#drinkcoffeedogood

by Christie Shumate McElwee

On a corner in the middle of our neighborhood sits a busy hub where people gather for coffee and conversation. Big windows flank the street side, letting in lots of light, even on a gloomy day. Big, comfy chairs and tables invite customers to stay awhile, but some make a quick run for a to-go cup before work or school. There is always time for a few friendly words with the baristas, especially Donna, who is head diva in the morning. Remembering almost every customer’s name, she pours coffee, coos with babies, and nods and smiles at all who enter the door.

This is The Bridge Coffee House, a non-profit spiritual ministry plopped down on a side street in New Town, a community in St. Charles, Missouri. It was founded by partners in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America and the Reformed Church in America. An inclusive ministry, it welcomes all. The young pastors spend a year here as part of their liturgical training. All are enthusiastic, knowledgable, kind, and passionate in their mission for justice in the world. Donations are collected for local schools, and every month a portion of the tips go to different charities. This month’s will be sent to help with hurricane relief in the Bahamas.

Almost every day there are groups who meet for book clubs, euchre, dominoes, tutoring, and story-time. On Sundays, a casual church service is held. Teens gather after school. Young parents attempt to visit while their children play with books and toys in the back room. A small fair trade store flanks the side wall in front of the counter. With its free wifi, the coffee house often looks like a shared work space with people hunched over laptops conducting their business. On some warm summer nights there may be a singer/guitar player in the corner of the back room, serenading customers and neighbors walking by with their dogs and strollers.

After moving to New Town over two years ago, I discovered The Bridge on my second day in the neighborhood. I was thrilled to have a coffee house three blocks from my home. Soon after I began attending the Wednesday morning book club discussion where I met women who welcomed me into their group and hearts. We have delved deeply into difficult topics. Not all of us agree, yet there is a solemn pact to respect our differences. While our group meets in the back, there are also women who play euchre in the front. Helen, a card player, always waves at me as I order my coffee. Sometimes we hug and exchange a few words. I love this woman. Some mornings I just sit with my coffee and journal as I attempt to scratch out a few words. 

Lately The Bridge has incurred a series of big ticket expenses. Over the past few months, the espresso maker, iPad payment system, ice maker, commercial kitchen faucet, and coffee grinder have had to be either repaired or replaced. In order to raise funds for these unexpected costs, a Go Fund Me page has been set up with a $15,000 goal. If you are feeling generous, donate a few dollars. I’ve included the link below.

On my own spiritual journey, I no longer attend traditional church. I find the sacred in many things: nature, friendships, family, yoga, books, music, and of course, pie. The Bridge, though, has provided me with a unique fellowship, and I am grateful for everything is does for our community. This little coffee house is the engine that keeps us all running on caffeine and camaraderie. It is our heart.

“I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.” ~T.S. Eliot

A perfect fall morning: regular coffee with cream and a pumpkin scone

Gifts of Hope

Last Saturday gifted me with surprises. I wasn’t searching for hope, yet it still slapped me silly with its glorious presence.

After my husband left for his weekly golf game, I blinked my eyes open and realized there was no coffee in the house. I must have coffee, so I pulled on my clothes, grabbed my journal and phone, and walked the three blocks to our neighborhood coffeehouse. I brought my steaming cup to one of the outside tables, and then settled in to watch customers and write a little. I soon noticed a group of women and their dogs gathering at a nearby table. I caught bits on conversation pertaining to the proliferation of gun violence, and yes, I found myself eavesdropping. I turned around to comment, and then, surprisingly, I was invited to join their circle. I spent the next hour listening to these wise women discuss subjects close to my heart. One, an immigrant from a small South American country, gave me insight to the crises in both of our countries. As I rose to leave, one said, “We’re here every Saturday morning. You are welcome to join us.” I had accidentally stumbled upon hope, at a crooked, black rod iron patio table just blocks from my house.

After I walked home, caffeinated and rejuvenated, I decided to hop on my bike and ride down to the historic part of town. My first stop was the small Saturday farmer’s market that is located in a parking lot close to the river. I wandered the different booths, admiring fresh produce and baked goods. One of the last vendors had rocks, crystals, and sun catchers. I admired her work and we chatted about how she collected most of her beads from old jewelry and the prisms from dumpster diving expeditions. I wanted to purchase two of her sun catchers, but she informed me she didn’t take credit cards and I didn’t have any cash. Stupid move on my part when visiting a farmer’s market, by the way. The artist then said, “Take ‘em. You can owe me.” At first I shook my head. “Oh no. That doesn’t seem right.” She replied, “I do it all the time. Most people pay me back, and those who don’t, oh well. They still have my art.” After some hesitation, I picked out my two favorites. She wrapped them up, and then wrote her name and phone number on a small piece of paper. I told her, “Oh, don’t worry. I will be back next week.” She said, “You seem like an honest person. I can usually see it in people’s faces.” I smiled. I will return next Saturday with what I owe her, and will purchase more of her work. This quirky, open-hearted, trusting soul handed me hope at the farmer’s market.

I stuffed my new treasures in my wicker basket and rode down to my favorite outside restaurant, The Bike Stop Cafe, one part restaurant-one part bike rental/repair shop. I left my bike alongside others at the rack, and went inside to order my usual lunch: a veggie sandwich with an iced tea. A breeze was blowing in off the river, and bikers and young families were scattered throughout the patio. Halfway through my sandwich, a man behind me stood up and said, “A man knocked over two bikes. He did pick them up, but then took off. You might want to check if yours is okay.”

I glanced over at the rack, and my first panicked thought was my bicycle was gone. “I think my bike has been stolen,” I gulped. My ten-year old tan Schwinn from Target. The one with the wicker basket and clanking gears. My grandma bike that takes me to bookclub, the neighborhood grocery, and the mail room. I adore that bike. I flew to the rack, but quickly realized that whoever had knocked over the bikes had just moved them. My basket must have become dislodged in the fall because it was now hanging from one of the handlebars. But here’s the amazing part. Just before this discovery, many of the diners were ready to go after the alleged perpetrator. “I think he rode up to Main Street,” they said. “We may be able to catch him.” All these strangers, without even blinking, were willing to run after my nonexistent thief. After checking to make sure everything was working and returning the basket to its rightful place, I waved at the crowd and said with an embarrassed smile, “Thank you. I’m good. You can go back to talking among yourselves.” 

I headed back down the trail, pondering the morning. All I wanted when I woke up was coffee, yet I also found a table of intelligent, social justice-minded women, a generous and trusting artist, and strangers looking out for me. In a world swirling in the language of hate and conspiracy theories, hope just danced with this girl on a sunny Saturday morning. It is easy to become mired in the mud of despair, but often hope tiptoes into our lives, presenting us with the possibility of hot coffee, true human connections, and smiles.

“I dwell in possibility.” ~Emily Dickinson

When I first turned on the trail, I spied this guy slowly making his way across the gravel toward the river. I stopped my bike to snap a photo. He froze, but didn’t retreat into his shell. I said to him, “You’ve got this, buddy. Keep going.” On my way home, there was no sign of him. I’m confident he made it safely to his destination, this little guy with his determined hard-shell self.
Hope.