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Guess where I found heaven? It’s hiding in plain sight. Come with me to First Light Coffee, Thursday mornings. You’ll see!
7:43 AM sharp. Espresso machines hiss steam. First Light Coffee pulses with morning energy. Aromatic, rich smells of fresh roasts mix with the scent of warm cinnamon pastries. An old man shuffles through the door, leaning on his weathered cane, carrying countless stories of a lifetime.
Riley spots him from behind the espresso machine, her eyes rolling hard enough to power every windmill on Disneyland’s It’s A Small World ride.
“Here comes Mr. Grumpy,” she hisses, thumbing toward the man with the cane. Jordan shrugs. “Maybe today will be different,” he whispers back.
At the counter, his fingers dance awkwardly across several wrinkled bills inside a well-loved black leather wallet. Arthritis twists his grip. He drops his wallet. Ones and fives hit the floor, scattering like cockroaches in daylight. His dignity? Gone. People in line shift and mutter. Someone huffs loudly. Riley drums her nails against the register with sharp, impatient beats. Click-click. Click-click.
“Take your time,” Riley snaps, her tone colder than Elsa’s sister Anna. The chill runs cold enough to make Olaf shiver.
His shoulders cave. The way he carefully gathers those bills? He knows. Each bill carries his remaining pride. I know that look. I’ve worn it: that feeling of moving too slow in a world that rushes by, missing his pain, all without looking back.
My chest tightens. I’d been having one of those mornings where everything feels pointless. The divorce papers on my kitchen counter. The empty house that echoes. The quarterly reports that wouldn’t matter in ten years. I was questioning whether any of it—my work, my choices, even getting up—actually mattered. And here was this man, struggling just like me, and I had a choice: stay hidden in my own problems or step into his.
But someone else will help, right?
Someone always does.
Don’t they?
I slam my laptop shut and choose.
☕ ─────────────────────────────────── ☕
“Here, let me,” I say, scooping up the cash. “Beautiful day for a walk. Isn’t it?”
That’s when I see them. Gold flecks glittering across his deep, watery eyes like sunlight breaking through morning clouds.
“Is it, now?” His Irish voice booms, carrying a surprised warmth.
“You breathe. I breathe. We’re both upright. That? It’s worth celebrating.”
His mouth twitches toward a genuine smile. “Well now, isn’t that the truth of it. Never crossed me mind to see it so.”
Behind us, Andrew Kiposki. He’s the insurance guy. The one with his face plastered on every billboard, barking at his phone about deadlines. He’s one of those people who choose his phone over people, missing small miracles happening right next to him.
“Black coffee’s, right? It’s on me,” I tell Riley, extending my Visa.
“Ah, that’s kind of ye, but ye don’t need to…” He does his best to press some cash into my hand. I refuse. “I can pay.”
How do I explain broken hearts recognize broken hearts? Even across a crowded café?
“Seamus O’Brien,” he says, gripping my hand with surprising strength.
“Joe Class.”
☕ ─────────────────────────────────── ☕
Riley runs my card with mechanical efficiency, but at least her angry nail drumming stops. Her expression softens, handing Seamus his coffee. Professional. But the sharper edges seem a little bit duller, even if just slightly.
We claim my corner table. He tells me about Margaret, who passed three years ago today. About the houses he built on Spanish Street. I share my divorce, finalized now. I’m learning that eating alone doesn’t have to mean being invisible.
“We’re both learning new rhythms, you and I,” Seamus says with a knowing nod.
Then something beautiful happens.
A young mother bursts through the door, juggling stroller, diaper bag, and a precariously placed toddler on her hip. All with a practiced grace. Even exhausted, she moves with the fierce love of someone who’d move mountains for her child, whom she sets neatly on the ground.
Seamus stands instantly. “Take me seat, love. Your little treasure needs the space.”
“Thank you,” she says, her smile genuine despite her tiredness. “You’re very kind.”
“Just passin’ along what was given to me.” He winks at me.
The three-year-old marches straight to Seamus and yanks on his jacket with the confidence of someone who knows she’s important.
“I’m three!”
