Fillers of the cup

This essay was first published on The Daily BS on May 17, 2025.

“The Chick-fil-A boys.” That’s how I thought of them after meeting them on a hot July day. That’s how I think of them now, these many months later.

They were impossible to miss, those young men. Sleek. Heavily muscled. Flamboyantly dressed in miniscule Spandex and flashy sunglasses, and they were right in front of me.

Quietly, I watched them. In my mind’s eye, I carried the image of my own quartet. I kept my counsel and observed.

At last, one of them sank to the floor right there in that long line, and he placed his back against the wall. “It’s just so hot,” he said.

Leaning over, seeing his face shining with perspiration, I said, “Do you need a drink?” He declined, and yet my maternal heart saw his distress. He rose from his place on the restaurant floor and went to a corner where he sat while his buddy held their place in the line.

I could not bear it. Slipping up to the counter, I asked the girl behind it for a cup of cold water, and I carried it to the suffering young man. “Thank you,” he said, receiving the cup. “I have asthma, and it’s hard in this heat.”

Looking into his dark eyes, I said, “I have four sons in the world, and I love it when other mothers look out for them. I am doing this for your mother.”

Before leaving, I went back to the colorful pair with one more message for them both. “This is how it works with me,” I said. “When I meet special people, I get their first names. Then whenever they come to my mind, I pray for them.”

Two faces beamed back at me. They spoke their names, and I tucked them in my heart. With smiles and waves, we parted ways.

A year and a half later, on a cold February night, my husband and I were sitting at another Chick-fil-A. We were nearly finished eating when all at once he said, “Look! There are your friends.” And sure enough. There they were.

I called out. Stopping, they looked over, and then here they came. Two faces, once again, lit up, and to my great surprise, the first question from their lips was this: “Have you been praying for us?”

I was stunned. With all my heart, I had meant those words. And with all my heart, I had kept my word. The smile on my face was as wide as Texas. “I have prayed for you!” You have no idea how much, boys. Yes, I have prayed for you.

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Alex came to me in the food court at the mall. Snagging a table beside him, I noticed that he was enjoying a meal of tacos. Waiting for my family, I began talking to him, and soon I knew what grade he was in, what sport he played, and what he wanted to be when he grew up.

Alex wanted to be a mechanic. “We can sure use a good mechanic,” I said to him, and a grin went spreading over my face. Really looking at him, I saw the beginning of a mustache adorning his upper lip. His hair was curly and long, and I felt the unseen hand upon my back. That’s when I said it.

“Your life has a purpose.” Earnest eyes were watching me. “God’s eye is on you, and I don’t mean in a harsh, angry way, but in the most loving way. I’m gonna talk to the Big Man (and here, I pointed one finger up) about you. I want you to be successful.”

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it.

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In yet another crowded court, I found myself waiting on my husband. Handsome, that one, with a smooth, bald head. He was waiting in line to get our food.

Glancing up, I saw that he’d moved over to a table where two burly men of a different color were sitting. One of them was bald, too, and I watched my husband leaning forward. They exchanged a few words, some laughter, and a fist bump, and he left.

He brought our dinner over to the table. “What did you tell him?” I asked, curious.

“I told him I like his hairdo.” There went his smile, and there came mine. For most of his life, this man would never have approached a stranger, but now he was doing it with ease.

That smile lingered on my face. In fact, I wear it to this day, for in a time of growing strife and national division; in the tinder box of racial tensions, good people are still living their simple, ordinary lives. And in the courses of their ordinary lives, they share the milk of human kindness in a thousand, thousand ways.

We can be fillers of the cup or spillers of it; builders of bridges or those who destroy. It is the power of kindness that softens the heart and the quiet rain of Love that grows the seed.

The choice is ours. The weary are waiting. Let’s go.

Every Saturday, America’s small, caffeinated mom discusses the week’s essay with James Golden on his syndicated radio show on 77 WABC or a station near you. Tune in for a shot of encouragement, wisdom, and humor.