Coffee

I'm looking for God at Starbucks.

I sit at a corner table in a overstuffed chair and I can't quite get comfortable. “An ottoman would be nice,” I think. “And a throw pillow for the small of my back.”

Soft, folksy music drifts from black speakers that are mostly hidden in the corners of the ceiling. People rush in and rush out. They have different color hair, their bodies are different sizes, their expressions mixed. Latte, half-calf, espresso, and the old stand-by that made Starbucks famous.

I watch as two women, one older and one younger chat in line. Their clothing suggests that they are worlds apart. One is dressed in the latest fashions from Elle and the other wears gray sweatpants. In front of them, a man on an iphone with a starched white collar rambles on about a deal, his voice beginning to rise: I'll take care of it when I arrive. No problem. We can still buy it. Send the guys to pick it up. Do it. NOW. Other people are reading the morning paper, yawning, sipping, waking up.

I watch and I wonder. Where is God, right now?