The Sparrow at Starbucks

   The Sparrow at Starbucks
   by John Thomas Oaks

   It was chilly in Manhattan but warm inside the Starbucks shop
   on 51st Street and Broadway, just a skip up from Times Square.

   For a musician, it's the most lucrative Starbucks location in
   the world, I'm told, and consequently, the tips can be
   substantial if you play your tunes right.

   I was playing keyboard and singing backup for my friend who
   also added rhythm with an arsenal of percussion instruments.
   During our emotional rendition of "If You Don't Know Me by
   Now," I noticed a lady sitting in one of the lounge chairs
   across from me. She was swaying to the beat and singing along.

   After the tune was over, she approached me. "I apologize for
   singing along on that song. Did it bother you?" she asked.

   "No," I replied. "We love it when the audience joins in. Would
   you like to sing up front on the next selection?"

   To my delight, she accepted my invitation.

   "You choose," I said. "What are you in the mood to sing?"

   "Well ... do you know any hymns?"

   Hymns? This woman didn't know who she was dealing with. I cut
   my teeth on hymns. Before I was even born, I was going to
   church. I gave our guest singer a knowing look. "Name one."

   "Oh, I don't know. There are so many good ones. You pick one."

   "Okay," I replied. "How about 'His Eye is on the Sparrow'?"

   My new friend was silent, her eyes averted. Then she fixed her
   eyes on mine again and said, "Yeah. Let's do that one."

   She slowly nodded her head, put down her purse, straightened
   her jacket and faced the center of the shop. With my two-bar
   setup, she began to sing.

   Why should I be discouraged?
   Why should the shadows come?

   The audience of coffee drinkers was transfixed.

   I sing because I'm happy;
   I sing because I'm free.
   For His eye is on the sparrow
   And I know He watches me.

   When the last note was sung, the applause crescendoed to a
   deafening roar. Embarrassed, the woman tried to shout over the
   din, "Oh, y'all go back to your coffee! I didn't come in here
   to do a concert! I just came in here to get somethin' to
   drink, just like you!"

   But the ovation continued. I embraced my new friend. "You, my
   dear, have made my whole year! That was beautiful!"

   "It's funny that you picked that particular hymn," she said.

   "Why is that?"

   She hesitated again, "that was my daughter's favorite song."
   She grabbed my hands. By this time, the applause had subsided
   and it was business as usual. "She was 16. She died of a brain
   tumor last week."

   I said the first thing that found its way through my silence.
   "Are you going to be okay?"

   She smiled through tear-filled eyes and squeezed my hands.
   "I'm gonna be okay. I've just got to keep trusting the Lord
   and singing his songs, and everything's gonna be just fine."
   She picked up her bag, gave me her card, and then she was gone.

   Was it just a coincidence that we happened to be singing in
   that particular coffee shop on that particular November night?
   Coincidence that this wonderful lady just happened to walk
   into that particular shop? Coincidence that of all the hymns
   to choose from, I just happened to pick the very hymn that was
   the favorite of her daughter, who had died just the week
   before? I refuse to believe it.

   God has been arranging encounters in human history since the
   beginning of time, and it's no stretch for me to imagine that
   he could reach into a coffee shop in midtown Manhattan and
   turn an ordinary gig into a revival.