“Oh yeah?” I laugh because his crazy story is too relatable. “I forgot utensils on my last trip and didn’t want to leave my room after taking off my uniform, so I ate a salad with my fingers.”
“There are pros and cons to everything, don’t you think? Sometimes we’re heating up soup in coffeepots, but other times we’re eating lobster in San Fran.”
I nod. That’s the way of life, no matter what career you’re in.
“A week ago today, I went out for lobster with my crew,” Cap continues. “Our aft flight attendant had a crash pad roommate who’d also flown into SFO and was from the area. She offered to show us her favoriteseafood restaurant. But first she asked us to go with her to this church for people in transitional living.”
My eyes dart to his baby face. His monologue hit a few keywords in my brain’s search engine. But he couldn’t be talking about Claire.
“It was in this neighborhood named after steaks, though I don’t think the people there can afford steaks, ya know?”
“The Tenderloin? She took you to a church in the Tenderloin?” I know about the area because it had been another mission trip option when I’d chosen to go to Cuba. That trip actually sounded more dangerous than smuggling Bibles into a communist country.
“That’s the one. I didn’t want to go because my experience of church has always been the megachurches where the pastor drives a Lamborghini and everything seems to be about money. But this one was different. They served the poor, who had nothing to give in return, and I’ve never felt more love. It was sick.”
I think he means “sick” in a good way, but the bigger conclusion I’m jumping to is that Claire is the one who invited them. If there’s another flight attendant visiting San Francisco who suddenly has a heart for the homeless and also attends church, I should find out. Because she’s my type. “Do you remember her name? Did anyone else join you and your crew?”
“No, just her. She invited us because she didn’t want to attend alone, and her boyfriend was sleeping in.” He shakes his head. “The dude was missing out.”
What an understatement. I want to shake some sense into Claire so that she breaks up with Wyatt. The issue is that I’ve known from the beginning she’s a people pleaser, and she can’t move forward if she just goes from pleasing one man to pleasing another. She has to do this on her own.
“I’m trying to remember her name. Carla? No. Clara.”
“Claire.”
Rather than be like one of the megachurches Cap mentioned, where the pastor serves in exchange for a hefty tithe, I want to be like the kind of church that offers loves without expectation. And that’s how I’m choosing to love Claire.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Claire
Mysoul isinthesky.
—WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE
It bothers me that Nathan didn’t come to church today. I texted him, and he claimed to have picked up a local trip. Which seems like an excuse to avoid Angel after she told him she doesn’t want to get married again.
Angel doesn’t seem to be as bothered by his absence. After the service she suggests we take the train downtown for clam chowder on Puget Sound. I’m still on call until 3:00 p.m., but there’s nothing in Open Time, so I’m probably safe. And I have yet to really explore this place where I’ve been living for almost two months.
We exit the train into an underground area similar to how I’d imagine a New York subway station to be, though this train started out elevated like the “L” in Chicago. We climb the steps out to an urban area of skyscrapers, modern art, and coffee shops. The breeze is chilly but the sky is blue, and our view of the sparkling water pulls us downhill with a stronger force than gravity.
Walking along Elliot Bay reminds me a bit of the wharf in San Francisco. Fittingly, these Seattle piers were built to serve the Klondike gold rush in much the same way San Fran’s were built for Forty-Niners gold. We passed the sports stadiums on our train ride, so we can see them to the south, while the north beckons with the Space Needle. Along thewaterfront are an aquarium and a giant Ferris wheel, plus there are stands for whale-watching tours, arcades, and tourist shops.
Angel stops in front of an open-faced eatery advertised as a take-out fish bar. It smells of seafood and sourdough. There appears to be an actual sit-down restaurant connected on the right, but the less formal options include a white tent for rainy days and picnic tables along the pier for when the sun shines. Seagulls run amok, perhaps because a sign welcomes feeding them, though the birds seem to find plenty of leftovers all on their own.
“You have to try their famous chowder.” Angel joins a line. “Ivar’s is a Seattle icon, and Ivar himself is a legend. He put up the sign welcoming seagulls in the seventies after a neighboring peer claimed feeding them was a health violation.”
I chuckle. Seattleites are known for being colorful. Perhaps to make up for the weather that’s usually gray. We order and find an empty picnic table at the end of the bird poop–covered wooden pier.
Angel sits across from me and looks down at her fish and chips. “Should we give thanks?”
It’s been a long time since I’ve prayed before a meal, but after attending a homeless church last week, it’s putting my blessings in perspective. “I’m thankful too.”
Angel folds her hands and closes her eyes. I’d thought her beautiful before, but now I see her as precious.
Instead of mirroring her by folding my hands, I reach across the dirty table to grip her cold fingers. I’m not only thankful for this meal but for her friendship and the chance to see how big—and small—the world really is. We’re all so different, but we’re all human.
I close my eyes. “Thank You, Lord, for fresh seafood and fresh starts.”
