With precision, the woman lined up six plastic water cups at the coffee station. She filled each with Half & Half and knocked them back like a flight of tequila shots. She used her sleeve to wipe her milk mouth. A nearby customer said, “What you’re doing isn’t right.”

She contemplated the comment, her piercing blue eyes staring with intensity, then refilled her flight.

The customer shook her head and left the shop, a look of disgust wrinkled lines into her forehead.

The empty cups toppled on their sides were left abandoned as she approached our table with confidence. “Would you like to purchase for me the plain croissant?” Her demeanor was direct. Her accent had the clipped crispness of eastern Europe. Her complexion and exposed legs bore the hue of the elements. Her scent was sidewalk and subway.

“No, thank you,” replied Ryann.

“Are you sure? Are you sure you don’t want to purchase for me the plain croissant?”

“No, thank you.”

The barista moved from behind the counter and was now also at our table. In a few moments we had moved from a table for two to a party of four.

“Miss, you need to leave. You can’t harass our customers,” said the barista. She had the exact same accent, making me wonder if they had a connection. But this is New York City, and one can’t claim probable kin as we do in the south.

“Miss? Miss? I’m not miss.” Her tone inferred that she had been disrespected.

“I’ve called the police. You need to leave. You already drank all my milk. And now you are demanding food from paying customers. You need to go,” the barista said. She matched Madam Half & Half with concentrated force.

“Ladies, my croissant?” she offered one last time, reluctant to leave. Then she exited the shop, unhurried, glancing back at us. I remained silent as I drank my overpriced oat milk latte and nibbled on the edges of my grassroots veggie bar.

I was the squirmy kind of uncomfortable.

I don’t know this person’s story. My guess from our brief encounter would involve mental health struggles. It could be that she has suffered great loss from immigrating or seeking refuge in a foreign land. It could be from being disengaged from family or friends or people who know, understand, and most of all, love her. It could be that she’s using illegal substances that hurt her or not using legit ones that help. It’s hard to speculate on all the possibilities that have taken her down her path to now.

There’s a lot of conversation about the degrees of separation to meeting (and perhaps even being,) someone amazing and famous. Those same degrees swing the other way too. I don’t want to say but for the grace of God here, because I can’t factor grace into Half & Half’s reality. Things happen. Our world is broken. I was convicted over a pastry that I don’t want to be so comfortable in my own life that I forget what it means to co-human.

Ryann and I discussed the dilemma of what, when, and how to help others. If I had an encore episode of the coffee shop, I would have purchased for Half & Half – the plain croissant. It seems right that something soft, buttery, and flaky might say, for one fleeting moment, I see you.

I don’t know if this would make a difference or if I’m caught up in the loop of my own ego and the gesture would have been to make me feel better, but I wish I would have gifted her a warm, buttery, flaky croissant on a cold March Manhattan morning.

There are arguments both ways of whether this would have been the right or wrong decision and I’m not attached to that deliberation. I’m just thinking about being out of my own comfort box and experiencing all the feels the world tenders up. I’m thinking that a croissant was fair currency for the reminder of the role discomfort plays in the robust human experience.

It was raining as I left the city. Planes lined up at LaGuardia waiting for their turn on the runway. It always makes me think of the way the school buses lined up at our elementary school. Our principal, Mr. Gene Bowen, aka Tinkerbell, chose the departure order. Everyone hoped to be first. When Mr. Bowen’s arm extended in our direction, bus #5 roared to life and we hung out the windows cheering as we took off through the lot, bound for home. I have that same feeling now, awaiting our turn for takeoff. The other passengers have closed their window shades and are reading, playing games, or napping, so the likelihood of getting them to buy into a takeoff cheer seems low.

From my window seat in 19A, I watched the other planes taxi and ascend. The low cloud cover created a thick veil, and the planes were swallowed by the gray sky. From my view, the tail was the last teensy piece to disappear.

Instruments and technology long ago removed the need for flying by sight, but it struck me how it still takes faith and trust to plunge upward. My family always prays for safe travels and I feel hope and relief when we reach cruising altitude.

It was there at 35,000 feet, flying along the eastern shoreline that I reflected on Half & Half and all of the people I encounter that make me want to move or look away. Discomfort has been part of the equation for that which means the most to me. The things that have been hard and raw and true, those are the things that shaped and built me. I sometimes fall complacent and a little too comfortable to hold space for that which gives me perspective, even the squirmy kind.