what my as-yet-unnamed visitor had said. I sensed it was time to change directions.
“What may I call you, by the way?” He smiled. “I am Art.”
“So, Art, how may I be praying with you for the loved one of your youth?” My guest withdrew into himself, adopting a quiet self-assured mien. It was not an awkward silence; I felt him scanning back across what he’d learned of the later adult years of his young love, choosing how best to characterize them.
“Thanks for her willingness to put up with me as long as she did, allowing me to know her... Gratitude for how God kept and encouraged her during some later unpleasant life experiences… And that, somehow, she’ll know that awkward, introverted boy of her past cares enough to keep lifting her and those she loves Heavenward.”
I sat staring at my impossibly cold coffee. Few people in my memory have had such a caring spot – room – in their heart for a long-ago friend that they’d maintain such a prayerful vigil across decades. Glancing up, I think I surprised him carefully observing me for feedback.
“Well, my coffee’s cold. Would you like a warm-up?” His eyes crinkled in humor and he nodded. I dumped what was left of mine, carried the carafe back with me, filled his cup and mine, then replaced the carafe. Walking back, some wisdom from a bygone mentor triggered.
“Art, I once asked a mentor how he dealt with hurtful life experiences without bearing dislike for those who caused them. May I share his response?” He was sipping hot java, but raised his eyebrows and slightly nodded.
“He told me he envisioned a hallway with a closed and locked door in it. Behind that door was what he called ‘My Room Called Remember’. He said whenever someone said or did something unpleasant or rude, he mentally would walk down that hall, unlock the door, and enter. The room was wall-to-wall shelves, and he would in his imagination take whatever was said or done to hurt him into his Room Called Remember, put it on one of those shelves, leave, lock the door, and get on with his life.”
I paused, waiting. Art: “I’m with you.”
“My question to my mentor was, “And?” He told me the value of his Room Called Remember was that he didn’t need to pack all those past slights, wounds, and hurtful experiences around with him. He kept them all in his—Art said it with me: “Room Called Remember”.
He sat thinking. “Okay, so what if something reminds you of what you’ve placed on those shelves?” I told him I go in there and check on the shelf. If I’m still bugged or angry about it, I leave it in there, go out, lock the door, and get on with life.
Art: “There’s more, right?” I nodded.
“Eventually, when those past memories arise and I go in My Room Called Remember to check on that occurrence, it no longer pokes me; it’s just data – something that was said or done – and it no longer has any hurt attached to it. And strangely enough, those things on the shelves that once stung and wounded me were smaller and less each time.”
Art had drained his cup. He took it over to my little sink, rinsed it, and sat it on the counter. Coming back across the room, he held his hand out.
“Thank you, Granger. I think I’ll modify my Room Called Remember to include space for good, positive, helpful things I’m collecting.” He stood silently, observing me and then, glancing around my office, he walked to the door.
“Hey, Art?” He hesitated, then looked around at me. “By the way, I used to walk along railroad tracks as a kid, too.”
He smiled, said, “So long, Granger” over his shoulder, then quietly closed the door behind him.
© d dean boone, 5/14/2026
