It was a rainy day in the Sierras as the ski season neared its end. The damp weather seemed more suitable for enjoying a leisurely breakfast than skiing. Not wanting to be the only one taking up space at a table meant for four in a packed restaurant, I invited another guest, who appeared to be searching for a seat, to join me.
He came bearing an enormous breakfast burrito, a sizable piece of coffee cake, and a blended drink served in what looked like a bucket. I assumed he would need to accommodate two or three friends, but he quietly stated, “I’m alone — just hungry.”
My companion and I were on a spring skiing and biking trip, traveling from Colorado to the Sierras. Ellie was back in our camper, parked nearby and taking advantage of the Wi-Fi. Meanwhile, I sought a strong signal inside the restaurant while catching up on the news. I hoped to enjoy my breakfast undisturbed, and it seemed my table partner shared that sentiment, likely too busy with his food to engage in conversation.
After about ten minutes of silence, I felt it was time to break the ice. I asked him some basic questions about where he was from, commented on the weather, and concluded with, “With a breakfast like that, you must have a big day ahead.”
He replied that skiing wasn’t on his agenda; once he finished eating, he’d be boarding a bus back home.
“I think the stress of this trip increased my appetite,” he mentioned, attributing it to “stress eating.” He was actually a chaperone for a large group from a Christian high school that was visiting for a late-season ski trip.
I made a light-hearted remark about the challenges of managing almost 50 teenagers in a ski town, to which he responded, “No wonder you’re stressed.” He then indicated he needed to eat quickly as they were leaving soon.
“I hope your group had a good time,” I said. He hesitated, considering how honest to be, and then said, “Well, actually it was a tough week. We lost one of our kids.”
“Lost him for how long?” I inquired.
“Forever,” he said flatly, explaining that the child had fallen down a flight of stairs.
What could I possibly say in response to that?
I expressed my condolences and asked how the other students were coping. He mentioned they were managing surprisingly well. Although they were understandably devastated, their firm belief that their friend was in a better place provided them with some solace.
There is a profound comfort that comes from a belief in an afterlife, a gift of faith that can neither be verified nor disproved. I had no intention of complicating this man’s grief. However, sensing I might never cross paths with him again, I decided to ask him a serious question.
Closing my iPad, I asked, “From one stranger to another: are you absolutely certain that the child is truly in a better place?”
He replied confidently, stating he was as certain of that as he was of our current conversation.
He shared that he used to be a skeptic but found greater happiness and fulfillment since embracing that belief. He noted the injustices of life — sickness, poverty, and war often fall on those who have done nothing wrong. He found comfort and meaning in his faith.
As he set his burrito down and wiped his hands on a napkin, he turned to me and inquired, “How about you?”
I admitted that, while I wished to believe as he did, I harbored doubts akin to those of the apostle Thomas.
As he prepared to leave, he expressed gratitude for my company and hoped that someday I would hold the same convictions he did.
I found myself envying his steadfastness. In my view, it mattered less whether his beliefs were true than the comfort they brought him. But I chose not to voice those thoughts, opting instead for humor: “Well,” I said, “according to the Righteous Brothers, ‘If there is a rock and roll heaven, you know they’ll have a hell of a band.’”
He placed the untouched coffee cake in front of me, a radiant smile on his face, and replied, “Damn straight.”