With the applications submitted, Angela and her husband began a waiting game, to see what the next chapter of their lives would bring. Weeks later, when the acceptance letters had arrived, they’d sold their furniture, packed their suitcases, and moved 6,000 miles away to start new jobs in a very foreign place.
Luckily, with the magic of technology, Angela had stayed connected with her American friends, which was how we had originally met. We’d found each other on Twitter and had a few friendly exchanges. Nothing substantial, but enough to know she was living in Japan. Her experience fascinated me because, although I’m fairly adventurous when it comes to traveling and moving far from home, I’m not sure I could brave moving to Japan.
I had hoped to meet up with her while she was home for the holidays, but I’d been home in Wyoming by the time she made it back to Michigan. I dreamily considered a weekend trip to Japan for coffee—but decided Skype was a much more economical option.
So that’s how Angela and I shared Cup 24, which was easily one of the most peculiar Cups I’d had at that point—not because of Angela (she’s great) but rather the process. After 23 Cups, I’d grown accustomed to the process of physically meeting someone new for coffee, but this meeting broke all the rules. There wasn’t the typical, “Hi, are you Angela?” exchange, followed by a handshake and hello. There also wasn’t a coffee-shop ambiance or the ability to read full-body body language (which was far more important than I had realized). Our conversation was confined to a pixelated image on a computer screen.
Despite the strangeness, the conversation started rolling when Angela told me about the differences between the two cultures. It was a reminder that we could get so caught up in our cultural norms that we forget people in other cultures often live vastly different lifestyles.
For example, she made the coffee she was drinking with a single-serving coffee filter placed on top of her cup as she filled it with hot water. She held it up to her camera, so I knew what she was talking about; it was a smart little contraption, and something I’d never seen in the U.S.
She explained that the Japanese don’t use coffee as essential morning fuel, the way Americans do. They drank it midafternoon, and if they bought it in a store, they drank it in the store—no grabbing a cup in the middle of the afternoon commute.
They also weren’t big on peanut butter, cereal, or really sweet foods (although Angela had found 43 different flavors of Kit Kats). Another surprising fact, which I found shocking, seeing as I’m a normal college kid, was that Facebook isn’t big there. Japanese teens used other social networking sites that allowed for more anonymity.
Hearing about these differences was interesting, because it revealed how drastically Angela’s life changed when she moved. It hadn’t been just a few small changes, like coffee and technology; she had fully submerged herself in a new culture, which you can’t do without getting a few bumps and bruises in the process.
When she’d left the U.S, she didn’t know how to speak Japanese, which essentially made her illiterate as she tried to navigate the streets of her new home. In addition to that, blond, blue-eyed women were a rare sight in Japan. It was common to have locals stare and babies look at her in wonderment. Of course, she already had an idea of what she was getting into. Before leaving, she had done her research, and read about the four stages of culture shock, but that hadn’t made it any easier. It helped that she had her husband with her. Together they had signed up for an adventure and accepted that the adjustment period was a price they’d have to pay for the experience.
Now, almost three years later, their adventure was ending, and they were preparing for a new one. Once the school year was over, they would be moving to Australia, where Angela would pursue a Master’s degree. Her original plan for grad school had been going back to MSU. She was comfortable with the school and knew it was a good option. But that was before the Japan experience.
When I asked her how moving to Japan had changed her, she said this, “The experience has made me comfortable with being uncomfortable.”
Three years ago, she hadn’t had what it would take to move to Australia for grad school. But challenging herself to move to Japan revealed her strengths and capabilities. Overcoming the struggles helped her realize she could tackle more than she thought.
I could relate to her statement. I had left the Wyoming town I grew up in for the unknowns of Michigan, and I faced a few hurdles of my own in the transition. Despite that, I ultimately had an incredible experience in Michigan, and learned that so often the most rewarding things in life were those that were the most challenging.
* * *
While I had previously learned the value of trying new things firsthand, I enjoyed the reminder. The thing about change is that if you wait long enough, the uncomfortable eventually becomes comfortable. After four years, I felt right at home in Michigan and the idea of uprooting to a new location and starting from scratch again frankly wasn’t appealing.
I had discovered this resistance to moving a few days before meeting with Angela, and it scared me a little. I had been planning on moving to a big city, so when the idea of staying closer to the familiar Midwest popped into my head, I was surprised and a little worried. Was I losing my courage? Was I thinking about settling? Was I actually considering the comfortable route over the adventurous one?
Cup 24 is a reminder that you have to work constantly to stay comfortable with being uncomfortable. This doesn’t necessarily mean moving to a foreign country, like Angela did. It means staying open to trying new things, taking risks, and finding new challenges instead of getting stuck in the comfortable routines of life. The ability to explore difficult situations is like a muscle; if you stop exercising it, the strength goes away.
If I start choosing the easy route over the one with a few twists and turns, I might never discover just how far I can go.
Betsy Miner-Swartz
Edmund’s Pastime in Lansing, Michigan
Small house coffee
When life gets tough, take it one step at a time.
