Miracle at the Higher Grounds Cafe Read online

  The trio stood motionless. “What’s it doing, Mom?” Emily asked.

  “I have no idea, sweetie.”

  The device cast a glow on their faces as they leaned in for a closer look. Chelsea reached for the power cable.

  “Are you sure you should do that?” Hancock asked.

  “We’re about to find out.” She yanked the plug, and the orb went dark and fell silent.

  Chelsea marched back onto the porch, holding the lifeless router in her hands. Confusion was rippling through the crowd. “Hey! What happened to the God Blog?”

  The God Blog?

  Chelsea had no idea what they were talking about, but she had their attention. “Look, people. I want paying customers, not praying customers. Start lining up, and I’ll plug this thing back in. Got it?”

  Like sheep answering to a shepherd’s voice, the people flocked to the door of the café and formed a line down the sidewalk. But no one was more eager to get the Internet back up and running than Manny, who had just arrived at the café out of breath and grinning like a golden retriever. He was dressed for action in a John Deere hat, high-top sneakers, and a nylon tracksuit circa 1993.

  Chelsea couldn’t help but laugh. “Where in the world do you find your clothes, Manny? Do you buy them at garage sales?”

  “No, but I appreciate the tip,” he said.

  Just then an elderly Hispanic woman approached Chelsea, speaking Spanish at a fast clip. Her charcoal braid was striking against the vibrantly colored, embroidered floral scarf she pulled tight around her shoulders. Chelsea attempted to follow the woman’s words, but gave up after a few sentences.

  Manny came to her aid, placing a calming hand on the woman’s arm. The certainty in his voice seemed to soothe her. She took her place in line with the other customers, though her arched brow and suspicious gaze pinned her as a skeptic among believers.

  Chelsea gave Manny a questioning look.

  “She asked why all the people are here,” he said.

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “Vinieron a buscar a Dios,” he said. “They came to look for God.” Manny stepped off the porch and into the lingering crowd on the lawn. “All right, everyone! You heard the woman! Line up, line up!” He herded the customers toward the front door.

  “Excuse me?”

  Chelsea turned to see a good-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to wait in line with everyone else.”

  “I didn’t realize other realtors were up for the job,” he said with a smirk.

  “Dennis Darling!” Chelsea said, seizing his hand with a hearty shake. “I can’t believe I forgot our appointment. Today is a little . . . well, as you can see, it’s crazy!”

  “I’d be happy to come back later. Say, dinnertime? We can have a bite, discuss your needs, and then take a look around the house.”

  “Wow, that sounds very . . . personal,” Chelsea said with a chuckle.

  “It’s the Dennis Darling way. Do you like pizza?”

  “I do,” she said. “And so do my kids,” she added for good measure.

  “Great. I’ll be back around seven.”

  Dennis was confident and collected and impossibly attractive. Chelsea tried to imagine him losing his cool, but she could not. Must be the Dennis Darling way. She watched heads turn as he weaved through the café. Dennis did not walk; he cruised. But he was not the only one cruising.

  Behind the counter, Manny was single-handedly servicing a line of customers that went out the door. He was steaming milk, grinding coffee, ringing up orders; he was a one-man band. His tracksuit swished in perfect time. Puff! Whirr! Swish! Cha-ching! Where Manny’s sudden burst of coordination came from, Chelsea had no idea, but she couldn’t help but hum her own tune.

  “Boss, are you singing? It’s about time!” Manny exclaimed.

  “Well, it’s the grand finale. I’m pulling out all the stops,” she said, tying an apron around her waist. “Now let’s sell some coffee!”

  As Chelsea and Manny served one customer after another, they pieced together the mystery behind the masses. The God Blog, as it had been coined, was first discovered by the host of San Antonio’s number one radio show, “Miles in the Morning.”

  “He was in here last night. I knew I recognized that voice!” Chelsea exclaimed to one of his faithful listeners.

