Lipstick on the Rim

The cafe of the day is my kitchen table. It's the 4th of July, my family is visiting Grandparents in Louisiana, and I'm alone, in the quiet, to take a personal inventory, a life self-exam, which is very scary. The flavor of the day is Starbucks Tarrazu (a gift from Donna Zinn), which is superb—even though I got the grind wrong! Drinking from Andrée’s Rooster Mug (it reminds her of France), I feel like I have her close to me. Chuck Loeb is playing a great riff in the background (the house was too quiet!).

I was told to never drink after anyone, and by no means should I put my mouth to a water fountain. The warning always came with the tag: “You’ll get trench mouth!” As I got older, I realized that I never knew anyone who contracted trench mouth, so my best friend, John Wimsatt, and I started drinking out of each other’s glasses. There were no apparent side effects. My mother was still horrified. I’ve often wondered if she was more worried that I’d catch “Catholic”, which John was, more than any biological disorder. No trench mouth and I remain pretty firmly Protestant.

So I sip from Andrée's mug and think about having her close. Even when you aren’t fully engaged in a house with people, there’s proximity with them that is always, shall we say, “streaming”—to borrow a net word. The stream is broken when they leave. Like most mugs that belong to females, this one has been through the dishwasher but still has a slight remnant of her Revlon Coffee Bean #101 on the rim.

She’s tortured me with that lipstick ever since we dated. My first encounter with it in a personal way was just after I’d professed my love for her. Before making my 7:45 Greek class, I put a note on her car that read “Good morning Sweetie! I love you!” Later that day, I found a note under the wipers on my car. She had taken my note, blotted her lipstick on it in the shape of a kiss and wrote, “I love you too!” I went through a molecular destabilization on par with that of mutated superheroes. I still have that note.

I write this entry, I think, because my heart is preoccupied with the events of the past few days. A husband and father from our church, very much like me, buried his soul mate yesterday. He had tons of time to prepare for it, but how can you prepare for what it does to you when the house is too quiet? Would you still listen for the garage door to open as if she’s returning from the grocery? How does one ever stand at a sink again to brush your teeth or comb your hair? She was always there—either right there, or “streaming” somewhere around the house. What do you do with all the stuff? Her stuff? Everything you touch tells a story. The story of you, together. I wouldn’t get past the lipstick drawer for years.

I drink great coffee from a special mug, tainted with just a tinge of lipstick, a tinge of her. Our dog likes to lounge on an article of her clothing. The 3-year old wants to sit in her lap and touch a mole on her neck. I understand now. We need contact points when those we love aren’t around. We need them with God too. The patriarch, Jacob, needed some rocks at Bethel to remind him of God’s presence, a tangible reminder. My dog needs something from the dirty clothes. I need to put my mouth to a ceramic utensil that bears the imprint of my wife's lips. To do so is to have her here, with me in the quiet.

Reality Roast bites!

“Remind me to come and visit you when I want a break from reality.”
Walter Matthau, Grumpier Old Men

I was awakened tonight with indigestion and acid reflux. It was due to a meal that I didn’t need to eat, followed by stronger coffee than my aged gut should have been forced to withstand at such an hour. Like a painful conversation that takes awhile to process, so is strong coffee taken too late in the evening.

I woke up thinking about the retirement fund that my employer won’t contribute to for another year, and wondering if I am worth more money. Of course, I have these thoughts just a few hours after finishing a day where I’m not sure I contributed to the kingdom of God in a substantial way. Typical.

I don’t think that I’ve ever been comfortable with reality. While an optimist may be applauded for his positive contribution to family and work, an honest look at what needs to be embraced in the moment can go completely ignored. I have the capacity to enjoy a moment but feel disconnected to what its implication may have on the future. I am afraid it borders on irresponsibility at times. Actually, I know it does but I'm optimistic!

I am also amazed at how people are quick to come to my rescue when verbalizing this sort of internal examination. People do not seem to want me delving into those thoughts of potential character flaws. I have often been forced from those depths if introspection at just the time when I thought I was making progress. I wonder if Christians don’t want other Christians to deal with inauthentic issues because they don’t want to admit their own shortcomings as well.

Yesterday I sent my family, each of them, the appropriate messages that I love them and desire to be with them. I showered and shaved, more closely than the day before because someone commented on my shadow. I dressed in the usual blue and khaki and came down for oatmeal. The boys were taken to school. The truck sent to maintenance and repair for some rusting u-joints. My wife collected me during the wait and drove me to the office. I say “to the office” because I couldn’t say “to work.” I went back and forth between a desktop and a notebook, listening and reading but very little responding or initiating.

