There is a student who walks around in the corum everyday.

Everyday.

He moves abouts, head hung low, poor posture, moving about as if he is waiting for something. He dresses relatively the same each day; glasses, a long sleeve t-shirt, normal wash jeans, unkempt hair. We all notice him, we do. Whether in our arrogance we jeer, talk badly, or loft ourselves above him or in our humility we look at him with sad eyes, wondering what he is thinking - we notice him.

I sit here at the large wood table, middle chair, long side and he walks opposite me dragging his finger along the grain; I do nothing. I don’t look up - I can’t. I don’t say a thing - what would I? I know his name but only because I overhear the others who have spoken up, reached out, and been a friend. He may not always comply, and he always keeps the conversation abrupt, but at least they are saying something.

I gave up coffee for lent last week. Sadly, it is the hardest thing I have ever done. Just writing that makes my eyes water and the ashamed tingle spread over my entire body. As I climbed the stairs in my classroom building today I heard myself say, “I just need a coffee,” and it hit me. When did I start needing coffee? When did the desire of my heart become a beverage? When did brown water start bringing me so much joy?

I feel shallow.

It’s humbling to know that as I climbed the stairs, longing for a coffee, someone else was climbing a different set of stairs, in a different building 100 yards away, longing for a friend.

I guess I don’t know what else to say.