  After his visit, Miles told all of San Antonio they could talk to God by logging onto the Internet at the Higher Grounds Café. And so the people came, each one armed with a question—the one big question they would be allowed to ask God and actually get God’s answer. Chelsea was amazed by the number of people who bought this story, no questions asked. (Except, of course, for the question they asked God.)

  The God Blog had its fair share of skeptics, of course, even the first day. Chelsea spotted a huddle of people standing on the front lawn with crossed arms and concerned expressions. But for every skeptic she also encountered a believer, and sometimes the former became the latter.

  “Dios escuchó mis oraciones.” The same Spanish-speaking woman reached over the counter and pulled Chelsea into an embrace. “Dios escuchó mis oraciones!” she exclaimed through tears.

  “She says that God heard her prayers,” Manny translated.

  “Oh, well I’m very happy for her,” Chelsea said, extracting herself from the woman’s vise-like grip. “You can tell her that.”

  But the weepy woman rattled on, never giving Manny the chance.

  “She says she had given up on God. But today God showed her that He cares. He even remembers her silent prayers.”

  When the woman had finished her story, she unwrapped the floral scarf from around her shoulders and handed it to Chelsea.

  “It’s a gift,” Manny said. “For you.”

  Chelsea could only smile as she received the sincere gift. She couldn’t explain what was happening, but she certainly could not deny it.

  Chapter 15

  So I told Mr. Darling that I’m just not interested in selling the place!” Chelsea said. “Not yet, anyway. I mean, we made half of this month’s tax payment in one day. One day! We even ran out of coffee. I actually had to unplug the router to get people to go home!”

  Tony and Sara sat opposite Chelsea and the kids, two open pizza boxes courtesy of Dennis Darling between them. “By the way, you guys should talk to Dennis about your house. He seems like the go-to guy in real estate these days.”

  “Actually,” Sara said, a smile breaking onto her face, “we accepted an offer this afternoon!”

  “Congratulations! We have so many reasons to celebrate today!” Chelsea exclaimed. “Did I tell you there was a thousand dollars in the tip jar? Can you believe it?”

  Tony cleared his throat. “It certainly is hard to believe,” he ruminated, planting a firm gaze on his sister-in-law. “I’m all for marketing the place, Chelsea. But this idea of yours . . .”

  Chelsea sat up straight. “I didn’t make this up, Tony. Come on, let me show you.” She ushered her family inside the supply pantry. “I just plug it in, and it starts glowing.” Chelsea wrangled the cables. “Like this.”

  The room filled with blue light. Tony ventured a closer look at the glowing router. “No brand name. No numbers. Nothing. Where did you say it came from?”

  “No idea. I assumed the company info would be on the router, but it’s not.”

  “So when people come to the café, there’s only one site that works?” Tony asked.

  “Yep.”

  “And when people ask a question, someone answers?” Sara asked.

  “Why don’t you see for yourself?”

  Sara read aloud from the blog’s headline: “Go ahead, ask me. I will answer.”

  “That’s it? And people fall for this?” Tony said, peering over Sara’s shoulder.

  “Apparently.” Sara swiped through the entries on her tablet screen.

  Question: You aren’t for real, right? If you were for real, you would have heard my prayers
weeks ago. Since the mill closed, I still have no job, no interviews. I have sent hundreds of résumés. My wife is worried. I have kids and a mortgage, and I have many, many doubts.

  Answer: Suppose your child said something similar to you. “You aren’t my real dad. I’ve been asking for a new bike for a month. A real dad would give me one.” Is the real dad the one who does what the child wants? No, he’s the one who does what is right for the child.

  That is what I do. I know you are tired. Just be patient. I hear your prayers. And I know the foreman at the other plant.

  Question: I have trouble sleeping at night. I can’t get my mind off of all the challenges I will face the next day. Why can’t I sleep?

  Answer: Your nights are long because you carry too much fear. I’ve been watching you. Why don’t you give those fears to me? Stop trying to fix everyone (including your husband) and figure everything out. And I haven’t heard you laugh in quite a while. Lighten up. I love it when you are happy. Remember, come to me when you are weary and tired. I can help you.

