A few days ago I stopped at a bagel shop on the way to work and bought a bagel and a cup of coffee. It’s one of those get-the-coffee-yourself places, which I like because you can grab a refill in a to-go cup on your way out the door, and you don’t have to wait for a server.

The only problem was that two of the usual four coffees were empty, leaving the flavored coffee and the decaf as the only options. Both the light roast and dark roast were gone. I’m not a fan of flavored coffees, and I wanted at least half a cup of “leaded” to help clear the morning fog. (Normally, I drink only decaf.)

I noticed another customer to my left watching me as I tried to tip the coffee urn forward to see if I could drain a half cup from one of the caffeinated pots. No such luck.

“Kind of sad when a bakery and coffee shop runs out of coffee at 7 in the morning, isn’t it?” he asked dryly.

“Yeah,” I answered. “Something you wouldn’t really expect.”

“I wonder how that even happens,” he replied, almost in disgust.

“Well, you could go for decaf or the flavored stuff.”

The man, probably in his mid-50s with short-cropped gray hair and a black T-shirt, scrunched his face and said, “No, I don’t do flavored coffee, and what’s the point of decaf? I need some caffeine to help me through my first few hours.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

About that time, a worker brought us cups of “real” coffee from the back, where it was being brewed. We each accepted our cups, and the other customer answered my question: “Well, I get to go listen to a few whiny kids and their parents. Then I’ll finish each hour off with the statement, ‘That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!’”

He didn’t say it with a smile; in fact, his dark expression and flat tone hadn’t changed the whole time we stood there waiting.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“Therapist,” he said as he walked toward the door.

Suddenly, I felt sorry for everyone in this man’s morning. The kids who needed counseling. Their parents. And especially the therapist.

I thank God for giving me meaningful work that I enjoy. May I never feel the way this therapist did about his day—his “calling” or at least the profession that he chose.