Lee's Liquor Bar is a simple, camel brown storefront in downtown Minneapolis with an art deco neon sign, lots of cigarette smoke, and songs like "Blue Bayou" pouring out of the eaves. It's the sort of bar that was prevalent on skid rows across Middle America during the thirties and forties. And like the rest of these aged little honky–tonks, there's a real subculture at work inside.

A tightly knit clique of swing and ballroom dancers come to dance to the live music, drink bottled water, and sit at a cluster of tables near the dance floor; people sitting on the stools at the bar come there to drink; a select group of career alcoholics live above the bar and barter cleaning services for rent and a bar tab, and right in the middle of all of it is the bartender, Claire Hagen.

Claire is well spoken, matter of fact, and with her vintage dresses, Betty Page bangs, and red lipstick, she fits right into the rockabilly crowd. But regular attendees know she's doing more than pouring drinks–she's serving spirits.

I've been a regular attendee at Lee's since I took up ballroom dancing four years ago. On one Monday night, in–between cha–cha–cha's, I noticed Claire talking to a gruff man with a filthy, ragged coat who looked like he'd been sleeping under the bridge half a block away. He dumped change out of his pockets and onto the bar, looked at her, and said, "What can I buy for this?"

The second his change hit the bar top I felt my eyes roll and heard myself think, Ugh, you're spending your pennies from panhandling on a drink? But my inner dialogue stopped dead in its tracks the moment I saw Claire very politely count his change with him and inform him as to what his pennies would buy. She did not speak down to him. She did not speak slowly. She did not treat him with any false affectation or affection. In response the man's face softened, his posture straightened a bit, and his demeanor became more cooperative and amiable. She treated him with dignity, and he felt it.

When no one else was nearby, I complimented her on her handling of that situation and said something like "I wouldn't have handled it that way, but I watched you, and I thought, that's the example of Christ, treating even the least with dignity. I would like to be more like that." Claire told me it was just part of how she practiced her faith. I was surprised. Faith doesn't get a lot of airtime in inner–city honky–tonk bars. I asked her if we could discuss it further sometime, and she agreed.

Our first two meetings to talk were canceled, one by a stabbing at the bar, and one by the death of a regular customer. Her schedule, which it turns out involves being a single mother of two teenagers and working towards a bachelor's degree in theology at a local college, doesn't leave a lot of time for small talk, so when we finally do meet, on a Sunday afternoon at a coffee shop, we get straight to the point.