  Sara looked up from her tablet. “Can’t say I disagree,” she said.

  “But still, replying to someone’s questions, saying you’re God? That seems like a crass way to market a website,” Tony added.

  Sara continued reading the questions:

  Why can’t I make sense out of my life? My husband neglects me. How can I get his attention?

  “Here’s one that’s really profound,” she said.

  “God, are you really there?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Chelsea laughed. “At least whoever’s answering these has a sense of humor.”

  “Dear God, money’s been real tight for Carla and me with all the medical bills. I got $800 left in savings. Any chance you could give me a hint at what slot machine to play tonight? I promise to give you half! Love, Bronson.”

  “Dear Bronson, Instead of gambling away the last of your savings, why not use it to pay your mortgage and whittle down the debt? Trust me. Seek wisdom. Give me a chance to provide. And please tell Carla I said hello. It makes me happy to see her recovering from surgery. Love, God.”

  “Wow. That’s pretty strong,” Sara commented.

  “And specific,” Chelsea said.

  “Does God know everything?” Emily asked.

  “Of course he does,” Tony answered. “But he wouldn’t be answering people’s questions on some silly blog.” Tony turned to Chelsea. “It’s got to be an algorithm. Someone could be stealing your customers’ information, using Internet cookies or something.”

  “But why would anyone do that here?” Chelsea added.

  “Look, Tony! It’s from Miles,” Sara said.

  “On the off chance this isn’t some scam, here goes . . . Dear God, I feel so distant from my son. He’s obsessed with video games. I got so mad at him the other day, I threw all his games into the pool. He actually said he hates me, and he’s threatening to run away. Help. Miles.”

  “Dear Miles, Why worry about the video game in your son’s eye, but not the laptop in yours? Hang out with Matthew. He just wants your attention. You might be surprised at how much he longs to spend one-on-one time with you. And now that I’ve mentioned it, the same applies to me! Hope to speak with you soon. Love, God.”

  “So how many questions can you ask?” Hancock seemed eager to try the God Blog for himself.

  “Just one. According to the customers.”

  “Okay, so what if I asked a question on my phone, and then borrowed my friend’s phone to ask another?”

  “Lots of people tried that,” Chelsea said, “but it didn’t work. It’s like . . . somehow the blog knew.”

  Tony clicked off the tablet and tucked it away in a tight-fitting case. “Okay, shoot straight with us. Who’s writing these?”

  “It’s just me and Manny here. You really think it’s one of us?”

  “Obviously it’s someone in the café,” Tony said. “That’s the logical explanation!”

  “Well, you could just . . . try it,” Chelsea said.

  “Good idea,” Sara said, grabbing the tablet from Tony. “C’mon, this’ll be fun. Who has a question?”

  Emily and Hancock had lots of ideas.

  “Ask about the tooth fairy!”

  “No, dinosaurs. Or aliens. No, wait! Do you care if we go to school?” Hancock asked.

  “That’s not a question,” Chelsea said.

  “I have one,” Tony said. “If this is really God, then why speak through a blog?”

  “Good one!” Chelsea said.

  “All right, Tony’s question wins.” Sara clicked away on the tablet screen, posting the question to the mysterious blog. The entire gang gathered around, anticipating the reply.

  “There it is!” Hancock yelled.

  Sara pulled the tablet close and read aloud.

  “Dear Tony, Have you ever wondered why I answered Gideon with a fleece and Balaam with a donkey? Why did I speak to Job with a strong wind and Elijah with a still voice? I directed Moses with a cloud and the Magi with a star. Why? Answer those questions and you’ll find the answer to yours.”

  “Wow,” Sara said as she put down the tablet. “How’s that for an answer?”

  “Anyone coulda written that!” Tony said.

  “Maybe. But it was your question that I typed. And it answered with ‘Dear Tony’! How could it possibly know?”

  “Because it’s my tablet. Like I said, it’s an algorithm or something.”

