This morning I stopped by the shoppette for a cup of coffee. Normally I park as far as possible from the store in order to walk more. Plus, I labor to avoid door dings from other drivers and/or passengers who don’t mind opening their doors into other people’s. But the shoppette had almost all open parking spaces in front of the store, and so I took the space adjacent to the handicapped spot, as I figured no one would park there for the ninety seconds or so it would take me to get a cup of coffee.

When I went to the coffee section, I poured my black coffee and snapped the plastic lid over the lip of the cup, and walked to the register. The friendly lady who works the mornings there said, “Good morning, Chaplain,” as she always does when I stop in for a coffee.

I was paying when a very muscular man, dressed in a ball cap, flip flops, shorts, and a t-shirt came through the door, expelling a large breath as if exasperated. I had to take a step closer to the counter to avoid being shoved by him. He plunged his arms into the coolers and came out with a case of Monster drinks, the ones with the lime green writing on the black cans. When he came to the line to pay, my skin literally crawled. I know this may sound crazy to some, but I sensed being in the presence of the demonic. My guts seemed to turn inward in visceral retreat. I knew spiritual warfare was occurring.

As I finished paying for my coffee, the sweet lady behind her register looked at me and nodded as if she, too, shared an understanding with me of what was occurring in that moment. I nodded at her and said, “Thank you. Have a good day.”

“Have a good day, Chaplain,” she said. And we both heard the man behind me muttering to himself as if I was taking too long to pay for my coffee. I must’ve been at the counter for thirty or forty seconds.

When I walked out to my car, the man with the Monster drinks had parked his black F-250 pickup truck in the handicapped spot, and so closely to my car that I had to squeeze into my door like a rodent entering a wedge. Why would a young muscular man, in t-shirt, flip flops, ball cap, and shorts, driving a jacked-up black F-250, park in the handicapped spot?

But I finally got in my car and could still feel the presence of evil. I buckled my seat belt, put my coffee in the center cup holder, and pulled towards the road in order to go on to the morning’s duties. As I waited to turn onto the highway, the man with the Monster drinks pulled beside me and the other cars, and shot onto the highway, the sounds of his truck exhaust ricocheting across the morning air.

I cannot prove it empirically, I concede that, but I know in my bones that spiritual warfare occurred in that shoppette this morning. It was as real as the coffee I sipped later on and as emblazoned on my guts as those demonic lime green emblems on those dark energy drinks.