TL/DR: You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be
Last Sunday, I found myself at a Starbucks, 22 miles north of my home in Denver. And the universe reminded me of a simple fact – I’m always exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Even when it feels like I’m not. Especially when it feels like I’m not.
Let me explain.
My daughter had spent the night with her bestie’s family. They moved 45 miles north in 2020, and ever since our families have worked to ensure they get together as much as possible (no small feat when considering Denver traffic – if you know, you know).
Though it was only 10 a.m., it was my second trip to Starbucks that morning. I’d woken up around 7 a.m., after a night of a few too many carbs and cocktails with a group of my lady friends, annoyed at myself for not stopping to buy coffee at the grocery store on Saturday. So I walked three blocks and got my first cup of the day. (Yes, I passed a grocery store to get there.)
It was the fuel I needed to drive north to pick up my daughter from her weekend at her besties, whose mom had picked the time and spot for us to meet. I hadn’t planned on that second cup, but I’d arrived a few minutes earlier than our agreed upon 10 a.m., thanks to the miracle of no traffic.
And when I say miracle of no traffic, I mean it. I’ve never made that drive so quickly. I’ve never NOT encountered a slowdown. I’ve never NOT felt anxious about arriving on-time, because of a traffic delay.
I parked in the busy parking lot in a busy shopping area. I saw a text that my daughter’s crew was running several minutes late. So I decided this, coupled with being early, was a sign from the heavens that I deserved another cup of dark roast.
See, I’m big on inviting ease into my life. When I notice ease, I take it as a sign that I’m on the right track.
I also have certain things that feel like signs of love from the universe, so I smiled when I opened the coffee shop door and saw my home state of Iowa printed on the back of a man’s sweatshirt.
Though I haven’t lived in Iowa since 1998, my upbringing on a family farm south of Chelsea has never left my heart. I often marvel with my daughter about how her high school alone is ten times bigger than my entire home town, which had a population of 229 at the last census.
And I smiled a little bigger when I saw that the sweatshirt also said “Pioneer” – a seed corn company that had a plant near my hometown and where Uncle Kenny worked his whole career.
I silently whispered a prayer of gratitude for the winks from the universe. I’d been feeling out of sorts for a few weeks, and life had been feeling anything but easy – to the point that I’d been questioning my path altogether.
I enjoyed a quick chat with a barista who held intense eye contact. Then I made my way to the counter to add creamer to my dark roast. Mr. Iowa Sweatshirt was blocking my way. I said excuse me. He offered an unnecessarily effusive apology, which instantly clued me in that this man was for sure a fellow Iowan.
The signs of alignment in the day were such that I decided to start a conversation with a standard, “You’re from Iowa?”
He said yes.
I said, me too!
The other three people he was with came closer, and as I stirred my coffee, I asked about the Pioneer logo on his shirt. He told me he worked there.
I told him about my uncle, who had retired some years ago.
He asked what town I was from. I laughed. There are hundreds of small towns in Iowa. In my 25+ years of living in Denver, Colorado, no one – and I do mean no one – has ever heard of my hometown. Even people from Iowa. So I rarely say its name, instead opting for its geographic location.
But his Pioneer sweatshirt made me think they might know, so I said:
A teeny, tiny town called Chelsea, Iowa.
All four of them erupted into laughter.
And when they asked my last name – a name that no one outside a 30 mile radius of Chelsea recognizes – I offered it up.
Everyone howled.
His wife moved closer to me, and I turned to face her. And I saw a face I used to see, as a kid, on Sundays, at church.
See, I’d managed to run into a family of Behouneks from Chelsea, Iowa, at a busy Starbucks in Thornton, Colorado.
My mind is still completely blown. Here I was, far from my actual home and 750 miles from my teeny, tiny hometown in Iowa. Facing a group of extended relations, who worked with Uncle Kenny and knew my parents instantly by first name.
Life can be so funny. You can feel so far out of alignment from where your ego mind believes you ought to be. Things can be so quiet in life, for days, months, even years. You can be on the brink of losing faith, of believing you’ve taken far too many wrong turns to even consider that you’re still on your highest and best path, then WHAM.
You run into a bunch of Behouneks from Chelsea out in the wild.
Message, received.