“Three years old? Sure, that’s the perfect age for great adventures. I remember being three meself.”
“I’m Emma!” she announces proudly.
“Well, Miss Emma, that’s a beautiful name for a beautiful lass.”
She giggles like wind chimes in a gentle breeze.
☕ ─────────────────────────────────── ☕
Kindness ripples through the small shop. Jordan brings Emma a heap of whipped cream, in addition to her tiny hot chocolate. “On the house,” he smiles, waving at Emma. A middle-aged woman moves her purse, letting a young coed set her weighty backpack down just long enough to order her drink. The wave continues, rippling throughout First Light Coffee. A newspaper is passed to another patron. Disposable cups and wrappers are disposed of, making room for a young expectant couple.
But the wave doesn’t touch everyone. Kiposki shoves past, violently pushing the stroller on his way out, still shouting about missed appointments. Some people stay so busy managing their schedules that they forget to live. Instead, they miss seeing pieces of heaven, hiding in plain sight.
Riley tracks his exit with the exact same eye roll. Only now I see the difference. This time she’s right. This time it makes sense.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Seamus asks.
“My grandmother said every person carries a piece of heaven inside them. Even during rough days. Especially then.”
“Ah, wise woman indeed. Me dear Margaret used to say, ‘Every soul you meet carries the same divine spark, Seamus. We’re all made in His image.’ Maybe that’s what we forget when we’re rushing around. Not that people can be good, but that they’re created to be.”
💬 “We’re all made in His image” – Click to tweet
“When did we start believing that being busy is more important than being present?” I ask.
Emma races over with her whipped cream tower masterpiece, beaming with three-year-old pride. “Look what I made!”
“Magnificent,” Seamus declares, meaning every syllable.
As Emma and her mother gather their things to leave, she waves until we disappear from view, her small hand a blessing in motion.
☕ ─────────────────────────────────── ☕
“We never truly forget how to see good,” Seamus says thoughtfully. “Just get out of practice. It’s like playing piano. The music? It stays. We just need to remember where the keys are.”
I pack up thinking about what could have happened if I’d stayed hidden behind my laptop. How close I came to missing something sacred.
When did we start believing that productivity matters more than people? That efficiency trumps compassion?
Maybe we start by choosing connection over convenience, by spotting gold flecks in strangers’ eyes before we scroll past them into oblivion.
Perhaps Margaret and my grandmother spoke truth: we’re all made in His image, and that image shines brightest when we choose to see it.
☕ ─────────────────────────────────── ☕
Next Thursday, Seamus orders coffee with a smile that Riley almost returns without rolling her eyes. As I watch from my corner table, the one where the light falls just right. A new customer struggles with her order, looking flustered but hopeful. Riley takes a breath before responding, her voice carrying a warmth I’ve never heard from her before.
And there, in the woman’s grateful eyes as Riley helps her find exactly what she needs, I see them again.
Gold flecks.
Heaven hides right here on Thursday mornings.
The universe builds itself one intentional kindness at a time.
We forget because life moves fast and walls protect better than vulnerability. But what will we choose to do now that we remember where heaven hides?
Here’s what I want to know: Who’s the Seamus in your life? Maybe it’s the grocery store clerk who always seems frazzled, or your neighbor who walks alone every morning, or that coworker everyone avoids in the break room.
This week, I challenge you: Look for one person’s gold flecks. Just one. See if you can spot heaven hiding in the most ordinary moment.
Then come back and tell me: Where did you find it? What happened when you chose to see differently? I read every comment, and your stories of finding heaven matter more than you know.
Because here’s the truth: The world has enough Kiposkis rushing past with phones glued to their ears. But it could use a few more people willing to see gold flecks in strangers’ eyes.
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About Joe Class III A Storyteller who captures everyday events in natural language, exploring how ordinary moments reveal extraordinary truths about character and integrity. “The best stories come from discipline and hard work.” When Joe’s not writing at midnight in coffee shops, he’s probably talking through ideas to one of three imaginary cats.
EverydayMiracles #KindnessMatters #SacredMoments #SeeingGood #GoldFlecks
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