The idea of entertaining a change of employment, a move to a different location, does not interest me in the least. And yet, there is this deep dissatisfaction with where I am professionally. I just finished a book, if you can call it that. I feel like I threw something together at times. I desire a real sense of attachment to my work, yet possess no burning desire for anything. I want to change, but find no rope to latch on that would pull me toward something that would balance my life between work and family. I know I am gifted but feel trapped in some ways from letting those gifts out. It’s easier to blame a system than to look at where I may be self-sabotaging my life.

At times, reality is so foreign to me that I wonder if I truly know what it looks like. At first glance, I appear to be lost in some way, drifting. I wonder how much I must surely frustrate my wife and kids with this. So often I just don’t feel like I know what to do, and when I do act the potential for nobility or irresponsibility is a coin toss. I have often cloaked utter disregard for reality by calling it risk-taking, or worse, faith.

So I sit here in the dark, on a couch that is less than comfortable, at 2:41 am, and enter these random scribbles about personal reflection and wonder if I’ve done any good, made any progress. The optimist in me wants to believe I have. In an honest look at the reality of the moment, however, I see a mocking return. It is just that I seem to have been at this so long.

If I possess any sense of drive, it is to make certain that my children don’t fall into the same trap. Of course I am only attempting to steer them away from these pitfalls, I have no real assurance that I’m doing such a thing. I can handle them falling into junk by their own choosing, but not from a lack of preparation on my part. I don’t want to minimize this purpose but is there more? There’s reality, ...........and there’s grace to face it.

Window Shading

Do you ever think about how the American custom of going to lunch with others isn’t actually conducive to deep conversation? I am convinced that another reason coffee and conversation go so well is the practical and simple idea of looking at the person you’re with. For a whole host of reasons, I don’t make eye contact with someone while I’m eating. Conversely, I can sip coffee and never look down. Most of us aren’t so self-conscious with sipping. Eating is, of course, another story.

How are you with eye contact in general? When I was a young man, my businessman/grandfather told me that there were two keys to first impressions: eye contact and a firm handshake. One was formed by a physical connection, a clasping of hands. The other connection was much more vulnerable because it was so subjective. The locking of eyes with another can send an abundance of messages very quickly.

From the eyes of another we can detect the beginning of stories, the first step of a request, the heat of anger, and confidence—the presence or lack of it. When was the last time you really made eye contact with someone? How long did you maintain it? Was it someone you love, or a stranger?

Every now and then I watch this relational exercise between individuals. I have learned that those with power and influence do not readily give eye contact to others. Walk beside a famous athlete through a crowd of adoring fans and you will see her autograph an abundance of paraphernalia but never give eye contact. She will focus on the task and keep walking. It’s like, if she stops and really engages, she will die.

You don’t have to be famous to neglect this powerful contact point. At some level, we all keep the window to our souls shaded from would-be peeping toms. We get really good at it over time. I’ve been married for 15 years and it doesn’t get any easier to peer longingly into my wife’s beautiful brown eyes. Is it because I fear she might see something I don’t want her to know?

I have talked with men who almost have this “window shade” dynamic as a part of their job description. They aren’t professional poker players but you would think so by how well they guard their gaze around society in general. I think they do it because of all the demands placed upon them. If they give others eye contact, it becomes a pause that leads to obligation.
The problem with this behavior is that they cannot flip a switch and give such connection to those who deserve it. Having counseled those desiring deeper intimacy, I ask them to preface any conversation with an intentional gaze, and not to begin until eye contact is established. It can be a very frustrating exercise. I can’t even get my 3 year old to do it.

Deep down, I am afraid of captivation. In Proverbs 6:25 we are admonished to avoid sexual immorality: “Do not lust in your heart after her beauty or let her captivate you with her eyes.” For men and women, the eyes are powerful instruments of charm. Law enforcement officials tell us that only the sickest individuals can kill while looking into the eyes of their victims. They eyes of a victim possess the plea of one who is created with eternal value—the soul speaks of the image of God and its’ connection to one who would do harm. The wiring of life’s sanctity, no matter how corroded, can be sparked by the divine in those moments—a captivating call to the precious value of an image-bearer.

Now, what about Jesus? Can we even begin to know what it would feel like to have eye contact with the Son of God? The gospel of Luke, chapter 6, tells us that before Jesus gave the greatest sermon ever preached, “He brought the disciples before him, and he looked at them.” Were they captivated or repelled by this act of invitation and examination? What would it look like for you to attain an encounter with Christ that captivated you? What would it feel like for you to be caught in his gaze?

Deep Java 3

Recently I had one of those deep conversations in which coffee was on the table. It was a pastoral conversation. Like Andree, she is a beautiful woman as well, but today the redness of weeping mars her blue eyes and milky complexion. She has been wounded deeply by the best friend she has ever known. Deception. Betrayal. She is out for justice. The tears she cries are mixed with rage and pain. The friend has confessed and repented. She knows what she has to do, but the doing of it escapes her. “I’ve read the Bible, I know what it says. ‘Forgive as you have been forgiven.’ And I know I have been forgiven. I love my friend and want desperately to forgive, but practically, so much is in the way. I want him to hurt like I hurt, and I just don’t think that he does. I understand confession and repentance, but I want there to be consequences. I want him to feel great pain before I forgive”, she nearly chuckled at the closing remark. I sipped my coffee. She stared at hers.

