Stains

            I was not a happy camper when the pitcher of iced coffee flew out of the refrigerator.

            It had been moved from the top shelf to the shelf below the cheese drawer.  If that detail had registered, I wouldn’t have pulled the drawer open.  You see, the open pitcher can slide onto the shelf, but the drawer catches on it.  

            Not a single curse word flew from my mouth as my right foot was drenched in cold coffee and the floor became a puddle.  Surprisingly, none flew through my mind, either.  I was focused on the unpleasant sensation and big mess.  

            Instead of words, a cold stream of frustration rushed through me as I mopped up the coffee puddle.  My patience threatened to break a little later as I ate lunch with a still-wet foot and answered the same question for the third time in three minutes.

            As soon as we were done eating, I beat a hasty retreat to my room, choosing a nap as my means of escape.

            The irony of the situation does not escape me.  Just before lunch, I had finished writing my response to the Lectio Divinia exercise covered in this week’s DVD of the Spirituality and Ministry January session from the online Certificate in Lay Ministry program I’m taking through Whitworth University.  I had spoken of my gratitude for the simple, quiet life I have at present.  Now, less than an hour later, I was impatient and angry with my mother for things beyond her control.

            Just now, she peeked her head into my room to ask me the same repeated question from lunchtime.  I answered as graciously as I could, rather chastened by the contrast between my lingering frustration and supposed spirituality.

            At least my foot has dried off, and the coffee stain will wash out of my sock and jeans.  It's the stain in my soul that is the bigger concern.