Morning Coffee

My mornings here in the log cabin are quiet. Birdsong, cat complaints, the wind chimes if there is a breeze.  Then comes the coffee!  The piercing whistle of the tea kettle.  The harsh crushing of the grinder.  I try to recover from this intrusion, standing beside the press pot, breathing in that first scent of burst beans, pouring the steaming water, waiting as the flavor blossoms--four minutes of patience before pressing and then, alleluia, the first hot sip!  It is a ritual of thankfulness.  For the morning, for a new day.  A touchstone before going forth to whatever blessings and demands await.

     There have been mornings without the coffee ritual.  Trips back and forth to Chicago have caused me to lose track of supplies, awaking to an empty canister, or, horror of horrors, to the experimental jar of instant.  Trips--Kenya and Guatemala, coffee growing countries where it is all exported and we are left with little straws of Nescafé.  (At least the Starbucks straws, though pricey, are decent and were a reasonable choice for the recent Colorado camping trip.) 

      I remember my Diocesan discernment weekend.  Gathering with the other nominees and our chaplain in the room we went to escape the stress in the  moments between interviews, group activities, meals, and worship, I discovered that several in our little group practiced the French press liturgy!  A surprising moment.