As she stalls a moment, I think back to my conversations with Andree, years earlier, about the sovereignty of God in a shattered and scattered world. Then she spoke. “I just don’t think he has suffered enough. Is that it? Does he go back to normal just like that? There are no consequences-- just like a man to want it fixed and done with-- no consequences.” “Oh but there are”, I said. She doesn’t see it-- “Where? Show me because I don‘t see them.” I sipped again (for courage maybe?) then spoke. “Do you remember all of those pictures of Jesus on the cross? All the images of the crown of thorns? Remember what you saw in movies about his crucifixion? Do you really believe that happened?” She fumbled with her sweater, nodding affirmatively to the inquisition. “Of course”, she replied flatly. I paused letting her connect the logic. “It’s hard putting the crucifixion in such an immediate crisis, isn’t it? And yet, it is our immediate crises that required such a horrible consequence. As long as God allows this world to turn, people will live with the need for the cross of Jesus. You have now experienced this provision as acutely as an attack of appendicitis.”

It was a watershed moment for her. Finally-- practical theology in the present tense. The cup holding her latte finally reached her lips. It was an image of drinking more than just a caffeinated beverage. The gateway from her mind to her heart had been opened. Her soul was flooded with what a personal relationship with God looks like—vividly, and at great cost.
“I feel like the ball is in my court and it’s my move", she said. "But I don’t want to move right now. I’m in shock, and so vulnerable. Vulnerable to the trust I must place in Christ to help me apply a work he completed." I told her that I understood.

Embracing the truth of a thing doesn't mean that there is instant adjustments or applications. Forgiveness is a very difficult destination, but it's the difficulty that makes it great. Much like the liquid result which finally finds its way into the cardboard cups we hold, the refinement of forgiveness is a tedious process, attained by thorough grinding and extreme heat. She's enduring the process to attain the result. I am very confident of her commitment to do so. "He who is forgiven much, loves much." Such is the promise to which she clings.

Deep Java 2

Andree also loves coffee. The following year, Andree Gates from Louisiana, enchanted the hearts of many would-be pulpiteers and seminarians. When you attend a school where men are trying to fit in a world where their trade is rapidly losing admiration, the love and respect of a desirable woman becomes a very hot commodity. It was a small school where the ratio of men to women was depressing.

As a result, I heard about Andree long before I ever saw her. Men ran into doors—walked upright into fountains—fell into ditches trying to behold her. They blubbered and stuttered through a simple “Hello.” I listened to these stories of shock and awe with constant amusement. We finally met in the laundry/exercise room of Lincoln Hall—an old YWCA converted into a male dorm. The rustic exercise room and laundry were combined, and women students could use the facilities as well as men. I was trying to wash 5 cubic feet of bedspread in 3 cubic feet of washing machine. My language was not appropriate but it caught Andree’s attention. She was attempting to lift dumb-bells—and I felt like the largest one!

Weeks went by until I finally got the nerve to ask her out. “Whadya wanna do?”, I asked. “Let’s go for coffee”, she said. We went to a French bakery sort of establishment with several choices of coffee. Much fancier than what I grown accustomed to with Tim. We sat in wooden chairs at a small farm table and we talked. We talked a lot. And we went back again and again. It felt like the first time in my adult life that I truly had a friend who was a woman. We talked about absolute truth, and our callings to ministry. She was on her way to France to be a missionary, and she deeply loved Paris. I wanted to go back to Kentucky and pastor a rural church, maybe help other pastors. The soul stuff that I had learned to exchange with my buddy Tim was now being communicated to a woman. Was it the coffee?

We would laugh too. A couple of times I remember even crying with her. We’d sip coffee out of fine china cups, and spread marmalade onto French bread. I learned what a baguette was, and the simple delicacy of fresh butter. I learned that coffee and cocoa beans are closely related—and should be kept so!! My life was enriched, and my soul expanded, from those dates inside a Paris brasserie ala’ Texas.

I hear that Andree still enjoys coffee very much. She should anyway—for several years now I have made it for her every morning at 7:00. A couple of times a week our four children even let us drink a cup…….. before it gets cold. Just the other day, our 12-year old decided to have his first cup. This sacred ritual between husband and wife has now been compromised!

