if I were a cup…


… I would be a coffee cup.

[disclaimer:  this is not just because I am coffee's biggest fan]

Here is my reasoning:

1.  Coffee cups usually become the center of conversation.

They are undoubtedly pretty and clever.

hugs and fishesrocks

if not, they are at least acknowledged.  ”ohh, you have coffee. I need some…” That is surely more notice than a cup of water. And how many cups of water have you seen that say “I’m hot” or “drink me up”? Never.

2.  Coffee cups get the most attention.

If I’m eating dinner, my cup is functional, and it may get a solid 30 minutes out of the cupboard.
Not so is the coffee cup.  I purposely draw out my coffee cup experience as long as possible.  It’s affectionate and we’re somewhat attached.

3.  Coffee cups get to go sight-seeing.

My coffee cup is my backpack’s best friend.  It gets to go everywhere– class, work, car, etc.  Okay, maybe those aren’t the most exciting places, but then again, compare to the alternative:  the inside of a cupboard.

4.  Coffee cups have cool friends.

Common Groundians are usually hip, humanitarian aid activists wearing a beanie, big glasses, and TOMS with messy hair and ride antique roadbikes.

Starbuckics are the intellectual, talkative types over at Truett who casually comment on the classical music or Frank Sinatra and explain how both remind them of systematic theology.

AWESOME friends.

5.  Coffee cups see the world become a better place.

Usually grumpy people pick the cup up, but by the end, coffee cups have transformed Mr. Grumpy into Mr. Happy to Face the World.  They must sleep well at night.

6.  and lastly, coffee cups get hold coffee. mmm coffee.

[if I were a good student... I would be studying instead of personifying inanimate objects for the ten people who might read this]





classroom of grace.


I write often.

Mostly about silly things– yellow backpacks and coffee and Christmas.  It helps keep writing fun, because research and theology papers have the ability to suck all life out of writing.

Also, I kind of want to prove to my grandchildren that I lived an entertaining life and didn’t merely sit around and knit (though I’m realizing more and more that my life is becoming one of a grandmother: my body shuts down with the Sun, I swear by Denny’s, and I do knit and like books).

Lots of things are fun and lack purpose though, so I don’t ever want to dismiss my purpose in writing (or going to class or serving or being in Pi Phi or whatever else my scattered schedule holds this week).

I write to bring glory to the God Most High.

Whether I’ve made it clear or not, it cannot be overstated or understated, repeated too many times, shouted too loudly or whispered more sweetly or with more force.

I desire to live for Christ.

I deserved hell and still do, but by dying an excruciating death with nothing but a perfect, yes perfect, record, his hands were pierced on my behalf.

And yours.

Blood flowed, tears fell, and payment was paid.  A giant payment that makes grace impossible to comprehend.  If I ever claim to understand it, it’ll only be when I’m standing before the throne of God and He’s personally explaining it.

Knowing this God is my goal.

I fail often- so often that when I see glimpses of Him I want to smack myself on the face and then am taken back to the classroom of grace.

I’m learning.
Learn with me.
I promise you it’ll blow your mind.

and heart.



Glorious Days


Chapter 16

The story continues first by backtracking.

Yesterday my car died at Sonic.  My Diet Vanilla Coke became a hero when poured on my battery cables and the kindest carhop jumpstarted my car; I later drank coconut coffee at Common Grounds and was depressed when it was gone.  I successfully held to my workout plan (oh yeah, Day One).  I got extra sleep, lit a candle, read some Crazy Love, and the sun shined brightly.

It was a wonderful day.

But back tracking a little further…

One day they led Him to Calvary’s mountain
One day they nailed Him to die on the tree
Suffering anguish, despised and rejected
Bearing our sins, my Redeemer is He!
And one day the grave could conceal Him no longer
One day the stone rolled away from the door
Then He arose; over death He had conquered
Now He’s ascended, my Lord forevermore!

That one day bought freedom for the lead character, releasing her chains, and wiping her debt free. That one day gave hope to the plot of my story.  The Author will write your story the same way.Typewriter Keyboard

My day was wonderful, but that day was glorious and altered every part of my story.

