The Best Latte

The sun shines over Vatican walls, the snow and smoke rise and fall, but we are gone. . .It was the best latte I'd ever had, and I drank it in that holy Roman morning.  Drunken confessions forgotten, now I was drunk on Mercy.  And in the days, months, years to come, it was the Mercy that sustained me.  The memory whispered happiness in my heart--joy beaming from a forgiving face.  But I wasn't there yet.  Mercy still had work to do in me.  And I drank it in.

The memory is a manifestation in my heart of the words "His mercies are new every morning."  (Lamentations 3:23)  But Mercy takes different shapes.  Sometimes it's a reprieve from hardships, a moment of grace that allows us to catch our breath and regroup.  Sometimes it's an opportunity to try again and do things differently this time around.  Sometimes it's straight up humility that reminds us of our faults, imperfections, and weaknesses.  Always though, His Mercy presents us with hope and the comfort that He is everything we are not and, since He loves us so much, He will do what we cannot. 

As I lived and learned this "tough love" of God, I struggled through classes and work and the self-inflicted emotional stress of my life by drinking lots of coffee.  Because the coffee I was drinking couldn't compare to that Roman latte, I decided to add a little color one day by grinding up some rainbow sprinkles with my black coffee beans.  The taste was unaffected, but there was a little extra pep in my step, a spark in my soul.   

Then there was a dark, quiet coffee shop in my hometown where I went to drown in sorrow with my old friend.  We were searching for answers, for our place in this world, this fast-paced society so contrary to our own characters.  We wanted to change the world but didn't know how.  We sipped our lattes and suddenly I felt that Roman morning flood through my veins:  Mercy.  Somehow, this local coffee shop had produced the best latte I'd ever had this side of the Atlantic.  This was coffee for my soul, a spark of liquid happiness to push me forward, to give me courage and strength to take on life in all its obscurities.

I got a job with the company that owned that coffee shop, and thus began my education in the world of coffee.  I've learned that each cup of coffee is so rich with stories and enough character to hold its own, even without adding sprinkles.  Coffee is colorful, like the people who grow it, the people who harvest it, the people who process it, the people who roast it, the people who brew it, the people who drink it.  Every cup is a communion.