Finding Common Ground

Lee Warren

Finding Common Ground

Books 1-3

Copyright © 2017 by Lee Warren

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

Names have been changed throughout the book to protect identities.

All Scripture taken from the ESV unless otherwise noted. The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®) Copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. All rights reserved. ESV® Text Edition: 2016

Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

First edition

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com

Contents

I. COMMON GROUNDS

Preface

The Beautiful Barista

A Tired Old Man

Warm Fuzzies

Reinvention

Broken Wings

Salsa Diapers

Rabbishgrobber

You Can’t Always Trust Clichés

My. Melody

Wearing Change Differently

Ambiance

No Ambiance

Alienus Non Diutius, Sorta

A Beautiful Disgrace

The Minty Kool-Aid Thingy

Robert. Kerrey. Omaha.

The Cheers of Coffee Shops

Conversation >> Television

Bye Bye, Princess

The Cost of Doing Business

Mr. Right Now

Nothing Compares

Unlikely Places

Time for Vespers

Staying in the Moment

Partying Like It Is 1999

Our Daily Bread

On the Clock

The Warden

The Fall of Life

II. SACRED GROUNDS

Quotes

Preface

First Crush

First Celebrity Crush

First Love

First Health Scare

First Bike

First Scar

First Death

First Religious Belief

First Best Friend

First Favorite Sport

First Sports Team

First Celebrity Encounter

First Skateboard

First Hobby

First Favorite Movie

First Favorite Band

First Favorite Album

First Fight

First Concert

First Car

First Heartbreak

First Job

First Road Trip

First Computer

First Broken Bone

First Pet

First Apartment

First Niece

First Favorite Book

First Dream Job

III. HIGHER GROUNDS

Preface

God in a Nursing Home

How Great Thou Art

The Kmart Bible

God in a Bowling Alley

One Act of Kindness

The Haircut

A Clean Break

Son, I Believe

Dad’s Bible

Dad’s Funeral

Thrown into the Fire

Out of the Mouth of Babes

The Patient Pastor

Feeding Jesus

Clothing Jesus

Family Bible

Sin Will Keep You from This Book

Watched by an Angel

Checking the Box

Lord, Save Us

The Sunday School Trailer

Dancing to Forget

A Touchstone

Down Goes Frazier

Do the Next Thing

Throw It Down, Moses

I Love You

A Taste of Heaven

A Stomachache and a Cute Nurse

A Tale of Two Kitties

Other Titles by Lee Warren

I

Common Grounds

Contemplations, Confessions, and (Unexpected) Connections from the Coffee Shop

Preface

Eight years ago, I co-wrote a book for a book packager called 101 Things You Should Do Before You Retire. One of the suggestions I offered in the book was to take a trip down the old Route 66 from Chicago to Los Angeles (2,448 miles).

I actually hadn’t considered such a thing until then, but as I wrote the suggestion, it awakened something inside me—a desire to go on a pilgrimage of observation in which I would write about the people, the artifacts, and the culture I encountered as I stopped inside the various cafés and gas stations I would visit along the way. But I also knew that if I ever actually took such a trip, it would be for more than just the sake of observance. I would observe to find out if I was the only one.

Am I the only one who is still shy about approaching a woman I am interested in, even though I am forty-eight years old? When I was in high school, I did not envision checking the never-married box this late in life, but yet, here I am, still checking it. Would I encounter any situations in which shy men were pushing through their fears and going for broke anyway?

Am I the only one who just needs to be around people sometimes, even if we don’t have a conversation? As someone who doesn’t struggle with loneliness all that often, I won’t deny that it lurks around the corners of anniversaries and holidays. And when it does decide to pounce, I never see it coming. What if I were to be proactive and spend one such anniversary in the company of strangers? Would it make a difference?

Am I the only shy, large person who tries to blend in wherever he goes? As somebody who has experienced his share of mockery, snickers, and jokes because of his size, I do what I can to minimize such opportunities. But how do others who are like me handle themselves? Could I find someone courageous enough to stand out?

