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?
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.
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.