I should clarify one thing right away. Coffee with God involves good coffee, dark coffee—something with character—Brazilian or Ethiopian or Tuscan, not Folgian. This point may seem irrelevant, but as the Puritans would say, “God loveth adverbs.” Idiosyncratic, I know, and hardly a requirement for holiness, but it seems worth noting that first-rate coffee is an appropriate complement to conversation with God, who knows quality, having invented it.

Coffee, however, is only a context here. We grab coffee with a friend, and the coffee is just an excuse for a good talk, something to do with our hands. Coffee is to good friends what movies are to lovers—a convenient meeting place. (If the inverse is true, and friendships are only an excuse to drink more coffee, I fear for you.)

Therefore, coffee with God is an artificially-induced context. And that’s just the point. Twice this week I drove off to a café, forsaking my own cappuccino maker and admirable bean supply, and sat down with my Bible and journal, having acknowledged that I did not intend to be alone. Neither would this be a casual hangin’ session. This would be real talk—the tongue-slowing, mind-changing kind.

It had been too long. Too long since I had set aside time for a heart-to-heart with Christ, made a special appointment, and driven happily away to keep it. There’s something inherently good about deliberate immersion in Jesus, but all the more so, somehow, when we carefully create a space for it to happen.

This morning, I read his words, they came off the page with vigor, and His presence at the table lifted a weight off my shoulders. I thought in the presence of this Friend, who is also Counselor and Master, and penciled down our shared thoughts. The longer I stayed, the more his thoughts became mine. I glanced out the window and the sky shimmered. The colors of my world were refreshed.

I sometimes wonder why I need coffee as a pretense for these conversations, and I really don’t. They can be snatched on a long drive to school or as I lie awake at night. They can even be had at home, sitting on the futon. But coffee is a context—and I’ll exploit any prop if it propels me toward a conversation that could change my life. I’ll bracket off hours and drive miles for words of life. Jesus’ words punch a hole in my mud-colored horizon so that delicious reality pours through.

Coffee with God is always bittersweet. When Christ has his say, and I sit back and listen, the sweet runs deeper and deeper. I come away happily realigned, the world brighter, Christ bigger, me smaller, smiling and shaking my head: Oh Jesus, You and I need to do this more often. I know his answer by heart.