Roads & Rhythms

Sometimes, life calls for an impromptu therapy session. When mine ended on this particular day, I wanted to go home and take a long nap. But I recognized that impulse for what it was: my stress talking.

So, I asked myself, What can I do to get through the next hour—to keep myself moving forward?

Answer: coffee. (almost always the case)

I walked a block to Zingerman’s Next Door Café and ordered a Dirty Sheed, one of my favorite drinks and hangout spots. I had my laptop with me, but I didn’t feel like doing business work.

So, I asked myself again, What can I do?

I stepped outside and found a seat alone on the café’s house-like porch. I set down my things and simply sat.

No headphones. No conversation. Just silence.

I quickly realized how much I needed it.

I drank my coffee and let my thoughts wander freely and observed them the same way I observed the people walking past the porch. Just coming and going.

I thought about how complicated life can be. I reflected on what I had explored and learned during therapy. I thought about the extraordinary people who help me make it through difficult days.

I watched strangers walk by and wondered what I might learn if each one sat down with me for coffee. I noticed the wildlife and the flowers surrounding the porch and let myself feel amazed by the abundance of plant life on this earth.

I thought about what makes me happy and what doesn’t. I considered possible solutions to the challenges in my life—even the ones that make me uncomfortable.

I thought about the creative work I miss and the creative work I want to pursue. I thought about the meaning I want my life to hold, the things that feel meaningless, and how I might begin filtering those things out. I thought about God and how I could remain closer to and more focused on Him.

Some of my best conversations—and some of my greatest moments of clarity—have happened on porches.

As I sat there thinking, I wrote a social media post reflecting on this space:

After some time, my thoughts returned to my support system—the people who have been helping me through a currently difficult season. I was in the middle of responding to a text from someone who has been especially supportive when a man approached the porch and interrupted my typing. He asked whether I had any money so he could get something to eat.

I had seen him many times before, over years. The same clothes. The same request. Polite. Friendly. A persistent look of concern on his face.

Each time, I had apologized and explained that I didn’t carry cash. Usually, he kindly acknowledged this and continued on his way. This time, however, he asked a second question. He rested his arms on the porch railing in seemingly tiredness and pleaded, “Please. Would it be okay if you got me an iced coffee? I’m just really thirsty.”

He quickly turned his face away from mine and looked toward the ground. He seemed ashamed and embarrassed to be asking a stranger such a question. I tried to imagine the situation from his perspective and thought about the courage it must have taken to ask.

“Sure,” I said. “Let’s get you an iced coffee. Do you want one like this?”

I pointed to my drink.

He nodded shyly. “Yes, please.”

I walked back into the café, and he followed into the brief relief of an air conditioned space during this July day heat. He told me he needed to use the restroom and would be right back.

The bakery selection was nearly gone by this point in the day. I ordered him an iced coffee and added a large scone from the few options left.

When he returned, I handed him the bag.

“I got you a scone, too.”

His eyes stayed lowered as he carefully took it and whispered, “Thank you.”

While we waited at the counter for his drink, I sensed how unsettled he was. Around us, people bought expensive coffees and carried bags of artwork from the art fair booths down the street.

I briefly looked at his eyes. They seemed deeply sad. Exhausted, even. There was a heaviness and shame in his presence that I couldn’t ignore.

“Setting the thirst aside,” I asked, “are you doing okay otherwise?”

He seemed surprised by the question—as though no one had asked him that in a long time.

He met my eyes for only a very split second.

“Yeah. I’m just really thirsty today.”

“It’s really hot out there right now,” I said.

“Yeah,” he replied. “It’s very hot.”

My name was called. I picked up the iced coffee, placed a straw inside, and handed it to him.

“You take care of yourself, okay?”

He nodded, his voice still soft.

“Really. Thank you.”

Then he quickly walked out, as though remaining inside that café—surrounded by people he may have perceived as more “normal” than himself—had become unbearable.

This wasn’t the first time I’d bought food or a drink for someone experiencing homelessness, even if my giving felt small. When I’m able to give, I prefer to offer something tangible rather than money. The experience never fails to remind me of what matters—it shifts my perspective and brings me back to gratitude. I highly recommend trying it.

---

I went back to the porch and watched him walk down the street, drinking the iced coffee with urgency and reaching into the bakery bag.

Then I thought some more.

How interesting, I realized.

I had bought a coffee to help myself get through the next hour of my day. I had been texting someone to ask for support when another person interrupted me to seek support of his own.

He wasn’t asking me to fix his entire life. In his own way, he was simply asking the same question I had asked myself: How can I get through the next hour of my day?

