A Café Conversation I Didn’t Expect

I was stood up.

And what was frustrating wasn’t just the no-show—it was that I had been so intentional about setting boundaries. I’ve worked hard not to be the person who drops everything the moment someone needs me. I can’t be anyone’s savior. Only One can carry that title. So when I responded promptly and rearranged my day, only to be left waiting, I was frustrated. Not just at them—but at myself for letting my guard down.

Still, I was already in line to order. And I was hungry.

The cashier, a sweet young woman clearly in training, was doing her best. I waited patiently, not wanting to add pressure to her flustered state. As I lingered, I made small talk—asked about the café’s name change from De Clieu to the new one. And that’s when I felt it. The presence behind me. The huffing. The sighing. The weight of someone's impatience pressing at my back.

I couldn’t tell what frustrated her more: that I was chatting instead of rushing, or that my bag had spilled onto the floor and I had to bend down, gather my scattered belongings, and momentarily delay the line. Either way, she didn’t say a word. Just rushed me without speaking.

I placed my order, moved to the side, and crouched to collect my things. I almost apologized, but paused—what was I apologizing for? Instead, I simply smiled at her.

That’s when she snapped.

“I don’t know why you Catholics are so ignorant about Easter,” she blurted out, her eyes landing on a photo that had fallen from my book. “Why do you constantly show the crucifix? He is risen! Why can’t you people focus on the joy of Easter and not the misery of the crucifixion?”

To say I was stunned would be an understatement. For a moment, I looked around, unsure if she was speaking to me or to the air.

Then I saw her glaring at the picture—one my friend had given me, her husband’s favorite image of Christ on the cross.

I had a choice. Everything in me wanted to walk away. I had already been stood up, already craved quiet, peace, solitude. But I had also just left church. Father Elijah had just spoken on walking through Holy Week—not sprinting past the pain to get to the celebration, but walking through it with Jesus.

And nowhere in Scripture does it say to defend yourself harshly when wronged. So I looked up at her and said gently, “Indeed, He is Risen. You’re absolutely right.”

That one sentence softened something in her. Not entirely, but enough for me to see that her anger wasn’t really about me. She was guarded—yes. But also wounded.

I held up the picture. “Someone gave this to me,” I said. “And I used to feel the same way you did. Why focus on the suffering? But I’ve learned something: we don’t display the crucifix to crucify Him again. We do it to remember.”

She looked at me, not speaking.

“The crucifixion and resurrection aren’t two separate events—they’re part of one story,” I continued. “The empty tomb means nothing without the cross. And the cross would be unbearable without the resurrection. One reveals His love, the other His power.”

That’s when her shoulders dropped. A long pause lingered before she whispered, “I was married to a Catholic. His family judged me—never accepted me. I converted, but I never felt like I belonged. Then we divorced. And I was treated like… a problem.”

She looked away. “I’m sorry I snapped.”

I nodded, feeling the weight of her pain. “We’re all just trying to heal from something,” I said softly. “Sometimes our stories make us see people through wounds instead of grace.”

We sat together for a while, two women who started as strangers—divided by assumptions—and ended up united by honesty. We talked about faith, about labels, about how sometimes church can hurt. But how God doesn’t.

In the end, we agreed: we shouldn’t judge denominations or people based on our stories—we all need the same grace God gives us. And when I told her I wasn’t Catholic but Orthodox, she blinked, tilted her head, and said, “I have no idea what that means.” We both laughed and agreed that would be a conversation for another time… preferably with coffee and less drama.

And I left the café that day no longer frustrated by being stood up. In fact, maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I was sent—to stand beside someone who just needed to be seen.

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