The Scent of Memory

relishing God’s faithfulness

I CAN STILL SEE MY MOTHER sitting on the back deck in the warm glow of an early Saturday morning. Steam curls and rises from the cup of coffee balanced on her pregnant belly and birds sing their new-day song. The screen door behind us bangs open and shut as my father joins us and places the coffee carafe on the picnic table nearby. I don’t remember what they talked about—probably gardens and plans for the day—but I do remember the feeling of peace, of togetherness, of belonging. And the dark, roasty smell of coffee enveloping our little family.

by Rev. Julia Bowering

Julia is Team Lead, International Programs with Canadian Baptist Ministries.

One of the wonderful gifts of being human is that taste and smell can transport us through time and space. for me, the smell of coffee brewing on a Saturday morning whisks me away to a back deck with my parents, who still chat about the garden and the day’s plans over their steaming mugs of dark roast. It also takes me to church, to visits with friends, to rainy day coffee shops and sunny morning patios.

In the depths of the pandemic lockdown, making and drinking coffee became more than a morning habit. It became a way of escaping the walls of my little apartment where I live on my own. It became a way of being close to my parents whom I hadn’t seen in so long. It became a way of being at church when a computer screen just didn’t cut it, and it became a way of making present, those I loved and missed and longed to see again.

Is it any wonder that Jesus asked His followers, during their last meal together, to taste wine and bread in His name when he was gone? Could He picture their future faces lighting up with memory, joy and a sense of His presence as they sipped the wine and savoured the bread? I like to think of their memory being passed on, hand to hand, cup to cup, through the generations until somehow it becomes mine too—the taste on my tongue as familiar as a favourite photograph.

The scent of woodsmoke in the fall used to take me to family camping trips and cozy living room gatherings with friends. But after having lived in rural Uganda, where the smell of kitchen fires was always in the air, that scent now takes me to my home there and the sound of drums beating in morning worship. It reminds me of the time that I gathered with my new friends in that place and sang songs and laughed together around an outdoor fire on Christmas Eve. My heart was homesick, but consoled. In a place so far from my own family, this smell blurred the lines between home and “away.” It was familiar and comforting, but took on new colour and shape. I felt far away, yet drawn near. That smell will forever bring those feelings swirling back into my chest along with gratitude for the faithfulness of God to me during that time.

I have often wished that I could have Jesus, in the flesh, with me now. Not just to dish out wisdom and help me solve my problems,

Enter . . . and find that He is here

but simply to be with. To lay my head on the shoulder of the One who knows me. To learn His best dance moves and gardening tricks. I want my friend, my Beloved, close. Present. Touchable.

Yet, in the bread and wine, and in the smell of wood smoke and maybe—for you—in the sound of a song or the sight of a flower, there are little doors that beckon us to enter through our senses and memories and find that He is here. Perhaps a particular slant of sunlight across the living room floor takes you back to a memory of your heart burning inside you as you prayed. Maybe the smell of a certain meal conjures the image of a neighbour standing at your front door, holding out that very meal . . . and the sudden sense that God saw you in your pain. Perhaps the stillness of evening air takes you back inside a quiet church where, for just a moment, the chaos was tamed and Jesus’ voice broke through.

Our lives are full of these little, tangible gifts that bring Jesus near to us again and again; the presence of the One we love filling the air with scent and memory, as we brew our morning coffee. 