  But Hancock had the simplest explanation of all. “Maybe it’s God.”

  Chapter 16

  Chelsea was awakened by the smell of freshly brewed coffee. She opened her eyes to find Emily inches from her face with a big smile and a steaming mug towering with whipped cream.

  “I made you a latte,” Emily said, pushing the mug toward her mom. “You can do it really quick in the microwave.”

  “Wow . . . thank you.” Chelsea shook the sleep from her eyes. Two weeks of nonstop traffic in the café had taken it out of her. Thanks to the God Blog, Higher Grounds was now running solid twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week. For the first time in months, Chelsea had room to breathe. At least in the area of finances. She made her first two payments to the IRS ahead of schedule and invested the month’s extra income into a second commercial-grade oven, allowing her and Manny to produce more of their bestselling baked goods. Still, an unsettling question lingered in the back of Chelsea’s mind. How long could this last?

  The café’s newfound success had nothing to do with Chelsea and everything to do with the God Blog. She could not control, predict, or even explain it. But neither could she deny it. Faith didn’t come easy for her, yet she found herself living by faith each and every day—which must have added to her exhaustion because, for the second time that week, she had dozed off after her final sweep of the kitchen.

  “How long have I been sleeping?” she asked, taking a sip of solid whipped cream.

  “Um . . . I finished three math problems.”

  So at least thirty minutes.

  “Good job, sweetheart!” Chelsea exclaimed. “Why don’t we get some dinner and finish the rest together? I have a little math homework to do too.” She led Emily back to the kitchen.

  “Bueno,” Emily said. “Hancock para va la . . . Chinese food.”

  “He did what?”

  “He went to get Chinese food for dinner. But don’t worry, he has your wallet.”

  “He left? Why didn’t he wake me up?”

  “He said you don’t like Chinese food.”

  “Never leave without asking me,” Chelsea said firmly. “Got it?”

  Emily nodded. “Is Hancock in trouble?”

  “Why would I be in trouble?” Hancock appeared in the door of the kitchen with two weighty grocery bags.

  “You can’t leave without permission,” Chelsea scolded. “You know that.”

  Hancock gave a weary shrug. “You looked tired.”

  Chelsea opened her mouth to unload her frust
ration, but she was stopped by the growing suspicion that Hancock’s young shoulders were carrying all the weight they could bear. She motioned to the grocery bags. “I thought you were getting Chinese food.”

  “I was. But I thought I should get things we actually needed instead. We were out of everything.”

  Chelsea was hit with a pang of guilt. Getting to the grocery store had been on her to-do list for over a week.

  “I ran into Bo, and he offered to drive me home, so I just loaded up on a bunch of stuff.” Hancock gestured into the café, where an uncomfortable Bo lingered with two more grocery bags in his arms.

  “Sorry if that caused any trouble,” Bo said.

  “No, no,” Chelsea said, waving off his apology. “Everyone’s trying to help. But we need to work on our communication. Make sure we’re all speaking the same language. Understand?” Chelsea planted her gaze on Hancock. Before he could answer, Emily chimed in.

  “Intiendo!”

  The others chuckled.

  “What? Did I say it wrong?”

  “You said just the right thing,” Chelsea replied, drawing both kids in for a hug. “So, what’s for dinner?”

  “That’s where I come in,” Bo said. “I make a mean marinara. And Hancock here says he has mastered the art of boiling spaghetti. So if you ladies don’t mind leavin’ the cooking to the men tonight, we’ll have dinner ready in no time.”

  Now Bo was really speaking Chelsea’s language.

  “You’re pretty quiet up there, Hancock,” Chelsea said, slipping out of the bottom bunk bed. Emily had just finished a riveting retelling of her favorite story, “La Princesa y la . . . Pea.” She was giving a big presentation in reading class the next day and wanted to practice. Chelsea was pleased to see her daughter’s growing ease with Spanish.

  Hancock didn’t answer, and Chelsea stood up to find him lying on the top bunk, his eyes set on the ceiling. “Everything okay?” she asked.