I know I’m not the only one. But knowing something and feeling it are two different things. In 2014, and the early part of 2015, I decided to take a scaled-down pilgrimage—one I could actually afford. I visited thirty coffee shops in Omaha, Nebraska (my hometown), to write about what I observed and experienced. In some cases, what I observed or experienced were jumping-off points for something I remembered. So there really isn’t a formula to these essays. If there was, it wouldn’t be a pilgrimage.

If I’ve done the math correctly, I spent $136.42 on coffee and a few donuts, which is a small price to pay for the commonality I felt between the patrons, baristas, and myself. And standing on common ground gave me strength in the most unexpected of ways.

Maybe it will do the same for you.

The Beautiful Barista

Crane Coffee #1

Order: Large Skinny Vanilla Latte

Price: $5.05

I’m staring at a purple wall, sitting on a bar stool with my back to the entire coffee shop because none of the available tables on the perimeter have an outlet except this one. For the record, that’s a good way to make sure I never return—especially since the battery on my laptop is dead. Strike two is a lack of air conditioning. I can hear it humming, but it isn’t working. I’m waiting for strike three, but decide to at least take a look at the next pitch.

A group of five women, who look to be college age, are chatting behind me and I hear snippets of their conversations as all of them talk at the same time.

They’re cute, but …

Another baby?

You what?

I have Facebook.

A two-year-old …

I looked for it on Twitter …

I tweeted so many times …

My Twitter is lame. I follow Associated Press …

Five minutes later, they all get up and leave.

The place grows silent, except for Radiohead’s Creep, which is playing over a speaker mounted on the wall just over my head. It makes me think about how I, as a writer, think I don’t really belong here—by here, I mean the publishing world. How many other writers have sat in this very spot, laptop open, banging out a manuscript, hoping beyond hope that it will land them what they are looking for—an agent, a publishing deal, fame, validity? Aren’t we all creeps in one form or fashion, just looking for our own way?

I’ve written six non-fiction books for traditional publishers and I’m working on a series of Christmas novellas I plan to self-publish. I’ve also had hundreds of articles published by newspapers, magazines, and websites. Still, publishers aren’t knocking down my door. That doesn’t mean they don’t call or email once in a while, but that’s hardly the same thing.

I’m not an A-list author. I know that. Truth be told, I’m not a B-list author, either. That makes me a C-list author.

C is for creep.

Maybe I don’t belong here, but yet, here I am—drinking my five-dollar skinny vanilla latte while continuing to write, continuing to forego other activities because I have to. It’s the only way I can make sense of the world. And I know the marvelous effect words can have on a person. When I pull out a Jan Karon novel and lose myself in the fictional town of Mitford, I realize I’m just a younger version of Father Tim. I don’t live in a small town. I’m not in my sixties. I’m not Episcopalian. I’m certainly not a priest, but yet, I identify with him, and identifying with him makes me feel less alone.

A plump man who is carrying a hardcover book walks into the coffee shop and approaches the counter. The barista, an attractive young woman with a petite nose ring, asks him what he would like to order and he speaks in a hushed tone, stammering over his words. He finally orders a chamomile tea, and he offers an apology. Sometimes I’m slow in expressing myself.

The barista doesn’t miss a beat. Sometimes I’m slow to understand, so we’re even. Give me just a minute and I’ll have your tea right out to you.

After he gets it, he sits down at a table in the middle of the coffee shop and opens his book. Even though he is sitting behind me, I sense he wants to make a connection with the barista—to push past the awkwardness to simply have a conversation with her.

Any internships yet? he finally asks her.

Obviously, he’s been here before and had prior conversations with her. I wonder how many times he stops in each week, working up the courage to say something … anything to her. My heart aches for his awkwardness. I’ve been there. But I’m also pulling for him—not in the sense that he gets the girl, although that would be a great story, but more so for him to keep reaching out in an attempt to make connections.

Creeps eventually shut down. I know this because I am one—on more than one level. Reaching out, for us, takes genuine effort. Our natural tendency is to sit in the corner with a good book and fade into the woodwork. But obscurity never trumps human connection. We know this, so once in a while, we venture out of our corner.

Not yet, but I’m keeping my eyes open, she says.

I’m not trying to pester you … just trying to encourage you.

More awkwardness.

Oh, I know. Thank you.

