Wake up and Smell the Coffee

Wake up and smell the coffee.

Thank goodness it’s no longer just Nescafe here in Scotland. I like my coffee strong and black, but there are certainly a lot of other options available today to satisfy every taste. Does it wake me up in the morning? Not sure, but it sure can keep me awake at night!

On a glorious day like today, I’m very aware of the sounds of spring: I heard my first Cuckoo this morning, and a hungry blackbird serenaded me as I dug over a patch of garden. I also notice the fragrance of spring. The coconutty scent of gorse and broom; the freshly cut lawn smell; the variety of pleasant fragrances from spring flowers.

When I manage to be very attentive, I sometimes catch a whiff of the fragrance of Jesus. In the midst of an unhappy situation, there may be a sudden gesture of kindness which is sourced in the divine. 

Usually, though, I’m not so attentive, but then I can be blindsided by the aroma of Jesus, transforming the atmosphere. I caught a sniff of Jesus this morning during a conversation with someone who has no faith in him. But the love and compassion for another revealed that the Lord has faith in him.

Love. As the song declares, it’s all around us, perceptible through all of our senses.

So wake up and smell the Lord. And smile.

Unexpected

I may have raised four kids, but being a gramma in charge is different. With my own kids, I made my own mistakes, enjoyed my own triumphs. With my granddaughter, I am aware that I am playing by her parents' rules. I've got two A4 typewritten sheets of instructions with specific times and activities.

So it was with some trepidation that I headed for the bedroom with the warmed bottle of milk, determined not to make eye contact or give off any vibes that would communicate playtime as opposed to nap time. The bottle was pretty firmly rejected, so into the cot she went, soother handed in and me headed out. As warned, there was a cry of protest but then quiet ensued. I came down for a rewarding cup of coffee and then I heard it. The squeak of bed springs as a wee body bounced around. Maybe I was a bit quick with my self congratulations.

The Bible contains hundreds of pages of what we might think of as instructions on living. Some seem very specifically to give commands. Do not murder. Do not steal. Others are less prescriptive, more open to interpretation. But the aim of it all is to draw us into the deeper embrace of the Father God who loves each one of us.

Guidance on living the best life possible is what parents do, and what God does consummately. Because God created each of us as a unique and special individual, he doesn't expect us to all behave in exactly the same way, like wind up automatons. He expects each of us to use our brains and our personalities and our common sense and to develop just the way he planned, with his help.

It is all quiet upstairs now and I am enjoying my coffee, grateful that Felicity's parents have been consistent in their actions with her. I'm not sure my four ever went down so easily as that. As the Bible says, the young will teach the old(er)!

Dusty's Day

It is comforting to know that some living creatures actually thrive as the ground freezes and the frost etches patterns on the window and picks out the intricacies of the millions of spiders’ webs threading round the bushes.

Dusty is in her element. She was halfway down the drive by the time I finished zipping my final layer (of five), pulling on my second hat and squirming into the woollen gloves. Her long coat seems to be adequate by itself. Or maybe that’s why she runs – to keep from freezing.

Sometimes the rosy hues of dawn are vibrant and the streaks are distinct, but this morning it looked as if a giant artist had flung a brush-full of pink paint across the whole canvas of the sky. Indistinct lines of pink striped it from east to west, north to south, and the whole vista appeared as if it were covered by a gossamer overlay, producing colours that were somehow muted.

A flock of birds passed overhead, silent. Perhaps to chatter or squawk would have used energy they couldn’t afford as they scoured the frozen earth for a sign of food. ‘Bird feeders at our place!’ I wanted to advise, but my mouth was kind of frozen shut.

Dusty flung herself onto her back on the frozen grass, writhing and wriggling as she let the sharp needles give her a welcome massage. Funny she won’t let me brush her without acting like I’m trying to torture her, and yet out here...

We passed the coal man as we left home for our walk, reversing up our driveway with another load of badly-needed fuel. His constant companion, sitting perky and alert, rode shotgun, as always. A cute little beagle, who he can never let out of the cab to greet Dusty because she would hare off into the field for hours, he says.

I suppose frozen winters are his kind of weather, too. 

Well, I’m going to put on the coffee, and another jumper. And thank God that he made a world in which there are seasons which change, so we don’t have to do this year round.