Cool Hand Luke

Yesterday, Brandy and I had our first free Saturday in about two months, so we had a coffee shop date. That’s one of our favorite things to do together. We go get cozy somewhere, sip coffee, talk, and read. Yesterday was especially nice because we had a huge block of time and we were in no rush. We both read our Bibles and talked about how weird and cryptic parts of the Old Testament are. She crocheted for a while and I edited some music on my computer. 

I had headphones on and I was staring at my computer screen, so I was mostly oblivious to what was going on around me. Occasionally I looked up and I noticed a guy setting up a mixer and some monitors. Later I saw stools in the corner and then guitar cases. When my computer finally died, I took my headphones off and closed my computer to discover a girl playing guitar and singing in the corner. Her voice was almost swallowed up by the murmur of twenty different conversations and the hum of espresso being ground and milk steamed.

I leaned over to Brandy and said, “Is she really playing or is this just a sound check?” 
“She’s really playing. She told everyone hi and thanks before she started.”

At this point I pulled out my huge T.S. Elliott book and began to read almost-hunder-year-old poetry. I know, it’s pretty cliche; sitting at a coffee shop reading poetry while someone sits on a stool playing guitar and singing in the corner. But that’s what happened.

At first I found my self slightly annoyed at the distraction of a human being playing music just a few feet away. I just wanted some quiet so I could try to understand what Mr. Elliott was communicating, but every few stanzas I would find myself looking around. From what I could tell no one was there to hear this girl and no one seemed to be paying much attention. Brandy and I were sitting facing her, so I tried to look up and make eye contact with her occasionally as if to say, “I’m aware that you’re here and I’m listening.” We made sure to clap after every song and at least gave her our attention between songs when we knew she was looking up. We felt sorry for her.

At some point, I began to actually listen and take in the situation. I realized that she wasn’t there to be background noise for our conversation or a soundtrack to my book. It wasn’t just a weekend job because she wasn’t getting paid at all. She was playing her own songs that she had poured herself into. She spent as much time working on these songs as I spend on mine and they are every bit as important to her. And you know what? She was pretty good.

These weren’t pop songs that she was trying to sell or license to some one hour drama. These were songs born from her experience. Songs sparked by the hope that they could do for someone else what a song had once done for her. She just wanted to be heard. To be honest there was nothing about her or her music that was very different from any other girl strumming a guitar in a coffee shop, but I respected her for doing it. I realized that I know exactly what that’s like—to sit by yourself and play songs that come from the deepest parts of your heart to a room full (or half-full in some cases) of people who may or may not care at all.

No one who is passionate enough to write a song and vulnerable enough to share it deserves to be background noise.