Stanley moves through the Flowerpot Café with the quiet confidence of someone who’s found his purpose, even in the smallest tasks. His red gloves catch the sunlight, glowing against the dishwasher’s black apron, still dripping from the steam of the machine.
He greets some customers with a nod or a kind word, but when he sees me, his face lights up. “Christopher,” he says warmly, “good to see you again.” He doesn’t just say my name—it’s as if he’s pulling it from some sacred part of himself, like it’s an offering.
He asks about my work, my travels, the book I’m always pounding out on my iPad at the corner table. When I return the question, his answers are simple but brimming with gratitude. “Oh, man, I’m good. Just grateful for this day, you know? Got my health, got my job, and the sun’s out. God is good. What more can I ask for?”
What more, indeed?
He tells me about the discount he got on some new eyeglasses, then about being tired from working two jobs. Finally, he shares how much he misses his mom back in Ohio. These glimpses into his life feel like pieces of a larger story, one I’m only beginning to understand.
There’s something about the way Stanley’s gratitude feels so deep-rooted, as if he’s daring the world to throw its worst at him. It’s clear he has weathered his share of storms.
This photo I took of him stays with me: the way his hands hold the white plate, the warm gold of the muffin crumbs—all small, fleeting details that seem to carry the weight of everything Stanley embodies. Hard work. Humility. An almost sacred dignity.
Before he carries a heavy tub of dirty dishes to the back, I catch one last glimpse of him wiping down another table, the edges of his gloves flashing like sparks of fire. Stanley, the busser with the soul of a sage, keeps moving—steady, unwavering, and full of light. ~ CB