Coffee Meditations

Hello Warrior Princess Sisters,
Today's post is an article that my friend, Vanessa, wrote a year or so ago.  It was so good, I saved it.  I talked to her today and got her permission to post her article on this blog.  She is an excellent writer, Bible scholar, and a funny lady.  I hope you enjoy her article:) 

BTW, V wrote a Bible study on prayer that she just finished teaching at her church.  I am so excited that she has agreed to come teach it at our church on Wednesday nights starting on April 14.  If you you are interested in attending the study on prayer you can sign up at church, or contact me. 

Enjoy!
WPS

Coffee Meditations 
by Vanessa Kay Frisinger

I had almost convinced myself I was not an addict, until a rushed Monday morning proved otherwise. After getting the kids out the door to catch the school bus, preparing myself for the day and preventing our Rottweiler from eating the mail carrier, there was no time to brew my morning cup of coffee. Once the initial grogginess wore off, I found I could function pretty well without my ritual caffeine jumpstart. By eleven o’clock, I was congratulating myself for thriving without coffee. That was when the slamming migraine showed up. My caffeine-deprived brain cells screamed for a latte with extra espresso shots and demanded I come to terms with it. Hi, my name is Vanessa and I’m a coffee addict.


There had been other clues, subtle signs of addiction I had ignored along the way. I thought everyone could discern which coffee shop was near just by the smell. And certainly even the most casual coffee drinker could recognize the regional origin of a coffee blend after two sips. I prized my ability to drink straight espresso after dinner and still fall asleep after the evening news. Apparently I was in denial.

I do not know if there are coffee-holics anonymous support groups, where bleary-eyed, trembling people sit in a circle and share stories of the pain our habit has inflicted upon those we love. I do know that I would not be willing to join one of those groups if they do exist. Obviously, I’ve not hit rock bottom yet.

My sister-in-law has tried to intervene. She reminds me that most coffee is picked by families working harder than I can imagine for mere pennies a day. In protest, she boycotts the big-name coffee chains and encourages me to do the same. I would stand absolutely in awe of her personal sacrifice, if she liked coffee. But she hates the stuff. Where’s the glory in boycotting something you don’t want anyway? It’s like asking your seven-year-old to forgo lima beans or homework.

The women I meet with for Bible studies keep quiet about my problem, but I am sure they pray for me when I’m not around. I love my Bible study buddies. They both have the sort of self-discipline and intensity that would frighten Franciscan monks. Their grade-school children are home-schooled at the level of Yale graduates, their Bible study notes include direct quotations from no less than three authoritative sources, and one of them is an aerobic instructor, the other a tri-athlete. Let’s just say they’re “type A” personalities and I’m more of a “type B” or maybe “C,” if it goes that far. They kindly refer to themselves as “Martha” personalities and me as a “Mary” personality. (As in the Martha who had to serve all the disciples dinner because Mary was sitting at Christ’s feet, listening.) That’s nice. It feels so much better to be labeled ultra-spiritual instead of just plain lazy.

I suspect they agreed to meet at a local café because of me and my addiction; coffee certainly holds no mastery over them. On our appointed meeting date, I arrive first. I don’t blame them for being a little late. They probably got caught up in cleaning the grout with a toothbrush, or helping the nine-year old translate Isaiah from the original Aramaic.

I order a nice sugary blended coffee drink to help me to finish up the last few pages of our study. Just as I’m scribbling some sort of answer to the final question, the tri-athlete bounces in, pink water bottle in hand. I have witnessed her splurge with a nonfat latte, but only because she ran something like thirty gazillion miles that morning. Most days she moans her lack of self-discipline for having sprinted a mere five miles. I try real hard not to roll my eyes, (biting the inside of your cheek until the blood comes can help with that). After all, if the woman is compassionate enough to call me “Mary” instead of “Lazy,” I must resist the urge to slap her repeatedly until she realizes that running five miles is not something the majority of the American populace can do. About then our third member arrives and asks for a hot tea and cup of ice water.

Now we’re all seated around a small green table, where it is easy to see that their drinks are so calorie-deficient that they might be actually losing weight while drinking them. The syrup in my drink, meanwhile, has congealed along the sides and in the bottom of the clear cup. It offers enough calories to keep me going for a week, or immediately add ten inches to my hips, whichever comes first. But there is comfort in the fact that my study buddies won’t say a word about it, whatever they may be thinking; just like they can rest assured that I won’t reach over and slap the tri-athlete. Grace is such a good thing.

Like any good addict, I have more than one group of people I enjoy drinking with. Over the years I have brought my children with me to coffee shops. They do homework while I read or write, or we play MadLibs, much to the chagrin of the “cooler” café patrons. My son likes the taste of coffee but hates hot drinks. My daughter loves hot drinks, but hates coffee. Unless the sugar mass is quadruple the coffee weight, she won’t even smell it. There’s a place here that serves iced mochas with so much chocolate syrup they taste like milkshakes. She likes those.

Just as I cannot force my kids to like coffee, I cannot force them to love God. I have a responsibility to model a love for God to them and teach them the Truth, but there is no little switch in their heart that I can flip to make them search for God. Sometimes I wish there was. I’m sure God feels the same about me. When I’m grumpy or faithless or foolish, I’m sure God would like to flip a little switch in my heart too. But the weirdly beautiful thing is that He did not make us with those switches. He wanted a relationship, not a robot. And, in reality, I want that with my kids too.

I must admit to having one other coffee buddy. It may be sacrilegious or sacramental, but coffee is part of my morning devotions. While my mind wakes up, I try to sit at God’s feet like Mary. I thank Him for grace. I pray for my kids, that no matter what their opinions, their hearts would cling to God. And I thank Him for creating a bean that can be roasted, ground and steamed into a fabulous drink.