Five Minutes at the Ice Cream Stand

Photo by Felipe Bustillo on Unsplash

A few weeks ago, my kid and I made a spontaneous decision to grab some ice cream on our way home from running errands. We live in a small rural Maine town, and there's a local ice cream shop that gives you that old-style Dairy Queen vibe. It's a walk-up, with a covered overhang, and the flavors are all listed on a digital chalkboard. I got that excited flutter in my belly when I stepped up to order; it sent me back to childhood memories of my mom and me grabbing ice cream at our small town ice cream joint.

There was a long line at first, and I stood there, minding my own business, waiting for my turn. My kid stayed behind in the car, "just surprise me," he told me, preferring the AC to standing in the sweltering heat.

As the line thinned out, I found myself standing next to this guy. He was tall, maybe four or five inches taller than me. Older, probably early seventies. Gray hair & beard. He was wearing a New England Patriots t-shirt and hat, and he stood there with his arms crossed, just waiting patiently like the rest of us.

I didn't notice him looking at me until he started to engage me.

"Hey, you ever been to South Africa?"

I was caught off guard for a second before I realized I was wearing my South Africa hat, a souvenir from my visit to South Africa on a spiritual trip.

"Yeah," I said, and just like that, we were talking.

He listened while I shared a bit about my experience, how powerful it was. Then I asked him the same question. He hadn't been, but that simple exchange opened something up. Suddenly, this stranger was telling me his story.

He'd just retired. The day prior. After fifty years of work. His wife was retiring the following week. They'd bought a 32-foot travel trailer and were planning to tour the country—all those places they'd never been able to see because work had gotten in the way. Early seventies and finally free.

Then he began talking about his father, a World War II veteran. His father had been trying to reach his original destination during WWII, but the German occupation made it impossible. So he got diverted to South Africa instead. Came back with stories about how beautiful it was.

The conversation kept flowing. It turns out that he and his wife own an equine farm. Two horses. We have horses, too—mini horses, actually—so we immediately connected over that. He even told me where we could buy hay.

In what felt like an hour but was probably only five minutes, we covered everything. Work. Retirement. Family. Dreams. Horses. Simply by being present. Simply by listening. Simply by recognizing that this man - A man I wasn't sure I wanted to talk to - was actually kind, with so much in common with me.

I had glanced at him and thought, "Probably a conservative guy in rural Maine.” There I was, an openly queer guy complete with my rainbow earrings. He probably wouldn’t want anything to do with me. At worst, he could be unsafe. I made so many snap judgments before he'd even opened his mouth.

But the thing is, I was wrong. He asked me about South Africa, and listened as I shared about my spiritual journey. I connected with this stranger, someone that I would have NEVER approached. Someone that I deemed a potential threat.

Honestly, if we'd had another fifteen minutes, I think we would've exchanged names. Maybe emails. That's how real this was. The connection was real.

When I got back to my car, my kid greeted me with wide eyes and a raised eyebrow, "What was that about?"

"I was just talking with the guy."

"Yeah, but...you were really talking...like my ice cream was melting and you were just chatting."

HA - he noticed what I felt. He saw the connection—the spark. The potential friendship being built.

What if every day were like this? What if we went out of our way to challenge our initial biases and chose to take small risks toward connection? What would that look like?

As digitally connected as our world is, we seem more divided than ever. Maybe the answer isn't in grand gestures. Perhaps it's in asking, "Have you ever been to South Africa?" and actually listening to the answer.

Sometimes the most important reminders come from five minutes with a stranger over melting ice cream. In those moments, you remember that beneath our assumptions and surface differences, there's something genuinely shared—something patient, kind, and surprisingly generous, if we give it the chance to emerge.

The ice cream was good, by the way. But the conversation was better.