CMO 91: CBWCM ... SHOW NOTES ... S9/E2: 071225

 

Today on Coffee Break with Carlos Michael:

1 Dear Alejandro, From Miles: "When is enough...enough!?"

2 Caffeinated Two Cent Opinion – “Sit Down, Sip Tea, and Stop Complaining (Respectfully, of course!)”

3 Short Story: “Love and A Cup of Coffee--The Mary Ann Beasley Story”

4 Personal Reflection: "Knowing God One Neighbor At A Time"

Time: 22m, 54s

Listen on YouTube

https://youtu.be/XfuROQiAfqs

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Welcome to the best virtual coffee shop in America. Here is what is available on today’s menu: On page one, we are serving up another letter from Professor Miles K. Abernathy to Alejandro Armando Armand, titled, “Dear Alejandro, From Miles.” On page two, I share my Caffeinated Two-Cent Opinion titled, “Sit Down, Sip Tea, and Stop Complaining (Respectfully, of course)”. Page three features a short story written in 2020 titled, “Love and A Cup of Coffee—The Mary Ann Beasley Story,” followed by a closing reflection by yours truly titled: “Knowing God One Neighbor At A Time.” Let’s get started, but first, “Let’s Coffee Break!”

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Welcome back to Page One: “Dear Alejandro, From Miles” This series involves an email exchange between Professor Miles K Abernathy II, Director of Musical Studies and Men’s Rugby Coach at Emerson Ridge College, Loxley, Kansas (um, F Y I, not a real person, town or college), and our very own Alejandro Armando Armand of Friendship, Oklahoma (also fictional). Let’s begin with Professor Miles’ letter to Alejandro about a journal entry that was shared with him by one of his students.

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Dear Alejandro,

You know me well enough by now to expect a half-empty mug of black coffee and a stack of grading papers I’ll pretend to finish later. But today, my thoughts aren’t tangled in auditions or the condition of our scrum formation—they’re circling something quieter. Something heavier.

I read a journal entry recently written by a student I respect, admire, and, frankly, would bet my best rugby cleats on. It wrestles with a question that presses hard on the chest: How do you keep loving someone when love feels like a burden, not a blessing?

It’s tender. It’s tired. It’s honest. And I wanted to share it with you—not to provoke, but to provoke thought.

You’ll see the reflection below. Sit with it. Let it breathe. Here is the journal entry. Shared with permission.

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Dear Professor Abernathy,

I once heard someone say, “Some things are just better left unsaid.” And maybe that’s true.

It reminds me of something Mom used to tell us—wise words, passed down through generations: “If you have nothing kind to say about someone, say nothing at all.” Sound advice. And I agree, in theory.

But what happens when silence isn’t safety—it’s surrender? When you're living with someone whose ignorance, arrogance, and ironclad stubbornness make even the kindest efforts feel wasted?

How far does a loving heart bend before it breaks? Before acts of service become chores of survival, not driven by love, but by desperation and dwindling options?

I wonder what Christ would say to a person like me—someone who loves Him, but finds their compassion being slowly hollowed out by constant resistance.

Would He tell me to endure with grace? Would He remind me to forgive seventy times seven? Would He sit beside me in the tension, not with answers, but with understanding?

Because lately, I’m not asking how much more I can give. I’m asking how to keep giving without losing who I am in the process.

And maybe that’s the real prayer tucked inside all of this: Lord, help me love without disappearing. Help me serve without surrendering my joy. Help me stay soft… when everything around me feels sharp.

In friendship,

Miles

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Dear Miles,

Christ never sugarcoated heartache. He stepped into it. Sat with it. Wept beside it.

To the loving heart that’s nearing the edge—giving until the “service” feels more like survival—He wouldn't respond with guilt. He’d respond with compassion.

Jesus doesn’t ask for love out of depleted obedience. He asks for it from abundance—and He knows you can’t pour from a cup scraped dry by someone else’s arrogance or constant conflict.

Yes, we are called to love those who are difficult. But not to erase ourselves in the process.

Christ doesn’t demand martyrdom in the name of toxic loyalty. He teaches discernment, boundaries, and honest lament.