Looking forward… This coming weekend I have a phone date with my best friend in Arizona.  We’re currently debating whether or not to “meet” at Barnes and Noble or Borders.  I’m partial to Barnes and Noble with no articulate reason why.  Some day I hope to stick with a workout plan longer than a week, and in the future I hope to have a family with maybe a kid or two or three or… I better stop.  The future is intriguing, inviting, and still the future.

Those will be great days.  Live in the present Caroline, but do dwell on this:

One day the trumpet will sound for His coming
One day the skies with His glories will shine
Wonderful day my Beloved One’s bringing
Glorious Savior, this Jesus is mine!

One day He’s coming
Oh glorious day- Todd Agnew

some-glorious-day-break-john-lautermilch

In my story, those two days are not merely a backdrop, an extra, or special effect. They write the story; they allow the story; they are the story now. And my story yesterday and my story to come.

I want to know that Author, sit down to a cup of coffee, but I know by then I’ll be smack down on my face and coffee will no longer be my love.

I have wonderful and great days where I laugh, rest, smile and love life.   Such days, however,  are certainly overshadowed by Glorious Days that allow them.



Spills.


[I can justify writing now because dinner is simmering on the stove.  However, don’t be deceived.  Simmering does much more justice than my dumping of the Voila! bag from the frozen aisle deserves.  I say simmering, but it’s more like waiting while magic happens.]

Chapter 9

Spills are my thing.3418383966_c970af150a

This morning I knocked my cup of water all over the table right after I made oatmeal in a bowl that I quickly learned had a crack.  I dropped baby Robert’s 1st birthday cake in the line at Chuck E. Cheese.  Thankfully he was the age where it’s still cute to let the baby touch the cake, so no one ate it anyway.  I was humiliated around age ten when I dropped a plate at a buffet and then freshman year my tray went flying in Penland dining hall.  The only positive was a few boys were able to practice their chivalry.  Here’s why I tell you this:  Today I spilt my coffee in my yellow (but now browning) backpack.  Yes, again. Third time.  And the last time.

My coffee really just wanted a final kick because tomorrow my coffee will not longer be acquainted with my backpack.  My friend Kyle came up with a contraption that is a cup holder for my bike.  Details to come and a lack of disasters to follow.

DSCN1612The only time I justify a spill is when there simply isn’t enough room to hold everything in.  I think of a waterfall spilling over a cliff with power because the river cannot just simply stop at the edge.  This summer I climbed a waterfall in Costa Rica, and the water crashing down was like a giant spill covering me.  Or, maybe a justified spill is when a surprise has to burst out because of built up excitement.  Or, a spill can be the smile seeps out when you know it’s not appropriate to laugh.  Spills happen.

I want to spill over Jesus.  Overflow.  With intention, yes, but also with unguarded passion that spills forth without thought.  Like a waterfall that cannot be stopped.

May my lips overflow with praise, for you teach me your decrees. Psalm 119:171



I’m Not Gullible


Last week my roommate had a big night of studying before two tests.  I decided to supercharge her studying and brew some coffee.  Sure enough, the coffee focused her brain, kept her perky until the wee hours, and added a pinch of motivation in the way only coffee can claim to do.

What I didn’t tell her was that it was decaffeinated!  And my thesis was proven true:  the idea of coffee motivates!  Such a lovely blessing.

But I must explain why I bought Decaf Coffee two weeks ago:

coffee-decaf1.  My fear has come true: I realized I have a slight and rapidly growing dependence upon coffee.  The timer on my coffee maker is too convenient not to use it every morning.  And here’s the kicker:  If my cup isn’t in my hand and if the last few sips aren’t spilling in my backpack (it happened again), I have a headache.

2.  The worst let-down is when you finally get to tuck yourself in bed after a long night of studying.  You’re anxious for your longed-for sleep but immediately realize the coffee supercharged more than your studying.  It supercharged your ability to think of the most farfetched inventions, recall conversations from 3 years ago, and conjure up worries that no normal human being would even consider during normal hours.

Tonight needed to be prolonged a few hours so I tried to get the best of both worlds of coffee—Stay awake and then fall asleep on command.

Thus, I tried to trick myself.  I made a cup of decaf coffee and tried my hardest to think of it as regular.  However, since I poured the coffee beans and know they came from the decaf bag, I cannot get myself to fall for my own trick.

It’s not even midnight and my comfy bed is calling my name.  This is the only time I wish I were more gullible.

Monday.