Of all the sinners and heathens in Peet’s this morning, why did I get chosen? There are other people here who look like they might need saving. The grumpy old men who barged in a minute ago, pushing the door open with their canes could use some talking to. The loud-talking blond woman flirting with the guy wearing shorts behind her in line might shut up long enough to listen. The organic-looking young Mom whose kids run around spinning in circles while people bob and weave with topless hot beverages needs a lot of help. They’ll have to wait their turn. Today, while sipping a decaf Americano with lots of half and half, is my day

<>A perky woman with a matching expensive-looking warm-up suit taps me on the shoulder. “Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?” she says. “We’re doing a survey.

I’m in the middle of a difficult email, trying to be nice over the internet. If she were at my door, I would have already slammed it in her face. Here, she looks gentle, like she might want some advice from me.

<>“Okay.

She motions to a guy who comes over with a clipboard. I’m almost done with my email, so I don’t look up while they bring over an extra chair and get situated for the saving.

“It’ll only take five minutes,” the woman says. She might be one of the perfect Moms I’ve seen at my wild child daughter’s student leadership awards ceremonies. The kids look like sitcom actors and so do their parents.

My daughter, the General, usually wears spaghetti strapped, too-short shirts not allowed by the school. If she looks like she’s in a sitcom, she’s not playing the perfect kid part.

She doesn’t think I do a good job with the perfect parent part, either. She won’t tell me about these events unless I promise not to shout out when her name is called. There’s often several loitering less-than-perfect kids in the back who make a lot more noise than I do when her name is called. The rest of the Moms turn and stare in horror. You can bet they talked about the wild child and her disruptive family and friends during their perfect family evening meal.

“I’m Todd,” a short Dockers-wearing guy says. He’s young but he already has deep creases in his soft face. Charlie with his no-sunscreen-Florida-childhood skin, looks better than this guy. This guy’s probably almost half Charlie’s age.

“Todd has an adorable wife,” the perfect Mom says. “Here: I have a picture of her and their children. See? Aren’t they cute? Here’s my daughter in this one.”

The pictures look like the sample ones you find in picture frames. They’re so perfectly middle-class suburban that I have to erase the last sentence in my email. It’s too nice. There’s too much niceness in the room already.

If I were an identity thief, this woman would be in big trouble. Who opens up their wallet to a complete stranger?

“Which three words would you use to describe yourself?” Todd says. He holds a pen to his clipboard, ready and super-excited.

“Do I have to think about myself?” I say. “My husband said I was normal last night, and creative. I’m often told I’m creative, not just when I lie. Can you be normal and creative at the same time?”

They had expressions like they’re trying hard to listen, but only so that at the right moment they can give you advice.

What three things do you want out of life?”

“Is this religious?”

They look at each other.

They picked the wrong coffee drinker.

The guy pulls out a brochure.

“I used to be Jewish,” he says. “I want to show you how Jesus Christ can help . . .”

“I know about help,” I said. “I just finished writing a 75-page handbook of all the ministry and volunteer opportunities at our church, complete with a big promotional fair. If you want to help at my church, you go through me.”

The perfect woman asks what church I go to. I tell her and she smiles. “I know people who go there,” she says.

“. . . when you go through tough times in your life. Are you going through a tough time in your life?”

“My husband had a daughter with his first wife who left him and moved to another state when she was three. She never knew him growing up. Now she’s twenty five, unmarried, pregnant, has twenty tattoos, a coke and alcohol habit and burned every bridge in her life. She’s living with us in our fixer-upper which isn’t even halfway fixed up yet.”

“She’s what?”

“We’ve taken her to church, but if you know anything about evangelizing people with drug and alcohol habits, people who’ve lived on the streets as she has, you know it isn’t like in the movies. People don’t all of a sudden become middle class. She hasn’t done her taxes in five years.

“She’s on drugs?

“She only had one day and a half coke binge since she found out she was pregnant. That was right before she went to the abortion clinic. She figured she was going to get rid of it anyway, so why not?”

“She was going to get an abortion?”

“She went to her appointment, but she was crying so hard they told her to reschedule. Her semi-ex-boyfriend has a Catholic streak. He came over the morning of her abortion appointment and told her not to do it.”

“Thank God.”

“When she moved in, our neighbor next door said, ‘You know, it’s your fault she’s in this trouble, don’t you?’

“Our fault?’ we asked. ‘It’s your fault,’ he said, ‘because you prayed for her to be in your life. She wouldn’t be in your life if it wasn’t for her getting pregnant and having nowhere else to go.’

I noticed Todd’s jaw had dropped along with his clipboard.

“How are you doing with her in your house?” the perfect woman asked.

“Sometimes it’s like watching a train wreck about to happen. Instead of telling her what to do, we run off and talk about it for a while, get rid of our anger and frustration, then come back and try to have a relationship with her. She’d run if we tried to tell her anything. It’s her life.”

“This brochure,” the guy says, “has helped me convert people. Look. You read this part, and she reads that part.”

“Have you ever lived with someone who’s been a drug addict? Who’s pregnant, unmarried, has $125 to their name? You don’t convert someone like that by having them read a brochure.” This nice stuff isn't easy.

Todd looked over at the perfect Mom, picked up his brochure and put it back in his clipboard. “Hmmm,” he said.

“Should we pray for you?” the perfect Mom said.

“No, I’m well prayed for,” I said.

“I’m late,” Todd said. “Nice to meet you.”

He scurried off. As soon as he left through the doors, the perfect Mom said, “Tell me more about your church. I’m not sure mine’s a good fit anymore.”

I reluctantly told her. I’ve never tried to talk anyone into going to my church. It’s growing so fast we don’t need to go out and find people to fill the seats. Especially not at Peet’s. Some places are already sacred.

A little help? [] 5:02:06 PM