There is a woman crying in the corner booth of the diner.
I don’t know why, but she is.
I noticed her a few minutes ago.
Her eyes were full, preparing for the inevitable cry.
Sitting across from her is a friend.
She’s nodding her head and stretching out her hand to touch her friends.
You can tell this isn’t her first time sitting across from a friend who needs a friend.
You can tell she knows compassion and mercy and was the one who suggested they get together at a diner.

Any place that serves pancakes and waffles and french toast and biscuits with gravy and bottomless cups of coffee is a place where healing happens.

It’s a scientific fact.

I look around the diner and I know everyone here is going through something, too.
Sickness, grief, fear, loneliness, depression, insecurity.
Life is heavy and hard and unpredictable.
I wonder what it is she is going through.

Pain runs deep through each of us. It digs and cuts and is often too hot to touch. Sometimes the pain is a hole, other times it is a mountain. Sometimes the pain needs to be filled or removed, but it always needs to be cared for. The closer we get to the pain the more hurt we feel and so we often turn and go the other way. We keep it to ourselves. We bottle up the pain and it ferments. When someone asks us how we are we give the typical, “Good. Busy, but good.” We say this when things aren’t good. I know this because I have done this. And so have you.

Sometimes it’s easier to lie than to tell the truth. Just like it is easier to run from what hurts than move towards it. It’s easy for me to wave off what I feel and tell myself I’ll get to it later. But this isn’t living. It’s avoiding. And avoiding pain always results in more pain.

These days, I’m learning to move towards the pain. I’ve started confronting wounds and looking into the eyes of emptiness. I’ve started saying what is true and not telling myself that everything is, “Good. Busy, but good.”

I am not running or leaping forward.
It’s all small and slow steps forward.
Steps of patience and trust and hope.

I do not know much, but you must be patient.
You must trust.
You must hope.
Without those three, you won’t make it very far.

I tell myself the things I have written before.

Keep going.

God is not afraid of your mess.

Love remains even in the darkest of places.

You aren’t a burden.

Hold on.

Keep believing.

Everything is going to be okay.

Sometimes these are the last things I want to hear, but the truth must be told.

Keep telling yourself the truth.

Tears are now streaming down the woman’s face. I try not to look, but I do. I see her and she sees me. I give a half smile and she gives a nod back. I hope she isn’t embarrassed. There is nothing to be embarrassed about. Crying isn’t a sign of weakness, but strength. And only the strongest can cry in public places. I want to tell her she is brave. I want to tell her that whatever it is she is going through, well, that I hate it for her. I want to order her a pancake with extra butter and syrup. It may not cure her pain or dry her tears, but it certainly won’t make things worse.

Breakfast food has never made a situation worse.

About the Author

Tanner Olson is an author, poet, speaker, and podcaster living in Nashville, Tennessee.

He is the author of I’m All Over the Place, As You Go, Walk A Little Slower, and Continue: Poems and Prayers of Hope.

You can find Tanner Olson’s books on Amazon.

His podcast is The Walk A Little Slower Podcast with Tanner Olson and can be found wherever you listen to podcasts.

Tanner Olson travels around the country sharing poetry, telling stories, and delivering messages of hope.

You can follow Tanner Olson on Instagram (@writtentospeak) and Facebook where you’ll daily find encouraging words of faith and hope.