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When we first landed in Africa in 1987, the wonder of our surroundings took our breath away. The setting was picturesque. We lived on the eastern shore of Lake Tanganyika, with the mountains of Tanzania on the other side of the lake seen as a dim outline on the horizon. There was no doubt in my mind, it was good to be in Africa.

The next morning after our arrival, I woke up aching for a cup of coffee. I stumbled into the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers and shelves, looking for coffee-making items. Much to my disappointment, there was only a small tin of instant coffee. I was horrified, yes, horrified. The coffee came from neighboring Tanzania, and I had no choice but to give it a chance. 

Instant coffee, it wasn’t good

As a first-generation American of Finnish descent, the importance of coffee in our culture’s daily routine is impossible to deny. And the words “instant coffee” aren’t words we Finns dare to utter, even in jest, when speaking of coffee.

Weeks turned into months, and I was still bound to drink the sullied concoction of coffee-flavored powder and hot water. I had learned to bake bread, make mayonnaise, and cook just about anything we wanted to eat. What escaped me was real brewed coffee.

Puddles of tears and coffee beans

As my borders expanded personally, I braved going to town and the market by myself and learned to speak the local language, which helped in all of my bold exploits. Everything I learned came purely out of necessity. And the process of learning often left me in a puddle of tears, but I learned over and over that those hard processes were good for me.

Yet, despite all my learning, a good cup of coffee in the land of coffee seemed out of my reach. One day, when I was walking in the market, and saw a pile of strange pale-colored beans on the ground (for all things in the market were lined up on the ground). I asked the lady selling the strange beans what they were, and to my delight, she said, “kahawa” (coffee). Without hesitation, I scooped up two kilos (a bit over four pounds) and headed home with high hopes of fresh coffee.

It was good when the “kinu” came

I knew the coffee needed to be cleaned (obviously) and then roasted in our oven, which was easy enough. But how was I to grind it? There was no store where I could buy a coffee grinder. But I wasn’t ready to give up. I had seen the ladies in the villages grinding flour with large mortars and pestles (called a “kinu”) made of wood. Of course, I couldn’t find a ready-made one. I had to order one. After what seemed to be months (which was only a week or two), the elusive “kinu” was delivered to my doorstep.

It couldn’t be too hard to grind coffee, could it? Once I had my “kinu,” I got to the serious business of grinding our coffee beans. The pounding was harder than I thought it would be. It took a toll on my shoulders, but I eventually learned how to work with this contraption. The pestle (large stick that pounds into the mortar) was heavy, and it worked best when allowed to fall through my hands and smash the beans. In time, I could grind a week’s worth of coffee in minutes without having sore shoulders afterward.

It couldn’t be too hard, could it?

It couldn’t be too hard, serving God, could it? Like grinding coffee, it seemed to me when I started out in my life of serving God that it would be simple enough to follow the Leader. Later, I understood that what appeared to be easy in the beginning turned out to be hard when the waves of opposition, misunderstanding, and lack met me, it seemed at every juncture. Those waves made it easy for me to want to quit.

Like you, I’ve wanted to quit on more than one occasion. Sometimes I’ve felt like quitting many times in a day. I imagine I’m not alone. But I’m still here, still moving forward, holding out hope against hope for a brighter tomorrow. So what keeps me going when giving up tempts me to walk away? I can answer this question with a question: What is there to go back to? I’ve seen and experienced too much of God to give up on Him.

It was good when I was powerless

On the other side of wanting to quit is where I will find the miracles that I’ve prayed for. God doesn’t have to step in and save me. He owes me nothing, and I owe Him everything. But He always does what He does best: He comes to my rescue. This rescue is offered to all, but only a few dare to walk far enough past the proverbial “line drawn in the sand” to receive it. So it was good when I found myself powerless because it placed me in a place of trusting God, hoping in, and believing that His promises are true.

“The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.”

Psalm 16:6 ESV 

Lines in the sand

Those lines we draw in the sand, the lines that we step past when we refuse to quit, bring us to what otherwise would have eluded us – a beautiful inheritance. In reality, the lines are pleasant if we can just see past what has gotten us there.

So it was good that I was doomed and felt helpless.

And it was also good that I was powerless.

Now, I find that the lines have fallen for me in pleasant places.