A Coffee Experiment

Photo and story by Jill

It’s an object that’s out of place. 

My beautiful, Arab coffee ‘thermos’. It has an elegant gold spout and silver body etched with leaves. It looks like it belongs to a Saudi prince. But it’s actually just plastic and sold in cheap homeware shops. Something like it is used in most Arab lounge rooms throughout the Middle East during formal occasions such as Eid (religious holidays), funerals or weddings. Guests are honoured on arrival with a shot-sized serving of bitter, black coffee, usually cardamon-flavoured. 

But here it sits. This gold thermos looking out of place on my wobbly, dusty, laminated table under a noisy fan. Elegantly sitting between scattered lab request forms, hand gel, paediatric growth charts and my stethoscope. Ready to serve patients who come to see me at the clinic. 

I am playing offense. It is an experiment.

I had reached new levels of feeling de-humanised in my work. Consequently, I was starting to de-humanise other people in how I related to them. I had started coming to the clinic with my defence shields up. Bracing for another day of feeling like a punching bag for people’s desperation, people feeling trapped and unable to change or help themselves, expressed in unreasonable requests and constant expressions of disappointment in me, “I’m upset with you, because you didn’t do/give/visit me …”. Bracing for another day of seeing people return with the same problems, the same unwillingness, or I guess inability, to try new solutions. Bracing myself for another day of seeing people I’ve listened to for years, prayed with for years, and it seems God is doing nothing. I came here to show compassion, but I’ve become tired, grumpy and resentful. I feel like I’ve lost who I am.

Simultaneously, I have been reading through the gospel of John. Jesus’ interactions with humanity are startling. He lived in the neighbourhood. He saw so much suffering. Young men with shrivelled limbs and shrivelled dignity. Lepers with festering wounds and festering bitterness. Blind people who sat on roadsides, in plain sight yet unseen. Tormented souls who tormented others wherever they roamed. He was God’s light, sent into dark places. He taught captivating things about his Father’s heart, He did miraculous acts of recreating limbs and eyes, and yet people still didn’t understand who he was or treat him appropriately. Sometimes they demanded miracles or more bread and he said no. No, I’m not going to feed you. No, I’m not staying to heal all the sick here. I’m sure they also muttered, “I’m upset with you, because you didn’t do/give/visit me….”. But it was ok. He was ok. It wasn’t because he had become hard-hearted! No, he stopped, saw people, had compassion, empathy and gave dignity. But he wasn’t driven by the demands and needs. He wasn’t anxious or reactive. He was rooted in his Father. He believed what his Father declared over him, “My beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.” He listened to his Father and did his will. He knew his calling.

A good barometer of my spiritual and mental health is if I’ve stopped seeing and treating people as humans. Instead, if I’ve started to see them as embodied problems and burdens, to be dealt with as quickly as possible. When I see them across the room I feel triggered, my guts tighten, my thoughts spiral down and I feel irritated. I’m reminded of my failure to fix things and my disappointment in God, and my heart hardens. Perhaps I have a demanding patient beelining for me at the clinic, so I look busy and walk past, or I fail to have compassion as they pour out their complaint, or I go and complain about them to a colleague. Perhaps I have a conflict with a colleague and feel hurt by them or frustrated, so I try to avoid them. 

But in God’s grace, sometimes he throws me an unexpected gift. Perhaps I end up needing to see that demanding patient, because of how the work load is distributed that particular day. Or perhaps I end up needing to talk to my colleague about an urgent logistical matter. Then as we interact, my eyes are opened to remember that they are actually HUMAN. Perhaps I hear that their child is getting bullied, they have a toothache, their husband can’t find work and is depressed, or their child has autism and can’t get education support here. As I remember their humanness, I feel compassion stir within me and my heart softens. I can be attentive to them, empathetic and curious. This is a human crafted and known by God before they were born, having dignity and value, no matter what. Their suffering is real, so I can grieve with them.  At the same time, I can honour them in their suffering, honour their relentless pursuit of help for their children and their resilience thus far. I can also choose to rest in the truth that God works in others’ lives in their suffering, not only if we are able to relieve it.

So, the Arab coffee experiment. How is it going? It’s a delightful novelty for everyone. Patients are surprised to be welcomed as honoured guests! Some Arab colleagues have been ‘borrowing’ the golden thermos for their own use. I have gone on several search-and-rescue trips to bring it back to my wobbly, laminated desk. But as the morning wears on I feel my defence shields gradually rise, my heart hardening again. One familiar ‘customer’ sits down and my heart sinks. She is poor, has no sense of agency in her life, and always asks the foreigners for money. I don’t even bother to offer her a coffee. I want to get this interaction over with in the quickest time possible. But suddenly, she leans forward with a sparkle in her tired eyes and asks, “Can I have coffee?”.  I feel embarrassed and awkward that I haven’t offered. “Oh yes, sure”. Then her lively seven-year old daughter chimes in, “Me too!”, and I laugh. My heart softens. I pour the coffee. I see her as a human again, a struggling mum with a delightful child, whom God loves. The experiment has worked. The golden thermos has done its job. It might be here to stay. 

If this story resonated with you, sign up to get honest stories in your inbox for free on Wednesdays from Christian women in Western Australia from March—November 👇🏻

Jill - Regular Contributor

Jill grew up in Albany, studied in Perth & Sydney but now lives with some friends and a baby tortoise (Turbo) in the Middle East. She helps lead a team doing community health programs and works as a GP with Syrian refugees. Learning Arabic was the hardest thing she’s undertaken. In her work she’s passionate about seeing the unseen people and helping Arab teenage boys learn emotional literacy and their God given identity. She enjoys textures, colours, photography and laughing at ridiculous ideas.