Sometimes, loving like Him means stepping back. Sometimes, it means saying, “I can't keep hurting and calling it holy.”

And you know what? That’s not failure. That’s stewardship. Of your heart, your sanity, your capacity to love others better.

Your love doesn’t crack because you’re weak. It cracks because you’ve carried more than one human should. And Christ sees that.

He stands beside you—not wagging a finger, but offering an arm. Not commanding, “Keep going,” but whispering, “Let me carry some of this.”

So maybe the towel you throw isn’t surrender—it’s surrender to Him. It’s saying, “I need help,” and trusting that grace isn’t just for the saintly—it’s for the tired, the tangled, and the truth-tellers.

I close with this prayer.

Lord, You see my heart—bruised, tired, but still beating with hope. I’ve given. I’ve stretched. I’ve stayed. Now I ask for balance.

Teach me that love doesn’t always mean more sacrifice. Sometimes it means more wisdom. Sometimes, more boundaries. Sometimes, a quiet walk away from the chaos toward peace.

Don’t let my kindness become erosion. Show me how to honor both others and myself. And remind me that even cracked vessels carry light. Amen.

Always with a smile,

Alejandro

Next up: Page Two, Caffeinated Two-Cent Opinion: “Sit Down, Sip Tea, and Stop Complaining (Respectfully, of course)”

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Age is a gift. It’s a badge of honor, a walking archive of stories, lessons, scars, and victories. But somewhere between Bingo night and backyard grumbling, a few folks decided that getting older automatically earns you the right to complain like you’re auditioning for a soap opera titled The Chronicles of Crankiness.

This piece isn’t about disrespecting our elders—quite the opposite. It’s a loving nudge to remind them that respect is a two-way street paved with gratitude, grace, and fewer groans. So, take a seat, sip some tea, and enjoy this very warm, slightly cheeky brew.

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Listen, I love Grandma. I do. I love the Grandpa who wears socks with sandals and reminds us twice a week that gas used to be 20 cents a gallon. But we need to talk.

There’s a growing epidemic among some of our seasoned citizens—and no, I’m not talking about hip replacements. I’m talking about complaining as a sport. Complaining about the temperature. Complaining about the music. Complaining that young folks don’t mow lawns properly or hold doors “with enough reverence.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. Being elderly earns you respect, empathy, and probably a discount at the buffet. But what it doesn’t earn is a free pass to treat kindness like a punching bag. You’re not entitled to be difficult just because you have seniority.

People want to help you. We do. We’ll rearrange our schedules, bring groceries, drive you to church, and laugh at your punchlines even if they were outdated during Eisenhower’s administration. But you’ve gotta meet us halfway. Take those complaining lips out of drive, pop 'em into neutral, and let folks love you without getting a verbal shakedown in return.

At your age, you ought to be schooling us in humility, patience, and gratitude. Not launching verbal grenades over mashed potatoes.

Yes, your knees creak louder than the floorboards in a haunted house. Yes, your back forecasts rain better than any meteorologist. Yes, your best dance moves now involve navigating a walker like a ballroom pro. But here’s the thing: you’re still alive. Still here for the football game, the birthday parties, the casserole critiques and cookie debates.

So, let’s flip the script. Be the elder who gives encouragement, not eyerolls. Be the grandma who compliments your weird shoes. Be the grandpa who says, “I’m proud of you,” instead of “Why are your pants so tight?”

And most of all—leave those chattering dentures in the glass when the urge to gripe bubbles up. You've made it this far—don't go out crabby. Go out classy.

If you're blessed enough to still be here—aching knees, silver hair, rogue chin hairs and all—consider that a miracle. Aging may come with discomfort, but it also comes with wisdom. Don’t squander that by barking at the world like it's a faulty remote control.

Instead, be the elder who lifts with laughter, leads with kindness, and shows the younger generation how it’s done—not how it’s griped. There’s legacy in grace. And sometimes, it starts with saying thank you... and maybe keeping those chattering dentures in the glass until after dessert. And that is my two cents for what it is worth!

Next up, Page Three, “Love and A Cup of Coffee--The Mary Ann Beasley Story” right after the break.

