Like rushing water, conversation bubbles around me.
Two ladies sit hunched over for privacy. Their brows are furrowed, their words are whispered with malicious intensity; looks to me like somebody did somebody wrong.
A loud-mouthed businessman proudly runs his numbers, loud enough for all to hear; alcohol and arrogance conspiring to reveal a fool. A round table full of office workers erupts in frequent laughter. They’re all represented at the table: the joker, the climber, the flirt, the watcher, the princess and the ghoul. A moonstruck couple plays footsie in the booth across the way; hands touch, words glide, eyes convey what best goes unsaid. There’s a constant clanging in the kitchen; the clatter of silverware bouncing off tile.
A dull roar covers music no one listens for, and I sit here in the middle of my favorite restaurant, pecking on my laptop and nursing a cup of coffee. Though I’m surrounded, I might as well be alone. We’ve all come to be fed, but we never connect.
It’s like a lot of Sunday mornings: Christians gather; fed but lonely; assembled yet disconnected. When it’s time to go to church, don’t feed and flee. Make a real connection where you worship on Sunday morning.
Reposted with permission from onehope.net.