Katia

Salame

CBN.com - I have a confession to make: Coffee is disgusting.

I am sipping my three dollar eight cent Starbucks fancy caramel Macchiato. The name sounds grandiose doesn't it? Although I don't know what it means, it sounded the best among the four black lists hanging in that coffee shop. This coffee must be deluxe. After all, I had to use my debit card to pay for it, which I am thankful doesn't reveal one's bank account. The two dollars cash I had on me was not enough to buy me my morning energy. I also had to drive an extra couple of minutes down the street, stand in a long line of sleepy people awaiting the mercy of caffeine to turn them on for the day, and arrive to work a half an hour late.

This great combination of factors must make this morning coffee the best!

Yet halfway into that prestigious cup I noticed that I was kind of forcing myself to like it. And all of a sudden I remembered I'd never had coffee without a sandwich or a cookie. I was almost ten years old, and very skinny, when my mom started adding a little bit of instant coffee into that pale drink called milk, to disguise its taste so I might like it. She always gave me coffee along with a sandwich of jelly and butter. During the course of 27 years I did the same, except I substituted the sweet sandwich with a cookie from time to time.

Excuse me my memories.

Yes, coffee is disgusting, and I never loved it either. It was the jelly, the butter, or even the milk I always thought I hated that covered for it. And once isolated for what it was, it stood only bitter and black.

I was so sad to discover that my long mornings' faithful, warm, and beautiful brown companion was more of a habit than a thing I needed and loved. I was so disappointed when I clearly saw that fear of failing to make the day without it made me believe that black-hearted thing was good for me.

It was all about coffee -- but how I wish it all stopped there. In fact, I realized as I looked into my steaming cup, dozens of things I held close to my heart -- too scared to let go of -- stand now just black, bitter and distasteful like coffee, only buttered up and disguised with some kind of jelly.

I am wondering, is it the habit or the fear that is causing the change in me? Why did I never notice that after a sugary swallow these things always left a bitter trace in me? The instantaneous joy, and the draft of energy it falsely brought, once gone, only brought showers of despair and loneliness in me.

How did I never notice that some people are just like coffee? It takes a lot of sugar and creamer to sweeten and whiten their presence, and all they leave in you is bitter memories and heartburn.

I think we need to re-explore the real joy (the joy coming from a worldly product) in that coffee, to find nothing but an unhealthy, costly habit. It's not about cropping or trashing my cup of coffee, it's about how we sometimes, for many years, become blinded by what is nothing more than a mere fantasy?

The rest of my confession is: injected joy only colors reality around us, but when joy springs from within it carries along the capacity of changing reality.

Am I quitting coffee? I think it's now way beyond just a cup of coffee.

CBN.com - It was a regular day, but somehow it felt a little more beautiful than any other. I woke up with a lot of energy, got myself ready to work, and even watered my flowers. Then, I left for work.

When I arrived in the parking lot, I opened my purse to get out my badge. I thoroughly searched for it, but I saw no trace of that striking blue, long cord I had attached to my badge to ensure that I wouldn’t lose it.  

I was determined to keep searching. But after an exhaustive search there was still no sign. So I decided to take a step of faith. I forged a confident look on my face and stepped towards the gate. Perhaps someone would vouch for me, or maybe the security man would recognize me and let me in.

"Good morning sir." I said to the thick, tanned glass. Even though I couldn’t see anything, I knew for sure that a security man was in there.

I waited for a while, and then tried again, "Sir, good morning." Then, an answer came, and I jumped in front of the window. Urging myself closer to the gate, the voice got louder.

"No , I didn’t say go. I was asking who you are," the man behind the glass said.

I smiled proudly, "Oh my name is Katia, and I work here."

"Is there anyone here that could recognize you ... someone I can call?" he replied.

This seemed ridiculous because I was certain that he knew me. But trying to abide by the rules, I proceeded.

"Of course, sir, here is an extension," I said.

He dialed the number, but nobody was answering. I was frustrated because he wouldn't let me through the gate, and I needed to be in my office because I had so much work waiting for me. At this point, it was too late to go back home.

I looked again towards the glass, and this time felt very tempted to call the guy by name and yell, "what makes it so impossible for you to let me in? You know who I am."

Instead, I calmly asked, "don’t you know who I am?"

He answered, "no." Yet, I knew that he had to remember that favor I did for him.

My mind drifted back to that cold, rainy day just two days after Christmas. It had been a long day of work, and all I wanted to do was go home.

Yet, that scarf lying under that tree looked too beautiful and expensive to be left alone. The wind must have roughed it up, as it seemed left for dead. I imagined that someone must have really liked that scarf, so I decided to rescue it from harm's way, despite the pouring rain. I accomplished my mission and turned it in to the security man at the gate.

"You know my wife could’ve killed me. It was her Christmas present to me. I really appreciate you getting drenched to bring it back to me," he said .

"I didn’t know it was yours, sir. But now you owe me a favor," I said.

"I owe you big time," was his response.

I knew that he had to remember me. I knew that he had the authority to open that door for me. I also knew that in this short conversation, I had already lost the joy that I had before I left the house.  

Then, all of a sudden I thought about that final gate. What would that passage be like to Heaven? What if I had forgotten my badge there? What would I say? Would I say that I meant no harm by not wearing my badge? Would it help if I were to state all the good works that I did? Would it do me any good to plead? Do I really think I deserve to go through the gate?

Would it help if I were to say that it is impossible to go back home, and that I really need and want to be on the other side of the gate?

Unlike this situation at my work, in Heaven, I must have that badge that has my own picture and Jesus signature. No sweet memories of good deeds, no acting cool, no feeling that this is where I belong, will get me through the gate.

I will never forget everything that I learned through the security gaurd that morning. As much as I hated the heaviness of that moment, this man really did pay me back with a lesson that I will never forget. Even though I could have tried to get in the building through other ways, there is only one way into the building and the security gaurd was committed to adhering to strict guidelines. This is the case with Heaven. There is only one way into Heaven.

As

"How scary it is when that day comes and ready or not we are ready we leave with so much still on our mind to do and a lot still to care about we get to the gate and the voice comes, 'I never knew you. Away from me, you evildoers'!"

I thought that I knew the gaurd because I did him a favor. But, did I really know him? Do we really know Jesus?

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