I have never seen Beauty and the Beast, but the exchanges I’ve just heard between these two is what I envision the movie to be about—one outwardly beautiful person showing genuine kindness toward a creep, of sorts, making him feel equal. I’d like to believe she did so because she actually believes he is equal, but even if she was just being polite to keep him at arm’s length, she was gentle with him. As such, she might have given him the courage to keep reaching out to others.

And in my mind, that’s what really makes her beautiful.

A Tired Old Man

Scooter’s Coffee #1

Order: Large Skinny Vanilla Latte

Price: $4.55

The moment I see the barista’s face, and then her ponytail, I’m back in the 1980s. Jennifer used to wear her hair just like this. Her ponytail bounced as she walked, matching her personality, and she always had a smile with a hidden story behind it—although I never solved the mystery. And we never did become a couple.

I order my standard skinny vanilla latte from the Jennifer look-alike and while I wait for her to make it, Queensrÿche’s Another Rainy Night (Without You) plays in the background—as if on cue. Sometimes my life feels like a well-structured soundtrack. I hear songs that apply to the situations I’m in far more often than the law of averages would seem to allow for.

Jennifer-lite says my coffee is ready, and the way she pronounces my name is even similar to the way the real Jennifer used to say it. I believe I have found Jennifer’s dopplegänger. If Wikipedia is to be believed, a dopplegänger is a look-alike or double of a living person who is sometimes portrayed as a harbinger of bad luck. In some traditions, a doppelgänger seen by a person’s relative or friend portends illness or danger while seeing one’s own doppelgänger is said to be an omen of death.

If you keep reading, it gets a little better.

In contemporary vernacular, the word doppelgänger is often used in a more general sense to identify any person that physically or perhaps even behaviorally resembles another person.

I haven’t seen Jennifer in nearly thirty years, so I have no idea where she is or how she is doing. I pause for a moment, hoping she is well.

A few tables away, a gray-haired man who is wearing jorts (jean shorts) is having a conversation with a balding man. I hope the jorts-wearer is blissfully ignorant about them being out of style for men. At least that’s what I hear, and once I heard it, I tucked my own collection away in my basement. Why I care about such things at the age of forty-eight is beyond me, but as somebody who has always been overweight and a bit self-conscious, I do whatever I can to blend in. I like to minimize the snickers. The men get up and walk out the door, and I’m alone in the primary seating area.

Knocking on Heaven’s Door by Guns N’ Roses begins to play, which again, seems fitting. My eighty-two-year-old uncle passed away last night. He outlived his wife by nine years. When I went to see him in the hospital last week, for what would turn out to be the final time, he recognized me and we had a brief conversation. He had been extremely hard of hearing for years, so I had to put my face right up next to his and speak loud enough that his nurse heard me in the hallway. She poked her head in to say his hearing aid was turned up all the way, but he was still having a hard time hearing people.

At one point near the end of our conversation, he stopped for a moment and looked down into his lap. I’m a tired old man, he said. We exchanged words after those, but I’ll never forget those five words. For someone who is on his deathbed, those words are code for, I’m ready to go.

After hearing about his death the next day, I sent a text to a couple of my relatives. I asked them who they thought greeted him with his first heavenly hug—his wife or his mother, both of whom preceded him in death. Knowing his mother the way I did, my bet was on her. But either way, I’m sure it was a glorious reunion.

It’s 8:38 p.m. and the two baristas are busy mopping and cleaning.

We close at 9:00 p.m., right? says the other barista, who, I have to tell you, looks a lot like Amy Grant.

No, we close at 10:00 during the summer, Jennifer-lite says.

That’s stupid. How many people come in after 9:00?

We get one or two.

I bet that after Starbucks closes, they figure, ‘Hey, Scooter’s is still open, let’s go there!’

Come on, Amy-lite. Coffee drinkers know that most Starbucks in this town are open until 10:00 p.m. And do people really go coffee-shop hopping the way the hipsters go bar hopping? I get the feeling that Amy-lite is hinting for me to leave, but I’m not giving in. The reason I picked this particular coffee shop tonight was that it is open until 10:00. As 9:00 approaches, Amy-lite thanks Jennifer-lite for helping her and she walks out the door, apparently at her assigned time.