By the time I got to the Edmund’s, I was 15 minutes late and flustered from an unexpectedly hectic afternoon. I called to let Betsy know of my delay, but that didn’t loosen the knot in my stomach, knowing I’d potentially ruined a first impression.
I rushed into the restaurant and spotted Betsy immediately. She was patiently waiting at a booth, basking in the warm sunlight streaming in from the tall windows facing Michigan Avenue, cup of coffee in hand.
“Betsy! I am so sorry for being late!”
Her response was untroubled and lifted the worry off my shoulders, “I think there are worse things than having to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee for 15 minutes.” I knew immediately I was going to like Betsy, and with the mayhem of the day behind me, I was ready to slow down and enjoy good coffee in good company.
* * *
Betsy is a communications specialist with Gift of Life Michigan. Since 2009, she has worked diligently to promote statewide organ-, eye- and tissue-donation and grow the Michigan Organ Donor Registry. It is an important job, because Michigan has fallen behind the national average in terms of number of registered donors. Michigan also has 2,993 residents waiting for transplants.
As we were discussing the nature of the issue, Betsy fidgeted with her cell phone, which had a “Donate Life” sticker prominently displayed on the back; tt was clear the organization meant more than just a job to her.
* * *
In 1986, Betsy graduated with a Journalism degree from Central Michigan University. Three days later, she found herself navigating the real-world newsroom at the Sturgis Journal. She’d known she wanted to be a journalist since high school, and had been determined to build a strong career. It wasn’t long before her writing skills and work ethic landed her a gig in Port Huron, then later at the Lansing State Journal.
For more than 15 years, she worked at the State Journal, moving up through the news ranks, collecting awards and accolades along the way. After a ser
ies of promotions, Betsy found herself running the news desk—feeling more pressure than ever before.
It had been the most challenging role of her career, especially with the uncertain future of print media, but Betsy had always been able to handle high-stress situations. She knew she could make it work.
But then, something happened in her personal life that changed everything. In 2005, her father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
The diagnosis had been completely unexpected. At age 67, Betsy’s father had been in great health. He should have had years of life left to live. It was difficult news to receive, and Betsy, the oldest of three daughters, responded by taking an active role in his treatment and providing support for her mother.
It soon became clear she had too much on her plate. That’s when Betsy’s partner of seven years, Robin Miner-Swartz, encouraged Betsy to do something she would never have considered: quit her job. Robin also worked at the State Journal, a job that offered full benefits for domestic partners. It was a big decision, and one Betsy was grateful Robin helped her make. She turned in her resignation letter and shifted her priorities to what mattered.
As Betsy said, if you have to get cancer, pancreatic isn’t the type you want to choose. She braced herself for the worst and, sadly, lost her father in 2006. Then, as if dealing with the loss of her father hadn’t been hard enough, her 66-year-old mother was diagnosed with Stage IV ovarian cancer a year and a half later. She passed away in 2009.
It was impossible for me to fathom what it must have been like going through such an experience. I wasn’t sure how to respond, but I eventually settled on asking her how she’d done it—how she’d climbed the Mount Everest of life challenges.
Her answer was simple: “I focused on one thing at a time.”
She said she would choose one thing—the most-important thing on her to-do list—and then do it. That might have been taking a shower or driving to the funeral home to plan a funeral. When she finished that task, she moved on to the next important one. She wouldn’t think about the bigger picture because it was too overwhelming; the stress would have broken her down.
Today, as she looks back, it is clear the experience has changed her outlook on life. Her priorities have changed. As Betsy said, “Grief shapes us.” Without the adversity in her career and personal life, she wouldn’t have been able to appreciate the satisfying life she now has. Each day, she wakes up thankful for another day and the blessings it brings.
Betsy also said she firmly believes that everything happens for a reason. While losing her parents was the hardest thing she has ever endured, without that experience, she wouldn’t have quit her job, and if she hadn’t quit her job, she would never have found the opportunity with Gift of Life Michigan, a role that allows her to help save lives every day.
* * *
Grief, heartache, and loss are inevitable; we can’t predict what will happen or when. However, what I learned from Betsy is that we get to choose how we are going to deal with the challenges that life brings. Betsy proves it is possible to tackle adversity head-on, and find strength to keep going until the worst is over. Cup 25 provides inspiration to keep going despite the circumstances.
I know that life will throw twists and turns my way—that I’ll encounter plenty of rough spots along my journey—but keeping Betsy’s story with me will be a powerful reminder that, with the right attitude and the right people at my side, I can find the strength to endure anything. It’s just a matter of focusing on one thing at a time.
Jim Little
H&H Mobil in East Lansing, Michigan
Medium brewed coffee, hazelnut blend
It’s nice to have a place where everybody knows your name.
The epic “Snowpocalypse” snowstorm of 2011 descended upon East Lansing, closing down schools and interrupting my original plans to head to Detroit for Cup 26 in the process.
