Back when I was a student, I had a part-time job working at a Mac’s Milk. It wasn’t what anyone would call a ‘good’ job. It was boring, it paid minimum wage, and I was required to wear an undeniably ugly red polyester smock.

It was also a little weirdly unsafe because I had to work the overnight shift. Mac’s was staffed 24/7 back then, and the store where I worked was on Princess Street, situated directly across from a Timmies that served as the informal gathering spot for a local motorcycle club.

Now, I know very little about biker culture, but these folks were legit bikers. They wore the leathers, they rode the loud bikes, and they had a presence that commanded the entire block. They were also weirdly protective of me; something I’ve since learned is part of an unwritten code. When I was working solo on the night shift, they kept a keen eye on whoever came through the front doors. If someone sketchy drifted in, a couple of them would stroll across the asphalt, lean against the glass, and glare menacingly at the customer. At the time, they  were far scarier to me than the drunk guy from the bar down the street who just wanted a pack of Export ‘A’s. But the bikers believed they needed to look ominous, and they definitely succeeded. They rarely spoke more than two words to me, and as soon as the customer wandered off, they’d head back to their coffee, leaving me to study whatever textbook I had propped behind the till.

Before long, I was assigned a co-worker who was one of the women who hung out with the bikers at that Timmies. Because overnight shifts are interminably long and you do whatever you can to stay awake, the two of us ended up having a lot of late-night heart-to-hearts amidst the racks of penny candy and bags of milk.

Her life had looked entirely different from mine. She had run away from home as a teenager, never finished high school, possessed a pretty checkered employment history (that, frankly, had earned her far more cash than Mac’s Milk ever would), had served time in jail, and was currently living in a local shelter, trying to forge her way back into the world.

At times, I was genuinely shocked by the stories she shared. Privately, I desperately wanted her to find a nice, safe, conventional path. She, on the other hand, thought I was laughably naive and sheltered, frequently teasing me for being far too wholesome for my own good.

One night, around 3:00 a.m., she opened up and told me about her five-year-old son. She hadn’t been allowed to parent him since he was an infant. He was living in foster care, and her entire reason for standing behind that counter at minimum wage was her fierce determination to get him back. To satisfy social services and regain custody, she needed stable employment, permanent housing, and strict avoidance of any “known felons.”

Internally, I wrote it off as an absolute lost cause. How could she possibly pull it off? She had no high school diploma, was making pocket change part-time at a convenience store, lived in a shelter, and her entire social support network was the biker crew across the street. I didn’t say those words out loud; I knew the mountain in front of her was gargantuan, and she held a fragile flicker of hope that I didn’t want to extinguish.

Yet inside my own head, I shook it. How could she believe she’d get anywhere without the credentials I valued? Why did she think hanging around the corner of Princess Street was going to help her? How could someone with a criminal record imagine she could step into effective parenting just by willing it?

Unsurprisingly, my core assumptions leaked out. My silent judgment that her life choices were fundamentally flawed and broken couldn’t stay hidden behind a polite smile. One night, she called me out plainly, accusing me of being “holier than thou.”

And looking back honestly, I was.

I had approached our relationship from the subconscious assumption that she needed to become more like me in order to make it. I assumed my educated, middle-class, respectable path was the only legitimate road to the good life.  In doing so, I showed remarkably little reverence for the resilience, courage, and sheer grit it took for her to survive. I had quietly categorized her as lesser, viewing her as a project to be pitied rather than a sister to be loved.

Whenever I read Romans 13:8–14 alongside Matthew 18:15–20, I think of that night shift at Mac’s.

In Romans, the Apostle Paul issues a striking command: “Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.” When biblical scholars and commentators at Working Preacher reflect on this text, they often note that Paul is stripping away all our self-serving moral scorecards. Love is not a transaction where we evaluate someone’s worthiness before deciding how much grace to extend. Love is our permanent, non-negotiable debt to every single neighbour who crosses our path.

In Matthew 18, Jesus speaks about the messy reality of human relationships, offering his famous assurance: “For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.” While we love to quote this verse for sparsely attended committee meetings or intimate prayer groups, Jesus speaks these words in the context of accountability, vulnerability, and walking through conflict. It is a promise that God shows up right in the middle of our clumsy, imperfect interactions.

The tragedy of my time at Mac’s Milk was that I failed to recognize the sacred space we occupied. I failed as a disciple because I didn’t start from the premise of love that Paul demands. I didn’t enter those overnight shifts trusting that Christ was already present—pulling up a chair right between the cigarette carousel and the cash register, weeping with her in her grief, and honouring her fierce maternal hope. I couldn’t see God at work in her because I was too busy measuring her against myself.

 

I eventually left Mac’s for a better job, and our paths drifted apart. I have no idea where she is today, or whether she was ever able to bring her boy home.

If I could turn back the clock, I would sit on those milk crates and listen with genuine awe and humility. If I could ask her forgiveness for my self-righteousness, I would. But since I can’t, all I can do is carry the lesson forward into every encounter: to check my instinct to manage, judge, or fix others, and instead begin with reverence, knowing that wherever two or three are gathered—even over a stained counter at 3:00 in the morning—Christ is standing right there with us.

Blessings today my dear Bethel Friends, and remember you are Loved.

~Rev. Lynne

Audio File: https://audio.com/lynne-gardiner/audio/office-hours-where-2-or-3-are-gathered