Responding to a brief notice in the church newsletter, a few people began showing up in the church parlor on Tuesday mornings. As promised, there is no structure, no Bible study, no prayer, and no agenda — just coffee and whatever friends happen to show up, often bearing doughnuts, cookies, or fruit.
One such Tuesday we met the man from Texas. When I entered the kitchen to put on the coffeepot, there he sat at the counter quietly eating the church administrator’s lunch. Under an old straw cowboy hat his long, gray hair hung in a scraggly pony tail and his clothes looked as worn and tired as his face. He said his name was Sam.
“I’m not a bum,” said Sam. “I know I look like one, but I’ve been on the road for several days.” As it turned out, the only reason he was at Saint Mark at all was because Joe, our building superintendent, happened to be there when Sam came by to ask directions. Joe then kindly took the time to hear Sam’s story.
When Susan, the church administrator, stopped by the kitchen and saw the tired, hungry man, she immediately gave him her lunch, which he was rapidly downing when I arrived.
Sam was a Vietnam vet, living on disability. He had driven to Washington, D.C. with a fellow AA member, for a rally and to see the Vietnam Memorial. Unfortunately, Sam’s “recovering” friend stole Sam’s money and disappeared on a bender, taking with him the car. Sam, without food or money, had spent the last two days walking from D.C. to our suburban neighborhood in Rockville. He didn’t want a handout, just to get to the highway so he could thumb a ride back to Texas.
He stayed to have coffee with the group.
Sam told them his history, but his story was not depressing. It was one of hope and a testament to the human spirit. He showed us photographs of the abused animals he had rescued, rehabilitated, and relocated to new homes With little in the way of material things, Sam had clearly built a meaningful life, married a wife he loved dearly, known locally as the man who saved animals from neglect and abuse.
“No big deal,” as Sam told it.
But, for Sam, as for many Vietnam vets, the wounds of that war continue. And his words gave us all a face to the meaning of “post traumatic stress disorder.” His visit to the Vietnam Memorial brought back many memories and feelings.
The memorial is not so far from the Pentagon, where old men plan the wars that young men and women will fight. It honors those vets who never came back, but simply live on as a name on that shiny, black wall. They are there — all 50,000 names — so that we will never forget what war really means. And they are there so all the Sams who survived, but were never the same again, can go and touch all that is left.
“I just ran my hands over and over the names. Finally, I just sat on the ground and cried for hours,” Sam told us.
Our group had no platitudes of comfort for him. We could only be there in the silence of caring.
Sam asked for nothing but directions to Route 66. Two persons active in local support networking took Sam to InterFaith Works. Hours later, he had a one-way bus ticket back to Texas and a ride to the bus station. To Dean and Dorothy, who spent their entire day assuring that Sam was safely on his way home, this was no big deal, just something that needed to be done.
Fortunately, Sam would have enough money to provide food for the two-day bus trip. “I have a disability check coming in a few days,” protested Sam as some of the group members quietly slipped him some bills. Their whispered response was, “just pass it on to the next hungry person.”
Sam’s parting words were: “You guys are really Christians, but you’re not Bible thumpers.” Well, maybe not, unless you think that there is more than one way to thump a Bible.
No big deal. It was just another day at Coffee Two. And yet, a phrase keeps returning to mind: “Where two of three are gathered in my name … .”
No big deal.
ALICE G. MILLER is an elder at Saint Mark Church in Rockville, Md. Her most recent book is A Thyme for Peace.
