Six mornings a week I pour coffee and cream into my commuter mug. I don’t depress the button and drink the coffee until I arrive and settle in at work or church. Coffee is to be savored, not consumed mindlessly on the drive.
But today the commute was a catastrophe. Twenty minutes and two miles into a nineteen-mile drive any semblance of a routine day was shot. Waiting to get to work before enjoying my coffee became a punishment—not a reward—so as I sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic I took my first sip.
And I remembered again that coffee is more than a part of my daily ritual. It hit my taste buds and triggered a flood of associations:
Coffee tastes like stepping into childhood and the aromatic embrace of Grandma and Grandpa’s house.
Coffee tastes like watching the sunrise in the stillness of the desert.
Coffee tastes like quiet moments before the office fills with people.
Coffee tastes like curling up with a book on Saturday morning.
Coffee tastes like long, soul-satisfying conversations with those who know me best.
Coffee tastes like the band warming up before the service on Sunday morning.
Coffee tastes like lingering around the table on holidays.
Coffee tastes like the sweet communion of unhurried time with Jesus.
By the time I pulled into a parking space at work my mug was empty, but my well of remembrance was overflowing.
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