I am going to work on revising my first novel for the next hour, but we’ll see if Jennifer-lite is correct about how many customers come in over the next hour … turns out, she was close. One couple, including a man with a ponytail who looks nothing like Jennifer or Jennifer-lite, and a man with a book bag who is maybe thirty years old stop by. Never doubt a doppelgänger, especially if she looks like a former love interest.

Warm Fuzzies

Dunkin’ Donuts #1

Order: Tall House Blend

Price: $2.02

I know better than to go to the new Dunkin’ Donuts by my house. It’s been operational for a month and the free Wi-Fi they advertise hasn’t worked once in my previous three visits. Nobody knows why. It doesn’t work this time either. The two baristas I mention it to are surprised, but their surprise doesn’t lead to action, or an apology, or a free cup of coffee.

A lack of concern for doing a job well in the services industry is waning, in my experience, and it is wearing on me. Last week, I opened a package of flatbread I purchased a few days prior and it was full of mold. When I glanced at the expiration date, it was nine days before the date I purchased the bread. Nobody cared enough to check the inventory for at least two weeks. Or maybe they are short-staffed and overworked and didn’t have a chance. Either way, I shook my head and tossed the bread in the trash, but then I had a change of heart. Those six pieces of bread cost $2.29. Knowing it might cost more money in time and gas to have them replaced, I just wasn’t going to let this slide.

When I got to the store and showed the package to a clerk, she apologized and said they should have caught it. She called for a manager to make sure the rest of the moldy flatbread was taken off the shelf. They didn’t offer me anything, except to replace it with new flatbread, but at least they didn’t just shrug their shoulders.

Coffee shops, Wi-Fi, and flatbread should be luxuries, if my mind was in the right place. Instead, they have become part of the battle. None of this would bother me all that much if I hadn’t lost my uncle recently, and if someone I love wasn’t making all the wrong choices, and if my writing career was where I had hoped it would be eleven years into the process.

I look down at my phone and see I have received an email from a friend who is just reaching out to touch base. We don’t do that often enough anymore. The power of such a simple gesture hits me like a Buster Douglas uppercut—well, at least the one he used to set up his knockout of Mike Tyson in 1990, assuming that fight wasn’t fixed. I’m still unconvinced.

The simplest human connection can mean the world to somebody. When people call or text to tell me they want to spend time with me, it is often the one bit of encouragement I need to get me through the day or to do the next task in front of me. Suddenly, I want to be that spark for somebody else—somebody who has struggled with an addiction but has begun to open up to me when certain triggers occur. I pick up my phone and text her these words: Love knowing you feel comfortable enough to reach out when you struggle. Says a lot about the hard work you have put in.

Warm fuzzies, she responds.

This past Sunday at church, a family I know sat next to me. I’m not close to anybody in that family, but they are kind-hearted people who have known great loss. In my experience, great loss often leads to great compassion for others. Near the end of the worship service, the mom in the family needed to exit the pew for one reason or another, so she placed her hand on my arm and excused herself. As a single man who doesn’t experience human touch nearly often enough, her simple gesture gave me the warm fuzzies, in the purest way possible.

As I contemplate these human connections, the poor service I received when I walked in doesn’t seem to matter all that much. In fact, I’m reminded of another connection I made the last time I visited this particular coffee shop. A barista named Daniel saw me writing on my laptop and that piqued his interest.

Can I ask what you are writing? he said.

I’m working on a novel. Are you a writer?

I went to college for journalism, but I switched gears partway through. I want to be a music producer now.

I have such appreciation for a young person who is chasing a dream while also being practical enough to work hard doing something else, so I began looking for a way to speak an encouraging word to him.

Journalism is a tough business to be in right now—so many newspapers are dying, which means there are fewer and fewer jobs to go around, I said. I’m thinking you made the right choice to pursue another passion.

He nodded. Yeah, my interests just changed.

Well, keep at it. I don’t know anything about music production, but if you ever want to get into writing as simply a hobby, I’m a member of a writers’ group here in town. You are welcome to come to our monthly meeting anytime.

I told him how to contact me and he thanked me.

