Alissa wanted me to experience Twisted Biscuit.

Not just the food. The feel. She said it like that. Experience the 90s music. The ambiance. Superb service. She wanted me to feel it. All of it. So we drove out to Cape Girardeau Sunday morning. And I got it, just what Alissa meant. I experienced it in less than five seconds. Inside it’s humming. The service is the kind you expect somewhere with a dress code, not somewhere with a laminated menu. It felt like stepping outside of Cape Girardeau entirely. Like a dream someone else was having; we just wandered into it.

I was working through a dish called Nashville Hot, Sticky, and Sweet. Gluten-friendly Belgian waffles and spicy chicken. No food had any business being that good. Not at a chain restaurant. After my third bite, Alissa laughed at me, because I had just bit into the jalapeño garnishment on my Bloody Mary, the spice tearing my mouth to shreds, bringing tears to my eyes. She was laughing, relaxed, happy she brought me. I felt it too, smiling back.

We watched the family sitting across from us, still giggling about the spicy pepper.

Mom, dad, three boys. And grandma. Mom’s mother, I’m pretty sure. You can usually tell by the way moms and daughters occupy the same space without having to negotiate it.

The boys are doing what boys do. The youngest is climbing his chair. The oldest has graduated to performing indifference, which is its own kind of performance. Dad’s scrolling.

Jacob, the middle kiddo, is crying. Being the oldest of three boys, I know who the middle child is.

He wants to sit by his dad. Abraham, the oldest, had already claimed the seat by dad. Jacob has opinions specifically about that. Loud ones. Mom leans over and whispers something. He settles, but it doesn’t fully land. He’s nine and at that age it never fully lands.

I overhear their names at some point. Isaac. Jacob. Abraham. Of course they are.

I set my coffee down.

And then mom reaches over and touches grandma’s hand.

Doesn’t say a word. Just touches it.

The boys and dad don’t notice. He’s scrolling, probably checking the Michigan State score based on the maize and blue ‘M’ on his hoodie and matching hat. But grandma does. She doesn’t look over at her daughter. She just turns her hand over slowly and holds on.

I looked away because it wasn’t mine to watch.

Alissa was still smiling across the table. Still in the dream. I didn’t say anything. Just let her stay there a little longer.

But I thought about that family through the rest of brunch. Wondered what was passing between those two women right there in the middle of all that noise. Whatever it was, it didn’t need words. It had been building long before the hot chocolate, piled high with whipped cream, arrived.

Alissa wanted me to feel something this morning. I did. Just more than what she planned.

God has a way of doing that.

All in five minutes.

It’s a strange length of time. Long enough for an emotional shift. Short enough to pretend you saw nothing.

But here’s what I don’t know.

What are you carrying when you land here?

Yeah. I’d love to know.