the aroma of coffee

Come and sit with me while I tell you a story that needs to be told. It was Christmas 1864. On Hatcher’s Run near Petersburg Virginia, Southern troops huddled together, famine, disease, lack of boots for their feet and only tattered remnants to cover their bodies the brave soldiers knew nothing was coming from home. The battle torn railroad would not be bringing gift boxes of cheer. Large areas of the South had been made desolate, it’s people and land desecrated. At home their families had already impoverished themselves. There was nothing coming. They had nothing left to give.

On the front line these weary worn battle tested simple men, some too young to boast a beard, having witnessed carnage and all the vulgarities of war that one can only imagine knew that if the folks at home could, they would send the last little bit of sugar and flour in the pantry, and the last chicken from the barnyard before they themselves succumbed, another number in the grizzly list of the casualties of war. Rallying around memories of joyous times each wished the other Merry Christmas as they dined on their scant miserable fare. For many this would be the last Christmas they would live to share. Weak, wounded, diseased, and suffering a multitude of depravations without warmth and proper shelter they would never make it home.

In contrast the Northern officers dined on succulent beef, potatoes and gravy with all the trimmings, fresh bread and butter and all the coffee they could drink. Whiskey flowed freely, cigars were smoked and delicacies enjoyed. Their army delighted in a profusion of gifts from home, a bountiful meal, with joy and abundance for all.

At Hatcher’s Run there was no complaining for they knew their exhausted eviscerated country had done all that it could for them. At the headquarters Southern General John B. Gordon and his officers gathered round, the weight of leadership and the condition of their men weighing heavy on them. Mrs. Gordon was there to accompany her husband, and earlier when asked what they could do to encourage the hearts of his men, with some semblance of a Christmas celebration she answered, ‘ah, I can give them some of the coffee that I brought before leaving home, at first to celebrate our victories, now to sustain us in our defeat’.

She could not have imagined a gift so miraculous in it’s transformation to the spirits of the men. Coffee, genuine coffee. The aroma of it alone was such a euphoric delight and the tasting nothing short of a miracle from Heaven. Every man there was intoxicated with this simple indulgence with joy, goodwill, and laughter prevailing after a long and enforced abstinence. The lights were going out in Georgia and all of the South, but this simple act of kindness left a candle still burning.

Now if you are tempted to complain about anything being ungrateful and a bona fide deplorable wretch, your dissatisfaction will not be worthy of repeating when compared to the genuine suffering of others. Give an account this day, offer a defense for your actions. But know, no one is listening.

I will share three incidents worthy of being recounted. First, about a fifteen year old blond girl, thin with tattered clothes and utterly humiliated forced to wear a placard around her neck in front of folks preparing to head west in their wagons. For sixty dollars she could be bought to work, clean, cook, and care for children. When no one responded sixty was scratched out to forty adding to her disgrace and embarrassment. Her father settled for twenty-five dollars telling the buyer to beat her hard if she was contentious. ‘We can’t afford to feed you anymore so you have to go’, he said as he turned and walked away. She said goodbye to her siblings for the last time, her mother not even looking up.

And again I am reminded of a photo of an Islamic mother and her young daughter who completely shielded themselves from public view, hiding the horrible disfiguring scars left on their faces and neck when her husband threw acid on them because he was angry about the way his food was prepared. Not content to vent his wrath on his wife alone he scarred his little daughter as well because she was female, clinging to her mother totally innocent and defenseless. They were rejected by many in their family bearing the hideous reminder of an abominable act sanctioned by their society.

And finally the face of a man so shockingly scarred, fully one half of his face the texture and color of raw meat that had been pulverized with lumps and fat appearing. I tried not to stare but was forced to look as he approached me on business, not hiding from the public, but doing his best to provide for his family. I only saw him once but will never forget. Each morning he has to look at his face in the mirror and find a way to exist, not swallowed in loathsome self-pity. He was married a ring prominent on his finger, and I salute his wife who loved him enough to stay. Together they bore this unspeakable visage and the gasps and reaction it triggered.

So now during the holidays and always give that cup of cold water, a smile, a courtesy, a tip to those serving you with no expectation, a simple kindness, a word of thanks. Remember these stories and so many others. These are true hero’s and heroin’s persevering in their trial by fire. As a wind that passeth away so is all flesh. This pilgrimage is for only a short time, eternity forever. If yours is not an easy life, pray for the strength to victoriously endure a hard one. ‘Just keep showing up when most people give up’!

Now for that cup of Joe. Can you smell it!