There is an empty building I pass several times a week. It used to be a gas station, but after Sheetz moved in the competition was too fierce, and they closed. I like the building, and the location not far from home has had me contemplating opening a coffee house. The area is filled with college kids who love a cup of joe and a friendly atmosphere. Our growing city has little in the way of places to meet and chat with friends over a cup of something good, so I think the market is there for it.
I've talked it over a few times with Matt, but I haven't done anything about it yet. The life of a preacher always makes me a bit nervous about putting down too many expensive roots that might have to be pulled up and shipped over to the bankruptcy department if I had to suddenly move.
As I passed the building again on Sunday I mentioned to the boys that I had talked to their dad about putting in a coffee shop there. They asked if I am really going to do it, and I explained my hesitancy. Then, Jonathan piped up from the backseat, "I didn't know you had plans."
"You didn't know I had plans? What do you mean?"
"I just didn't know you had plans. You know, the book. . . a coffeehouse. Plans," he stumbled.
Amos laughed at him from the front seat and asked what he thought I was going to do. Jonathan just murmurred that he didn't know I planned on anything and then looked away.
He doesn't see me as a person yet. I am still just his mom, his caretaker, cook, laundress, teacher, chore giver, scolder. I remember that stage of life, when parents were just parents and didn't have lives. When you couldn't imagine them as people with ambitions, goals, or heaven forbid- feelings.
Right now Jonathan's world is small, and for the most part he is the center of it. I don't mean that he is self-absorbed or conceited. Actually, he is compassionate, caring, helpful, but he doesn't see far beyond the horizon. Soon he will discover, though, that no matter how old people are, they still dream. They still have plans.
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