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 until I was ashamed. I’ve brewed it through paper towels, in emergencies, and 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: a coffee-ist.
I own the carafe my mother first used in her married life. I own a two-gallon, granite-ware coffeepot for over the campfire. I own a cute 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 real search.
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.
I lovingly sudsed and scrubbed it until it no longer stank like grease and then my kitchen filled with the wondrous aroma of pure Colombian dark roast.
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.