Today while I was tidying the kitchen, I made fresh coffee in my favorite two-cup pot. It’s an old-time drip-through I found at a garage sale, stocky and leaky, but it makes the best couple o’ cups around.
It made me think of me: not as shiny as I used to be, out of order, and never did produce a lot in the first place—did I disparage myself for a minute?
Yep.
Until I realized something: I love that old pot.
I’ve loved coffee since I was so young I had to beg for sips.
I had to stand on tip toe to smell it.
I knew it was good for us then, before the scientists did.
I’ve had every sort of coffee brewing experience on earth, I think. I’ve bought, and pitched, overpriced electric coffee-making gizmos that no longer function, until I was ashamed. I’ve brewed it through paper towels, in emergencies. I’ve even had the old, boiled kind with raw egg and crumbled shell stirred in the bottom.
I collect coffeepots just because they once belonged to someone whom I know I would have loved, although we’ve never met: a coffee-ist.
I own the carafe my mother first used in her married life. I own a two-gallon, gray, granite-ware coffeepot for over the campfire. I own a cute beige percolator from my paternal grandparents’ estate. I’ve scouted out the glass parts from several identical glass percolators, a full set with parts to spare.
My husband even brings them home from antique stores to surprise me.
The day my sister-in-law introduced me to the two-cup, drip-through oldie in her kitchen, however, was the day I began the my real quest.
When I finally found it, my feelings were hurt. Someone had used “my” darling pot for straining drippings from grease, and it wasn’t even for sale; he had planned to throw it out. I actually had to ask him to sell it to me and he valued it at only fifty cents.
Back home, I lovingly sudsed and scrubbed it until it no longer stank like grease.
Then my kitchen filled with the wondrous aroma of Pure Colombian Dark Roast.
Bliss.
Nowadays, after my husband and I share our morning pot and he leaves for the woods with his thermos full, I draw out the favored one. The ritual never changes: rinsed pot, filtered water, fresh grounds, a dish underneath for leaks, a comfortable mug, and me. My satisfaction level knows no limit during this hour.
And I think.
While I spent my life as a grease catcher, about to be thrown away, my Lord searched until He found me. His love for His rummage-sale find has transformed me into the small one I think He most loves to spend time with, alone.
I leak but He loves me.
Nothing else in this world matters so to me.
Except that He is searching for you, too.
Don’t let them throw you away.
The Conquering Mom.com 
*tears* Literally. Oh, how I needed this today! I’m struggling more than I care to admit with who I really am in Him, and if I really am His. But I am. He found me. May he find me as special and sturdy as your two-cup percolater. 🙂 Thank you.
Oh, Dear One,
You are so right, He found you. And paid for you to buy you from someone who would have thrown you away. He will work His perfect will with you and you will be a wonderful container for some of His favorite things. You’ll see. ❤
I really hope so, because this clay pot is feeling awfully broken lately. ❤ Thank you for the encouragement – I somehow find it easier to believe after talking with you.
xo
aww that made me weep….don’t let them throw you away. i just love the connection between the soul, our lives, and your wondrous coffee pot. gosh that is a rich imagery to hang onto over my own morning coffee! by golly, i will be 60 in July ~ and it puts a really great perspective on my own ponderings….
Aw, Kate! You are such an easy reader to please. But I do like this one, too. It was such an enlarging moment for me when I saw the correlation. I like your idea of hanging onto these ideas while drinking your morning coffee!
Oh, so many correlations. Thanks for this post, Katharine. To continue the metaphor, when He fills us, we can pour out that richness into others’ lives. Do our lives have the “aroma” of Christ?
Are we looking at the dregs or at the richness that is produced when He fills us?
And there may be inspiration for a picture in this. . .
Ruth, I cannot think of anything that would honor me more than to inspire someone, and there’s no one I’d rather inspire than my coffee-painting friend. Yes, the parable can go on and on, but for some reason, the thought that He loves me far more than I love a coffee pot just stops me in my tracks. I hope I’m pouring out goodness for Him. I hope it.
Again, what a lovely story! I have to admit, I don’t know how to make coffee. I mess it up every time. I can totally imagine you with this pot and loving it back into usefulness.
Oh, Jamie, it’s not about making coffee, is it! Glad you have enjoyed your visits here. Thanks for the kind words and hurry back! 🙂