Denver was no Different

Part Two of This Lenten Train is Bound for Glory

So where were we?

Ah, yes. We were in Palo Alto with my cousins and I was going through Complete Caffeine Withdrawal.

As I was saying, a black cloud was descending over my head lower and lower and was threatening to consume my mood entirely when—through a sudden intervention of grace and my guardian angel who was taking pity on my poor cousins—we stopped at a bank where there was a pot of coffee in the lobby.

I was transformed within an instant. The clouds suddenly parted and the sun burst through. I was smiling; I was happy. I was all but tap dancing down the street.

That is the strength of my addiction.

Pathetic, huh?

And then there was that pilgrimage I made to Denver: World Youth Day ’93.

Were you there?

Being a pilgrim, I expected to be challenged physically. I was. I expected to grow spiritually. I did.

I did not expect to go without coffee. But yet, I had to!

And it was good for me.

We drove down in bus loads with our church group. I was “Captain Maggie” of the high school brigade—not a chaperone, per say, but rather in charge of keeping things ordered among the teenaged travelers on my bus.

It was a hoot, let me tell you. High school kids are great.

They are not, however, known for drinking copious amounts of coffee; at least, they weren’t in 1993. So when we spent the night with a host family in South Dakota, we were not served coffee at breakfast. We were served delicious homemade rolls and sugary boxed cereals galore, but not a drop of coffee.

And by 11:00 a.m., I was fading.

It’s the caffeine, I tell you! My body needs the jump start and my brain, the stimulation. When we stopped at a rest area in the middle of I Don’t Know Where, Nebraska, I didn’t even have the oomph to alight from the vehicle. Yet, somehow, through the fog of my withdrawal, I saw one of the adult chaperones board the bus with a cup of—could it be?—something hot and brown and heavenly.

Frankly, I accosted him.

He good-naturedly shared a sip or two with his obnoxious bus captain, and that had to do me.

Once we got to Denver, though, I did okay. They took good care of us in Denver.

However, if you were there I am sure you remember the long lines. My word, we queued up for everything! Our meals were provided morning, noon and night by an ubiquitous group in orange with a golden “M” emblazoned on their t-shirts. We were given our little meal tickets and, like good consumerist American sheep, we lined up at the Mickey D stands to be fed.

Good thing that Captain Maggie likes McDonald’s, right?

Yet on Sunday morning, after the all-night vigil at Cherry Creek State Park and after camping out on the ground in a cold, cramped heap and sleeping next to not-at-all, I did not feel like lining up for coffee. I wanted to have my little Mr. Coffee there on the counter (what counter?) and to have my mug in hand within five minutes.

Did I mention this was a pilgrimage? We were called to greater prayer and greater sacrifice, and that meant working hard for all those little luxuries we normally take for granted.

Like a clean bathroom. Like a cozy bed. And yes, like a nice hot cup of coffee, ready & waiting within minutes.

I staggered off with my friend Sarah in tow to find the line that would deliver me. As we wove our way through the crowds of people—Italians, French, Canadians—all of whom had been up since the night before and seemed no less tired or unhappy or quiet for it—we suddenly came upon a young man who had been to the Mecca that was McDonald’s and had his cup of hot coffee to prove it.

I was just sleep-deprived enough to be cheeky. “Oh!” I exclaimed, “You brought my coffee!”

And without a word but with a very sweet smile he handed it over.

Sarah shook her head at me and I felt guilty (but not really). It wasn’t just the cup of coffee that sustained me, but also the sacrifice and kindness of a stranger that so perfectly summed up that World Youth Day.

I am thinking about that young man this morning and about what it means to grow in holiness. I don’t think that a successful Lent is hinged upon a state of sluggishness and a splitting headache. Indeed, the most spectacular feats of asceticism mean nothing if they do not free us to offer true worship and obedience to God (Magnificat magazine, March, 2007).

And that is what I’m truly after.

If I can go a week, a day, or even an hour without coffee in a spirit of sacrifice and with love for my Redeemer, I will.

But if I can’t, then, I’ll give Him my weakness.