Coffee, Eden, and The Sacred Power of Naming by Candace Echols

It took the birth of my fifth child to teach me what the rest of the world already knows: Coffee is fabulous.

Before that, I thought it smelled good, but I imagined it tasted like what a pile of cigarette butts might taste like. Bitter. Old. Not good. 

My sister, on the other hand, seemingly started drinking coffee as a toddler. All the other preschoolers brought sippy cups filled with water or juice to school. She showed up with an Americano to accompany her goldfish. She lives in Italy now and life has come full circle for her; but for me, lattes arrived late on the scene. Something about being 38 and having an infant (plus four other kids) meant I needed some extra juice. 

Coffee was up to the task. 

Not long ago, we visited an Airbnb in Fairhope, Alabama. The house was stunning: 100-years old and three stories high. But the part I remember most is the coffee mug collection. It was made by Rae Dunn: cups large and misshapen by nature, but each one had a different word printed on it. So, in the mornings, we each chose the cup that fit our outlook for the day. Maybe it was a commentary on how we felt about life. Maybe it was hilarious. Maybe we got what was leftover because we slept in. 

One day, I ended up with “Hot Chick” while the next day, I was a “Hot Mess.” The day after that, I was a bright “Cup of Sunshine.” This is life. This is coffee-drinking. Before we left Fairhope, I ordered my own collection of Rae Dunn mugs. There’s something sacred about naming things. Adam was given the job in Eden. We are given the job upon the birth of a child. Rae Dunn gave me the job at the start of my day, and that was a new, teeny-tiny sacred ritual I had never noticed before.

The message I absorb as the sun comes up is the one that stays with me all day, running like a current through all my other thoughts. Incidentally, this is why I watch the sunrise with my Bible in my lap. Psalms reminds me that I’m not the first to feel this anxiety or that joy or those thoughts of bewilderment. And my life isn’t God’s first rodeo either. He’s been down all these roads many times before and he is wise beyond anything I can imagine. My Bible reminds me that God is God, and I am not. Everyday. So, I absorb the messages he has written before all those other messages—the ones that are laced with lies—come my way. 

It’s important what we believe first, when we’re fresh. 

And that’s why my coffee mugs have power—even funny power. The ones made of pottery feel earthy and honest and imperfect in my hands. I hold them and I remember that I, too, came from the dust. One mug is from a local donut shop that is everybody’s happy place around here. When I can’t go to Gibson’s Donuts, at least the delight of Gibson’s can come to me in the form of my blue clay cup. “Rabbit Room” mugs are hearty and thick, and they remind me that I am a writer who thrives in community with other writers. My sister sent me a “Luke’s” mug for my birthday. Who doesn’t wish they could pull up a third chair and start the day with Lorelei and Rory every now and then? Last month (when we were without power because of an ice storm), I picked up a mug that says, “Enjoy the Gift of an Ordinary Day.” The Unemployed Philosopher’s Guild made a cup that is intentionally missing the handle. I gave it to my husband as a gift from Kensington Palace, which is where Queen Victoria met Prince Albert—and one of the great romances of all time began. The mug is called, “It’s hard to get a handle on Kings and Queens of England.” Sometimes marriage feels like that, too. Maybe it’s that way on purpose, keeping us leaning hard into that third strand that is not easily broken (Ecc. 4:12). 

Of course, my own Rae Dunn collection was chosen with care. Some days, I wake up feeling “Little,” while other days, the first message that I choose to believe is that I am a “Free Spirit.” My husband makes coffee for me and puts it in “Hot Mama” or “Cutie Pie” (I set him up for success by adding those to the mix). “Like a Boss” and “Big” are good for days when the job ahead seems daunting. 

Some days, I’m just “Happy”—and that’s something. 

Being happy is something many people can't say—I know because on other days, I pass by the happy mug in search of something else. Something more honest, more real. Because it matters where we start our days and what messages we believe when our minds are still fuzzy. The way I cuddle with my four-year-old, whispering words of love and delight in her ear as she slowly awakens, that’s what God wants to do with us as the sun comes up. Whatever is true and noble, right and pure, lovely and admirable, we are taught to think on these things, even when we’ve just rolled out of bed. Or maybe especially when we’ve just rolled out of bed (Phil. 4:8). 

Sometimes, though, I wake up heavy. Maybe conviction over my sin or the weight of the world or the drudgery of life is the first thing that pierces my thoughts. The cup I wish I could choose would say, “Just go back to bed” or “Life is hard. The End.” But it’s for those days that I’ve reserved one special mug. It’s for those days that I need the message that trumps all the other messages. It’s for those days that my mug of choice significantly reorients my heart with the truth of the gospel. I let that word permeate my soul with the life-giving power that comes only from the Holy Spirit. It’s on those days that I choose the cup with the message about who I am that is the shortest, simplest, most beautiful one of all: 

“His.”

Candace and her husband Jim enjoy raising their five children in Tennessee. Her first calling is teaching, but her writing career started with the children's book Josephine and the Quarantine about how God cares for us in times of loneliness through puppies. Candace writes for The Gospel Coalition, Risen Motherhood, Deeply Rooted, Joyful Life, Bella Grace, and StyleBlueprint. She contributes a regular column on the topic of wisdom as she sees it in the regular stuff of life to Storyboard Memphis. She dreams of having her own writing cottage in Oxford someday (England is the dream, but Mississippi's not bad either). You can find Candace on Instagram @candaceecholswrites or on her website at candaceechols.com.