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Welcome to Page Three: Love and a Cup of Coffee

A Story Brewed in Kindness

Some people leave footprints. Mary Ann Beasley leaves warm mug rings on your heart.

In the quiet charm of Glenn Hill—a neighborhood nestled within Loxley, Kansas, where porches speak louder than politics and everyone knows the name of your dog—Mary Ann is more than a friendly neighbor. She’s a sacred fixture of grace, wit, and coffee-laced wisdom.

To walk Good Smile Drive is to walk past a hundred hellos, shared cookies, and porch visits made sacred not by ceremony, but by sincerity. And waiting at the end of the block, in the last house on the right, stands a woman whose front door might as well read, “Come as you are. Leave with a hug.”

This is the story of Mary Ann Beasley—community confidante, cookie evangelist, and living proof that sometimes, the best theology is served between friends with something hot in your cup and something good in your heart.

It begins, as most great love stories do, with compassion... and coffee.

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Every once in a while, someone comes along who becomes the heart of a neighborhood—the porch light left on, the warm hug on a rainy day, the person whose home becomes a safe haven whether you're passing by or falling apart. They’re the ones who always have the right words, no matter how many times you come back with the same question, burden, or heartache. They never rush you. They never judge. They just listen, love, and refill your coffee.

For the town of Loxley, Kansas, that person is Mary Ann Beasley.

Known affectionately as "Mom Beasley" or "Grandma Beasley" throughout the quaint Maple Street district in Glenn Hill—“Glenn with two N’s,” she’ll remind you—Mary Ann is a living testament to timeless grace and cross-generational wisdom.

Glenn Hill itself has the feel of a Norman Rockwell canvas: soft charm, polite chatter, and front yards where kids still play. It was once described in a 1950s postcard as “mid-America’s spirit draped in New England’s gentility,” but residents will tell you, it’s Mary Ann who breathes life into that legacy.

She’s a proud stay-at-home mother and housewife who never felt the need to justify her life’s choices—and she encourages others, especially young women, to walk boldly in their own direction. Her philosophy is simple: You are where you are because you’ve chosen it, and that choice should be met with respect. “Don’t blame the wind,” she’d say with a smile, “just adjust your hair and keep moving.”

When confronted by critics of her so-called “old-school” way of thinking, Mary Ann responds not with defensiveness, but clarity:

“I don’t hold the reins of anyone’s progress or regression. That’s for each person to steer. I celebrate your pursuit, whether it’s boardrooms or baby bottles—just don’t trample someone else’s path to pave your own.”

She speaks with conviction, never with condemnation. Unapologetic, yet unfailingly respectful. Her tone is gentle, her resolve firm.

Mary Ann lives at the end of Good Smile Drive—and yes, the street is every bit as charming as it sounds. The surrounding roads bear names like Ten Commandments Way, Providence Street, and Smile Well Court. Loxley is small-town America where individuality is embraced, faith is lived out loud, and neighbors still know each other's birthdays. The town motto? “Semper Fidelis. Together, we are strong.”

Her home, “the last house on the right,” was built by her father, the Honorable Judge Woodrow T. Beasley, who once joked that he named the street “Good Smile Drive” because her birth had brought such joy. Whether or not the city council agrees, Mary Ann holds onto that anecdote with a grin as wide as Kansas sky.

She’s especially close to her brother, Samuel, a high-profile attorney in Casper, Wyoming. Though he lives miles away, he calls often and proudly dotes on his big sister. “We’ve always been super close,” Mary Ann beams. “He checks on me even when he’s buried in paperwork.”

Her longtime friend Dora Parkwell, who lives just three houses down, puts it best:

“There’s no better neighbor in this world. Rain, shine, or a Tuesday gone sideways, Mary Ann is out there greeting folks, especially the new ones. She’ll walk right up, introduce herself, and invite you over for—what else?—‘love and a cup of coffee.’”

It’s her catchphrase, her signature, her open invitation. Sometimes she swaps out the word “coffee” depending on the conversation.

“All you need is love and a cup of Jesus.” “All you need is love and a cup of honor.” “All you need is love and a cup of prayer.”

Her point is always the same: goodness begins with kindness, and kindness begins with showing up.