Unsure of how to carry out the week’s coffee plan, I looked at the 11 inches of snow, through which I would have to trudge and remembered hearing a story about how Jim Little, the owner of H&H Mobil, had once voluntarily plowed my friend’s driveway after a last major snowfall. Included in my friend’s story was helpful advice: “You’re a business major—if you want to know about customer service, he’s the guy to talk to!”
So I decided to call up H&H and ask for Jim. I apologized for the late notice and asked if he’d be willing to meet for coffee the next day. He said he’s at the shop from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. daily, so he’d be around if I stopped by. I said I’d see him at 10:30
While coffee shops have the ambiance and magnetic power of caffeine that draws me in on a daily basis, gas stations are places I only frequent when my gas warning light yells at me. I find them dingy, unwelcoming, and overly fluorescent. When I do get a fill-up, I typically pay at the pump and quickly go on my way.
Nevertheless, the idea of sharing a cup of coffee outside my usual realm is was intriguing. As I drove to the store, I hoped my intuition didn’t let me down.
I walked into the station to find Jim talking with two customers. He said hello and I introduced myself before he pointed me toward the coffee and told me to help myself. With a coffee in hand, we found a spot in an unoccupied corner of the store—between the bathroom and the pop machine—where he asked me outright, “Well, what do you want to know?”
* * *
Jim, like me, had studied business at Michigan State. After graduation, he had set his sights on going back into the Navy as a pilot, but the uncertainty of the Vietnam War had prompted him to put his business degree to work instead. He’d heard about the opportunity to buy a new Mobil Oil station on the corner of Hagadorn and Haslett roads, and decided to venture into entrepreneurship. He had previous experience working in gas stations and figured it would be a good undertaking for a couple of years. He bought the shop, and named it Hagadorn and Haslett Mobil (quickly shortened to H&H); 41 years later, he was still running the business.
Jim is in his late 60s and works in the store about 12 hours a day, five days a week, plus a handful of hours on the weekend. He told me his wife can’t figure out where he gets all his energy.
For my part, I can’t figure out how anyone could look so happy with a work schedule like his. However, the longer I am in the store, the more it made sense. When I asked him if, after 40 years in business, his customers felt like family, he gave a knowing chuckle and motioned me to follow him to where two customers were standing by the candy bars, shooting the breeze while their cars were being serviced. He interrupted them, “Guys, would you say I know most of my customers?” The hearty response from the man, later introduced as Chuck, said it all: “Oh yeah! This is a neighborhood store; everyone I know comes here.” The other man, amusingly also named Chuck, agreed. They’d clearly been loyal customers for years.
Jim and I walked back to the corner to continue our conversation, which was interrupted moments later as the general conversation in the shop shifted to the impending boat season. Jim wanted to contribute his two cents, and then the talk somehow moved to flying. Jim mentioned he liked to fly his plane to various vacation spots; the woman behind the counter chimed in that while it was a fun plane to fly, landing it was another story.
I soon realized the woman behind the counter was Jim’s wife. They had met long ago when she started working at the station. And that’s when I figured out Jim worked so much while staying happy: H&H was more than just his job and his business; it was his social life, his family, and where he felt most at home. After just 20 minutes, the camaraderie in the shop had won me over.
I was quietly observing the proceedings—taking note of how it oddly felt like I was as in the middle of a sitcom—when suddenly an employee behind the counter answered a call. There was a car stuck on the train tracks. With the three other towing guys out on calls, it was Jim’s job to go get it moved. With the agility of a man half his age, Jim sprung into action. He rushed out of the shop to check on something, and then ran back in, calling through th
e open door, “You want to come? You can see how I spend my days!”
I sprinted out of the store caught completely off-guard by the drastic change of events. I tossed my coffee into one of the bins by the pump, as I watched Jim quickly look both ways before rushing across the busy street. He then held back traffic so I could follow him across to the impound lot.
We jumped into his truck and were on our way out of the lot, when an update came through the radio. The car—luckily—was no longer stuck.
We parked the truck and walked back to the station. My heartbeat slowly returned to normal, along with the conversation. I asked Jim what he had learned after 40 years in business. He replied, “Work hard, stay healthy, and have good luck.” It was basic advice, but it was advice that had been good to Jim.
His business model was just as simple. His secret to success was to be there when people dropped their cars off in the morning and to be there when they picked them up at night. He always said thank you, treated his customers right, and did his best to offer a quality product. He didn’t advertise; he didn’t need to.
Our conversation ended when an older man, probably somewhere in his 80s, walked in and said hello. He’d brought his car in for service. Jim told him to grab a coffee; he’d give him a ride home in a second. Cleary this wasn’t the first time Jim had given him a ride, and I was sure he’d go back to pick him up once his car was finished.
* * *
As I walked back to my car, I reflected on the experience with satisfaction that it had, in fact, been as chaotic and interesting as I’d hoped. However, it wasn’t until later that day when the disjointed events at H&H made sense.
52 Cups of Coffee: Inspiring and insightful stories for navigating life’s uncertainties Page 9