For him, the answer was something cold to drink. Just enough relief to help him reach whatever came next.

---

My brother called. We briefly exchanged stories about our days, and I told him what had happened. As I spoke, I noticed something: my energy had lifted. Helping someone else had shifted my mood.

When the call ended, I no longer wanted to go home and sleep. I wanted to do something meaningful with the rest of my day. So, I stood up, put some inspiring music in my earbuds, and walked through the Ann Arbor Art Fair—for hours.

I lost myself in the endless variety of creative work—different mediums, styles, ideas, and perspectives unfolding from booth to booth and block to block. I wandered through streets I had not allowed myself to enjoy in more than a year. The landscape had changed during my absence, but I gave myself permission to explore it again without an agenda.

No work.

No deadlines.

Just a reset.

Eventually, I stopped for a slice of pizza and a Coke at one of my favorite places in town. I hadn’t eaten there in years, and one bite reminded me why I used to visit so often between graduate school classes.

I continued through the streets and alleys, stopping whenever a piece of art caught my attention. I studied the work, examined its details, and wondered what had drawn me toward it.

Among the thousands of people attending one of the largest art fairs in the country, I unexpectedly crossed paths with my cousin. I hadn’t seen him in years, and we stopped for a brief but meaningful conversation.

As I made my way back toward the parking lot, I passed what I thought would be the final booth of my day. I glanced the outer walls of the tent. While walking by I read a poem printed over one of the artworks. The words stopped me; and, I felt pulled to turn around, move through the crowd, and enter the booth.

The artist approached and explained that he had created both the paintings and the poetry. Each piece featured clouds rendered in different textures, with poems layered over them and printed on aluminum for a polished finish.

He wore a cool hat and colorful thick glasses and carried himself with a distinctive sense of style. I liked his vibe. I asked how he created the clouds and what type of paint he used. He explained that he painted them digitally on a tablet. I told him I had been trying to learn digital painting myself on my tablet, but that it didn’t come naturally to me. I explained that I draw cartoons rather than paint with color and texture.

He became excited.

“I have to show you something,” he said.

I followed him to his podium, where he pulled out a thick, messy sketchbook. He flipped through pages filled with rough note writings and cartoon drawings of people who had passed his booth throughout the day.

“It’s interesting,” he said. “People are outside looking into my booth, but I’m also looking out at them. We’re looking at each other, but we know nothing about each other. Aren’t those two perspectives interesting?”

His observation reminded me of how easily we look at other people and assume their lives are wonderful, while they may be looking back at us and thinking the same thing. Neither side knows what struggles the other is carrying.

I glanced around his booth, taking in the large pieces filled with clouds and poetry.

“This work is awesome,” I told him. “It’s exactly the kind of art I love because I like writing, too.”

His face lit up, and he hopped over to a piece on the opposite side of his booth wall.

“But did you see this one?” he asked, pointing to a particular piece. “Read this one.”

He nodded, encouraging me to take a look.

I looked at a large digital painting of white clouds drifting through an orange sky.

The colors reminded me of the sky outside, currently tinted by smoke from Canadian wildfires carried across the state from thousands of miles away. Somewhere beyond us, lives and landscapes were being devastated. For people and wildlife, familiar white clouds had become part of a haunting palette of smoke, fire, and orange sky.

Perhaps that was why the orange in this painting stood out to me so strongly.

I read the poem layered across the artwork, only a few stanzas long. It told the story of a woman who believed her world had fallen apart, only to discover her resilience within the wreckage.

I nodded slowly.

“Hmm,” I said. “Yes. That.”

It felt as though God had called me into that specific booth—where that artist pointed me toward that particular piece and invited me to read the exact words I needed amid everything happening in my life.

But perhaps the deeper message was this:

Buying a drink for the man on the porch wasn’t simply a gift I gave; it was also a gift I received.

That interaction gave me enough energy to walk through the art fair, something I’ve regrettably missed for years. Because I stayed, I was inspired by creative work. I returned to a favorite pizza place from another chapter of my life. I unexpectedly saw my cousin. I met an artist whose words reinforced everything I’d been thinking about on the porch earlier that afternoon.

I could have gone home and slept after therapy. Instead, five hours later, I felt refreshed. That man gave me far more than he realized. Imagine all the small moments I would have missed—the rich details that transformed an otherwise difficult day into a meaningful one.

It turns out, I was thirsty, too.

God didn’t hand me an iced coffee. Instead, He fed my thirst with art, words, human connection, and the familiar places that once made my life downtown feel full.

Thirst doesn’t always mean needing something to drink.

Sometimes, we don’t realize what we’re thirsty for until it finds us.