Cappuccino Sex

When you meet a Nascar driver for coffee, it can be a slightly intimidating thing. He may expect more admiration than you want to give, or he may not want any at all. Having known those guys for many years, I was pretty stable, but like I've stated before, java-- especially the mere notion of espresso-- has the potential to infuse the system with courage. Mustering my adventurous spirit, I decided to go in a direction I'd never gone before. You see, I'm from a place where coffee is simple. I wasn't raised in the Starbucks era-- Len Sweet calls my era "Coffee Hell", which means I grew up with bad coffee (I just didn't know it!). So I was challenged by the aforementioned racer to try an espresso drink (I literally had to look up the words "cappuccino" and "espresso" just to make sure I spelled them correctly for this post!).

Anyway, I ordered a cappuccino, paid the perky college student, and started to walk outside with my prize. Before I hit the door, the humble barista said, "Enjoy that work of art you're holding!" I was curious. "How is this a work of art?" "Sir, you are holding perfect foam", was the reply. Wow, I was holding perfect foam. So I pulled off the cap and sure enough there was foam. In fact, foam occupied about 1/3 of my cup. I was indignant with the celebrity next to me. "What have you talked me into here?" I just wanted coffee, and now some brew-snob behind the counter over there is cheating me out of liquid by what-- trying to get me to value the foam? Foam as art? Perfect foam? What is that? "This is utterly ridiculous!", I protested. Quite the contrast to a moment that was filled with three young blonds who had just noticed the guy I was with. "Hey pal, hate to spoil your moment of adulation but you SUCK at ordering coffee!!"

"Perfect foam", I can't get it out of my head. Maurice Day kept the words "Chili Sauce" in his head. Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now had "The Horror". Barney Fife, "Nip it!" For me, it's "Perfect Foam."

So as I sat there with a current most eligible bachelor, I drank foam and listened to the question for which this meeting was convened. Bottom line-- in less than a year, he had gone from a no-name kid who was inexperienced in love to a household name with more propositions than he could count. He was so overwhelmed that to say he was frightened is not an embellishment. "How can I take advantage of my new found relational clout without it getting messy?" I inhaled and choked on foam. "Let me see if I'm reading you right on this. By taking advantage, you mean, how can I sleep with these propositions and not break their hearts? Right? You want to exercise your ego without guilt. At least you are somewhat concerned about these women. That's something I guess. But it's not enough." He scowled. "Man, that's brutal." I sipped, "Yeah, but it's true, isn't it?"

Some of you reading this would love to be in this guys shoes. When I was his age, I can't say I would have handled it as well as he did-- at least he sought my insight as a pastor, and an older man. He was in tension with himself for some reason here. I have to believe that the tension occurred when he took a look at what it would feel like to enjoy a beautiful woman in a casually sexual way. He wanted that-- without damaging her soul. Deep down he knew that was not possible. To engage in such activity is to set a fire, a fire that starts out as passion but burns beyond the flesh and damages the soul.

Without the substance of commitment, friendship and loyal love, casual-- albeit passionate-- sex becomes nothing more than the foam on my cappuccino. Even if it's perfect foam. What I long for is beneath the foam. It's what we all long for.

Deep Java

Coffee shops are inspiring places. More anonymous than a office and friendlier than a library. Len Sweet calls the cafe environment "third places"-- the haunts we inhabit away from work and home. The environment is conducive for conversation and study and courage. Soldiers in the civil war said that by drinking coffee together they felt more courageous in battle. I guess the caffeine and camaraderie could do that for you, but then again I’ve never eyed-down an enemy musket at 50 yards. Coffee and conversation are interesting complements. If alcohol loosens ones inhibitions to act crazy in front of others, coffee is part of a mood that opens us up to significant depth in our sharing. Some of the deepest conversations I’ve ever had were over a cup of four dollar fuel.

I didn’t start drinking coffee until my second year of seminary in Dallas, Texas. A friend of mine named Tim—also a fellow-student and civil war buff from Atlanta—invited me to a local restaurant for evening brew. I discovered that he was more interested in the young waitress from Romania than he was the coffee. She was lovely, lifted seemingly from the lyrics of an Elton John song, the personification of the “tiny dancer” he immortalized. Our friend Dave would sit with us on occasion. As Irina walked by he would whisper, "Porcelain, a porcelain doll." She would pour our coffee and Tim would pour on the charm with his thick Georgia drawl. I guess that coffee gives one courage for more than just war.

While I don’t know if Tim would think so, he and I shared some soul stuff that went beyond the fluff and fill everyday conversations. I believe I learned what brotherhood feels like in that tattered restaurant booth. I haven’t spoken to Tim in a long while, and while I cannot remember the names of courses I took with him, I remember the laughter and pondering of those late night discussions, as well as the raven hair of the European beauty who served us as if we were kings. And why not? We spoke like impressive sages. I don’t believe that the fact Tim strategically placed his five dollar “tip money” on the table had anything to do with it. We were way to attractive for that to be true.