An hour or so later, I power down my laptop and slip it back into its case. I have gone from being irritated about the lack of service I got when I walked into this coffee shop to being grateful that I came.

Reinvention

Krispy Kreme #1

Order: Medium House Blend and a Chocolate Sprinkle Donut

Price: $3.83

I once purchased one of those brick-shaped analog cell phones in this same building, which housed an Alltel Wireless at the time. It looks like it also might have been a Long John Silver’s too. Now it’s a Krispy Kreme. America is all about taking advantage of the opportunity to reinvent oneself. Why should this building be the exception?

My experience isn’t starting with a bang since I am unable to get on the Wi-Fi connection, despite the sign on the front door promising: Hot. Wireless. Now. One out of three ain’t bad. Okay, maybe it is. I ask the barista about it and she gives me a password for another network, but that doesn’t work either.

So many people are complaining about it, she says. I tell my boss and she tells me to reset the router, but that still doesn’t help.

To her credit, she tries anyway. And she is right. It doesn’t help.

Maybe technology was better when this was still an Alltel building offering an analog signal. At least it didn’t come with any false promises. I paid for a certain number of talk-time minutes and that’s what I got. Everybody was happy. Tonight I paid $3.83 for coffee, a donut, and a Wi-Fi connection and I’m not so happy. First-world problems, right?

Come to Me by the Goo Goo Dolls plays overhead on the radio. I’m not really familiar with it, but it turns out to be a sappy love song. I’m pro-sappy love songs. And the Goo Goo Dolls have the cool factor going, so there’s that.

Beyond my Wi-Fi problems and momentary Goo Goo Dolls distraction, my thoughts wander back to the notion of reinvention. As a professional writer since 2003, I have been reinventing myself every couple of years—partially out of necessity, and partially because I was trying to find myself.

I started as a generalist—someone who got an idea for an article, pitched it to a magazine or newspaper editor, and either sold the story or moved on to the next one. I gained valuable experience doing that, but didn’t have any real niche and certainly wasn’t building a platform, as the book publishing industry now demands.

In the mid-2000s, I had an idea for a singles book and after mapping out the idea on a napkin in a Perkins with a potential agent I drove 200 miles to visit with, he was able to sell the idea to a traditional publisher and it became my first book: Single Servings: 90 Devotions to Feed Your Soul. Long after the advance was gone, I settled into a nice rhythm of producing features for a newspaper in Missouri as a freelancer, and then I landed a sports column in a newspaper in Omaha that ended up expanding into hard news, features, and nearly anything else the editor needed. To fill the gaps, I did work-for-hire projects for a publisher, producing text for flip calendars as well as writing several gift books. It wasn’t easy, but I was paying the bills.

Then the e-publishing revolution hit and it changed everything. The newspaper I wrote for in Omaha died. Most of the magazines I wrote for died. And the ones that survived, reduced their freelance budgets, sometimes to zero, and I had to reinvent myself again. This time it happened after a casual conversation with a financial planner who called me one day. I ghostwrote a column for him years prior and he was just calling to touch base.

As I shared my plight with him, he suggested I go where the work was—editing. With the shift toward self-publishing, even more editing gigs would be available for a freelancer like me. I had already been doing some contract editing for a publishing house, but after hanging up with him, I shifted gears and became mostly an editor for two or three years.

During that period, the e-revolution continued to evolve much faster than I realized, catching even traditional publishers off-guard, causing them to be more selective. One day, I had an idea for a NASCAR book and pitched it to the large traditional publisher that released my singles book, but they weren’t interested. Sports books weren’t selling well, they said, unless it was by a well-known athlete. And besides, I didn’t have a big enough platform. After shopping the idea to another publisher I had worked with in the past and hearing the same thing from them, I realized I would need to find a small publisher.

I eventually found one, but they didn’t have the resources I was accustomed to, leading me to question my involvement in traditional publishing altogether. I set out to explore self-publishing in the brave new e-book world. This book is the first result and I have to say, the experience is freeing. I’m not worried about word count limits or spending time writing a book a publisher may not want or offending the sensibilities of publishers or their audiences.

Unwritten by Natasha Bedingfield comes on the radio. It’s a song about having a pen in hand without any clear end in view. She recommends opening up the dirty window to