Redefining Freedom
I was halfway to the coffee maker, ruminating on how Monday morning hadn’t been gentle with me. I texted my husband: Do you think I’ll regret breaking my coffee fast? What I was foregoing for Lent felt so small, so insignificant. My hand hung over the espresso grounds as my husband texted back: Regret? Maybe not. But you also won’t experience the new identity God’s forming in you by finishing what you started.
I didn’t start drinking any form of coffee until I was thirty-six. I survived undergrad and grad school plus three babies while working without that caffeine hit. If it was such a “small” sacrifice, why did it feel so hard to let go? Because my morning coffee is quite literally a means of connection and love between me and my husband. Every morning my husband brings me a warm, slightly sweetened latte from our kitchen, and as silly as it might sound, I find immense comfort in that morning ritual.
But his text reminded me of what I’d journaled earlier: In giving up coffee, I’m choosing to center my heart on Jesus, my ultimate source of comfort and love, the living water that runs through me. Jesus, please take this small discipline and teach my heart where to look for the realest joy and love. I know the season of Lent is now far gone, but as we celebrate freedom in the United States this month, I’m struck by how this practice has changed my perception of freedom.
I’ll confess, initially I was only going to give up tea and soda until that sweet husband of mine raised his eyebrow, as if to ask, Are you really giving up something if you’re not giving up that beloved cup of coffee? I stewed on the unspoken question for days before the Spirit nudged me to concede. Okay, no morning coffee, either. But I gave myself five days before I would cave and drown myself in coffee, tea, or a cold, fizzy drink.
By week three, when I hadn’t caved, I realized I’d made a small habit disproportionately bigger than I intended. I could forego my morning coffee and survive. Saying no to my habit simplified my choices and freed my focus. As Carolyn Koehline, one of my journaling mentors, writes: “When you . . . say no to something you’d habitually go along with, you strengthen your powers of choice and discernment.”
If it’s true for my small(ish) coffee habit, how might we limit God’s work in our spirits with our limiting beliefs? I can’t find the time to feast with the Word himself. It feels too hard to connect with others in the church. Prayer doesn’t really matter, does it? When we say no to our small thinking, God empowers us to say yes to his good gifts. Communing with the Word sustains us day-to-day. A community filled with Jesus people knits love into our hearts. Intimate prayer with the Father nourishes our souls.
Another surprising revelation from my coffee fast was how my true appetite had been masked by my daily coffee ritual. Normally, coffee is my only breakfast. But during Lent, I often woke up with a loud, persistent growl in my stomach that could not be ignored. I didn’t realize how that one little mug of coffee was masking my true appetite, and foregoing coffee freed me to choose real, nourishing food for my body first.
And so, I surmise, it goes with our soul appetites. When I feed myself with poor substitutes for real nourishment, I temporarily feel good. Social media scrolling, Netflix bingeing, self-help measures, mindless shopping—they all give me the dopamine hit I like. And in a world where I can fulfill any appetite with just one swipe, what good sense does it make to abstain from anything? It seems foolish, except through the upside-down, inside-out lens of Jesus’s kingdom. When I’ve freed myself from junk, I have room for—in fact, I crave—the real Living Water and the real Bread of Life.
So what did God teach me through my coffee fast? First, I could commit to fasting, and through that, I found a stronger commitment to do what God asks, for “he gives . . . abundant strength to the weak” (Isa. 40:29 NABRE). Second, I found new energy and enthusiasm for spiritual habits as my focus was freed to shift from an earthly comfort to Jesus because “through Christ our comfort overflows” (2 Cor. 1:5 CSB).
At the end of my fast, God showed me freedom. Freedom from my own limiting beliefs, freedom to commit myself to God, freedom to pursue what is good, and an ability to more freely hear from God. The difficulty is that freedom requires surrender. Surrender is hard when we’re afraid of what we’ll lose. But with God, we surrender to abundant mercy and grace. We surrender our pride for his goodness. We surrender our position for his glory. Surrender feels terrifying until you’re resting in him, but tender grace is always waiting on the other side of surrender.
I used to think that freedom meant getting to do whatever I wanted, whatever made me happy, or whatever felt good to me. While true freedom is always precipitated by sacrifice, I learned that God’s greatest gift to us is the freedom to set my heart on him. I pray that as you celebrate freedom this month, you would ask God what you may need to clear out of the way to find the clearest path towards him.
is a writer, Ann Voskamp intern, editor, and journaling instructor from South Carolina. A lover of the beach, the stars, and the lattes her husband makes, her favorite things to write about are motherhood, special needs parenting, mental health, grief, and faith. You can connect with her over at Writing Is Cheaper Than Therapy, Facebook, and Instagram.
Photograph © Tabitha Turner, used with permission