Even when neighbors stumble—through mistakes, heartaches, or bad judgment—Mary Ann doesn’t retreat. She offers a cookie, a laugh, and a fresh start.

“Let God take care of the rest,” she’ll say. And somehow, in that moment, it’s enough.

Outro: Love and a Cup of Coffee

In a world spinning faster by the hour, where headlines are louder than handshakes and attention spans shorter than a Kansas sunset, Mary Ann Beasley remains a quiet revolution.

She’s the neighbor who turns strangers into friends, the woman who knows your favorite cookie by memory, and the heart behind the phrase, “All you need is love and a cup of coffee.” And whether it’s coffee, Jesus, or prayer she’s offering—it always comes with warmth, sincerity, and a reminder that grace isn’t complicated.

Her porch light still burns. Her smile still welcomes. Her voice still encourages.

And as the seasons change in Glenn Hill, and new families unpack on Good Smile Drive, one thing stays the same:

Mary Ann Beasley is home. And the kettle’s on.

Let’s close today’s show with a brief personal reflection by yours truly titled, “Knowing God One Neighbor at a Time,” right after the break.

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Knowing God One Neighbor at a Time

A Reflective Meditation by Carlos

Intro: The Sacred Art of Neighboring

Let’s be honest—sometimes “neighbor” is a loaded word.

It can mean the lady who trims her hedges while side-eyeing your mailbox. Or the man who insists on mowing his lawn shirtless in January. Sometimes it’s the person you wave to every day but couldn’t name to save your life. And sometimes—if you’re lucky—“neighbor” means the person who knows when your soul needs a casserole and a little grace.

I believe knowing, loving, and serving our neighbors isn’t just a community duty—it’s a spiritual invitation. A quiet liturgy wrapped in everyday kindness. Because when I step into the life of someone else—not just with words, but with service—I’m not just being good. I’m drawing near to God.

The Reflection: The Divine is on the Porch

God isn’t hidden in stained glass or buried in lofty doctrine. Sometimes, He’s in the knock on the door when someone needs jumper cables. Or the extra coat you give away without fanfare. Or the moment you choose patience with someone who definitely didn’t earn it.

Knowing your neighbor means taking the risk of relationship. It means looking past someone’s quirks or volume level and choosing to see the imago Dei—the image of God—even when it’s buried under sarcasm and strong cologne.

Loving your neighbor is inconvenient. Which is precisely why it’s so holy.

It disrupts our comfort, our schedule, our tendency to hoard compassion. But in that disruption, we find rhythm. We find God.

Serving our neighbor isn’t about checklists or applause. It’s about practicing divinity in denim. Showing up, leaning in, staying present. Even when all you want to do is retreat with a blanket and a passive-aggressive prayer.

Because every time I choose someone outside of myself—every time I choose kindness, generosity, grace—I feel the nearness of God. Not in theory. In practice. In flesh.

Outro: The Gospel of the Front Yard

I don’t have all the answers. Lord knows I’ve got a long way to go. But I believe the way I treat the people around me—the ones in the next pew, the next driveway, the next awkward group text—is the clearest reflection of how I understand and respond to God.

So yes, I’ll keep waving. I’ll keep knocking. I’ll keep making space at the table and asking how I can help.

Because maybe the holiest thing I’ll ever do… is show up with a smile, a casserole, and a belief that God shows up with me.

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Well, that’s it for today’s show. I hope you enjoyed today’s content, but more importantly, I pray that you walk away thinking about yourself in this way, “What can I do today for God, Neighbor, and self in that order, that I failed to do yesterday, but do better today?” Then think about what you learned or took away, if anything, from today’s show and apply it to your own daily life. You know the drill…Love God with all your everything and love your neighbor as you love yourself. If you treat yourself with love, loving your neighbor comes easy. And for the record, by “neighbor” I mean EVERYONE is our neighbor beginning with our first neighbors at home—our family.

For the record, today’s show was voiced over, including my voice, using A I technology in a holy way from Eleven Labs dot I O, while assistance with writing the script was made possible in partnership with Microsoft Copilot.

Until next time, don’t ever stop praying or lose hope. Help is on the way!