SHANE. “You know, there are three types of people who eat here - locals, those passing through, and a few who are hiding from something,” the waitress slid the cup of coffee and creamer to the center of the table.

“You don’t live here, and you haven’t ridden that motorcycle out of town yet. So, are you trying to get the courage to cross the border to Mexico and hide?” she chuckled and tilted her head to the south.

I smiled and reached for the creamer. Anthony, Mew Mexico was ten minutes north of Ciudad Juarez, Mexico – a city known for drugs, violence, and killing. I had stopped in Anthony for the night because it seemed peaceful – a nice place for me to collect my thoughts and prepare for what was ahead. A night turned into a few days, and a few days became a week. South of Las Cruces and north of El Paso, the small town of 5000 people was a tranquil little place to relax. The local diner, which had become a daily stop for me, was a step back in time - red round vinyl topped chrome bar stools from the 1950’s, a jukebox, old fashioned malts, milk shakes, and one waitress working her ass off to serve everyone who entered. The nametag pinned to her uniform said it all.

Bea.

More than likely it was short for Beatrice. Without a doubt, a local who grew up here, and had never had the opportunity or a good reason to uproot and leave the area.

“I have no business in Mexico. No ma’am, I’m just relaxing, that’s all,” I smiled as I poured the creamer into my coffee cup.

“Anthony is quite a hot spot, yeah I can see that,” she rolled her eyes and smiled.

“So, four over medium, the breakfast steak medium rare, and dry wheat toast?” she tilted her head slightly to the side, undoubtedly proud she had recalled my breakfast preferences.

“Yes ma’am,” I nodded.

As she smiled and walked away, I sipped my coffee and looked around the empty restaurant. One man, probably in his early seventies, sat at the bar sipping from a coffee cup. He had shared the restaurant with me every morning – he in his spot, and me in mine. Purposefully I came late - around 9:00 am - after the locals were off to work, and before the lunch crowd began. As the waitress turned and walked away, he looked over his left shoulder and tipped his coffee cup my direction. I returned the gesture and smiled as I lowered my lips to the rim of the overfilled cup.

Without a doubt, there were things I missed about being in Texas. Kace, Ripp, Kelsey, Vee, Austin, and A-Train were extremely close to me. Additionally, Ripp’s family had become a family to me – or the nearest thing I had ever experienced. Together, the entire group was the closest thing to a family I would ever be able to enjoy. But now…now I couldn’t face them. Not now.

In staring out the window, I began to wonder why God would ever make a place as ugly as Anthony, Texas. As I studied the traffic driving through town, I considered the existence of God entirely. At least the God I had come to understand as being. As I tilted the bottom of my coffee cup upward, I realized it was empty.

I would have sworn she just filled it.

“Lemme refresh that for you, and here’s your breakfast,” Bea said as she slid the plate of food in front of me.

I lowered my cup to the table and smiled. As she poured coffee from the pot, she studied my right hand.

“Your hands look better. Actually, much better,” she smiled and tilted the pot away from my cup.

“Not that I was looking. It’s just,” she paused and scrunched her brow.

“They were swollen and terrible looking that first morning you came in.”

“I’m a boxer,” I smiled as I raised my right hand from the cup and pressed my knuckles into my left palm.

She shook her head slightly and grinned, “Boxer’s wear gloves. Boxer’s protect their hands. You may be a boxer, but your hands didn’t get that way from boxing.”

Beatrice the insightful waitress.

“That’s a fact. And your attention to detail didn’t come from being a waitress,” I grinned.

“No,” she sighed.

“Criminal Justice, I wanted to be a cop,” she smiled.

“What’s keeping you from it,” I asked as I unraveled my napkin and removed my fork.

“Three little ones. I have three little ones at home. One, two, and four. Wouldn’t trade ‘em for the world. Maybe one day I’ll go back to school. For now I’ll work here and raise them the best I can,” she grinned proudly.

I nodded my head and shifted my gaze toward the plate.

Walk away, lady. I don’t want to talk. Not now, and not about this.

“You have any? Any kids?” she asked.

As I reached for my knife and began to cut my steak, I shook my head from side to side and stared down at my plate.

“No ma’am, I sure don’t.”

“Well, when you do someday, you’ll never regret it. They’re a true gift. Enjoy your breakfast,” she smiled, nodded her head toward my plate, and walked toward the jukebox.

Often it seems we’re forced to hear exactly what it is we aren’t willing to listen to when we want to hear it the least but need to hear it the most.

Johnny Cash’s I Hung My Head began to play as Bea stepped away from the jukebox. Although I had heard the song countless times in bars and taverns over the years, it sounded much different this time. As I ate my steak, the words from the song made sense in a different manner than they had previously. I had always thought the song was about killing. This time it wasn’t.

Acceptance.

The song was about acceptance.

My inability to accept circumstances in my life brought me here. I took another bite of steak and stared out the window as I chewed, as if I were looking for some form of answer to a question I was too afraid to ask.

As Johnny Cash’s When the Man Comes Around began to play, I closed my eyes and listened intently.

And I heard as it were the noise of thunder…

One of the four beasts saying come and see and I saw…

And behold a white horse.

The sound of the music was quickly overshadowed by the loud noise of a motorcycle exhaust rumbling from the small parking lot which adjoined the diner’s glass front. Aggravated, I opened my eyes and stared into the lot.

I blinked my eyes, uncertain of whether or not my eyes were playing tricks on me.

And behold a white horse.