The Sacred Act of Showing Up

I don’t get out much anymore. Since COVID (I know, it’s been a long time), my world has shrunk to the walls of my house. Errands feel like ordeals. Even the things I once loved like wandering through a bookstore, grabbing a meal out, sitting in a coffee shop, rarely happen now. Add in my ADHD tendencies, and sustaining long-term, in-person friendships feels almost impossible. I cycle between wanting connection and retreating into isolation. Maybe you know that feeling too: the shrinking, the retreating, the quiet solitude that starts to feel like the only option.

Recently I listened to an episode of the Blurry Creatures podcast where Chris Baumgartner—COVID “patient zero” in the state of Tennessee—shared about a season when he was unemployed, wrestling with his faith, and navigating the sudden arrival of spiritual gifts he didn’t know how to carry. He started spending time in cigar lounges. Not to network. Not to hustle. Not because he needed anything. He went simply to be among people. To sit in a space where conversations happen naturally. To show up without any agenda except love.

That image has stayed with me because showing up is often the hardest part. We think love has to look like service projects, organized ministries, or polished friendships. But what if love begins in smaller, quieter acts of presence? What if choosing to occupy a space—to sit among others without transaction, without expectation—is itself a holy act?

When I stay home, I tell myself I’m just being efficient. After all, I can get groceries delivered. I read ebooks exclusively because I am reading-glasses-years-old. I can keep in touch with friends through texts. But something important gets lost in a life that never risks stepping outside. It’s not just about what I do out there, it’s also about what happens when I choose to inhabit the world with openness. A smile for the barista. A quick compliment in passing. Even silent prayer for the people around me. Tiny interactions that may not “add up” in a measurable way but still carry the weight of love.

I’m beginning to wonder if I could practice this. Not in a big, dramatic way. Just once a week, picking a space—maybe a coffee shop or a bookstore—and letting myself be there. No pressure to talk. No demand to make friends on the spot. Just presence. Just openness. Just the sacred act of showing up.

For me, that feels like both a challenge and an invitation. A challenge to resist the temptation of comfort and control. An invitation to remember that the world is wider than my living room, and that God often shows up in unexpected places, through chance encounters, shared laughter, and even through the quiet reminder that I’m not alone.

So I’m holding onto this vision of the cigar lounge: a man with no agenda, sitting in a chair among strangers, choosing to love simply by being present. Maybe that’s the call for me too. Maybe it’s the call for you.

What about you? Has your world felt smaller since COVID? Do you have a place where you can practice the quiet courage of showing up, without transaction, without expectation, just love? I’d love to hear your stories.