Playing with coffee grinds made for a fun job. I loved the abstract designs I could form in latte foam. The whoosh of the milk steamer still makes me smile.

My love of coffee grew when I worked as a barista. The Coffee Pub was a ministry started by my church, a community of people together in a safe space bonded by the comfort of coffee mugs. It wasn’t a place to give out tracts or quote Bible verses. We would simply open our doors and serve people, and maybe love on them a little.

I had favorite customers, the usuals that showed up every day. Larry was the first one in the door, right at 6:30 a.m. He’d roll in the door with a big smile and a hearty “Good morning!” And I literally mean roll. Larry was in a wheelchair.

He’d pull up to the counter, and we’d have his coffee ready. I knew his order well, medium coffee in a large cup, 3/4 coffee, 1/4 hot water. He’d pay, leave a dollar tip, sometimes more, and then load up his drink with cream and sugar.

Outside the double doors, Ruth stood, steaming up the glass with her doggy breath. She obediently waited for her daddy to return, and then walked by his side, her little Corgi legs struggling to keep up. They parked themselves at their usual outside table for an hour or more. Larry enjoyed his coffee and an occasional cigarette. Friends joined him now and again, but often it was just him and his faithful Ruth. This was his daily ritual, even on rainy and cold mornings.

Larry intrigued me. In other circumstances, I would have been scared to approach him. He was a little rough around the edges, a bit coarse. But seeing him day after day revealed more then the tough exterior. He became for me exactly what the Coffee Pub stood for: people that needed a little love.

It was obvious how much his precious Ruth meant to him. One morning, I left a bag of dog treats on their usual table, with a note that said, “For Ruth.”

I watched him through the window as he pulled up to the table. A huge smile broke out, and he lowered the bag to Ruth’s eye level, excitedly showing her. He came in that morning, loudly thanking me and telling other customers about it. Knowing Larry, he probably threw an extra dollar in the tip jar that day.

After that, Ruth began to follow him inside. She was perfectly well behaved, and the other regulars loved her. I kept a box of Milk Bones in the back room, and each day Ruth peered over the counter at me, and then angled her head toward the back. She knew where the good stuff was.

Larry opened up a little more, and one day shared pictures from a trip he’d taken to the Bahamas. On slow mornings, I’d walk outside and talk. He seemed to enjoy the company.

Over time, the Coffee Pub changed management. A new church took over the ministry, and it became Redeye. On the first day Redeye was open, Larry was there. I was glad to see him again, but noticed he was alone. I was terribly saddened to hear that Ruth had passed away. Eerily enough, she died the day after the Coffee Pub closed.

Without Ruth, he began to drink his coffee inside. He chatted with the other regulars and watched customers as they came and went. One particularly slow morning, he seemed depressed. I started a conversation, and he casually mentioned some things that were troubling him. He was quick to add, “But I’m okay!” His smile covered his face, but I could tell this one was fake.

I softly said, “I don’t think you are.”

His smile faltered a bit, then he sighed. For the next ten to fifteen minutes, he opened up. I let him process some things out loud, and he looked at me and quietly said, “Thank you.”

My season as a barista soon drew to a close, and my last day came and went. I planned to come back and have coffee with Larry. Unfortunately, the new job took up much of my time and energy, and I never did get back for more than a quick coffee to go.

Months later, I asked one of the baristas if Larry was still coming. He replied that he hadn’t seen him in awhile. I prayed that God would let us cross paths again.

That didn’t happen. One day I found a message in my Facebook inbox. Larry had passed away. I was sad to learn that I had missed his funeral, but was encouraged to hear that the Coffee Pub was mentioned during the service. This ministry that my church took a chance on did what it set out to do. The Coffee Pub taught me how to love people in unique ways. It provided a safe place for a man to come each day. Larry was not a Christian, and I know he was surprised to find that his favorite coffee shop was run by a bunch of Jesus lovers. I found out that I was not the only barista that he opened up to.

I like to think that we made a difference in Larry’s life. We brought him more than just good coffee.