Januarys' Promise

 She emits five sighs that once were beeps. The Cuisinart brewer breathes out letting me know the coffee is ready. My wife on the other hand grabs the carafe before the beep. Forcing the cycle, trying to get that thirty-second jump on the day. I’ve never been a fan of mornings, preferring to unfold into the day slowly. Morning feels like the friend in Proverbs shouting, “Rise and shine!” It’s a curse not a blessing.

January feels like morning to me. A slow, cold start to the rest of the year. I choose a favored coffee cup for the morning brew. We have fifteen but I prefer about five. Generally journalling or reading a devotional and a brief Bible passage. Too much lately I reach out for Instagram. Going to try limit that this year. The cold provides an easier excuse for vacuity.

January is the jump-start for the year. The life calendar eases up providing windows to look forward and back. Fortunate enough to be able to envision hopeful dreams for the upcoming year. We’ve seen wrecks in the rear-view but not as bad as some. Set some personal goals. Martin Luther King weekend the wife and I escape town for marriage inventory. I have a list of questions pulled from another author: If the last year could be summed up in one word, what would it be? What new territory needs to be explored spiritually, physically, emotionally? What are some things that MUST be done in order to move my life forward? What could I do to make you feel more understood? It’s still early morning in January though; hard to know what God will allow as the days warm up.

Going on five cups of Arabica I still want to crawl back under the covers. Cold world, cold January, cold morning. Goal setting is the little ember lighting my fire. The thing with feathers, as Emily’s prone to say. Caffeine kicking in, undeterred by the draw of the comforter, January holds promise.

Photo by Boshoku on Unsplash

The Next Step Out Of Anxiety

“Sunrise is a never-ending glory; getting out of bed is a never-ending nuisance.” Chesterton.

I fill the old Procter-Silex grinder with coffee beans. Snapping on the lid I press the lever to grind. The lever falls off. I slide it back into place. It is, after all, twelve years old. The ritual is much older than that. Not my first grinder. Listening I press down until the sound is smooth, steady; like a racing engine, less like an old car when it back-fires. I pour the dark, earth like grind into the coffee maker and add water. The last thing I do before bed. A daily ritual, a nightly expectancy of new morning mercies.

There was a season in which ritual kept me tethered. I had bet on my marriage vows and lost. Character flaws, exposed, insurmountable. Doubt and anxiety were pervasive. I was paralyzed mentally. One thing I clung to was this principal from Elisabeth Eliott, “Do the next thing.” Going to work was a relief. Lawyers, counselling and dealings with the  (ex) wife aggravating and difficult. Pray, breathe, do the next thing. Coffee ritual at the end of the day. In the morning dark drive down the hill; hot coffee in that green unbreakable mug. 

Grinding through a better season now. I grind coffee for two. Footholds feel solid. Anxiety comes but doesn’t cripple. Work is hard. Days off celebratory and restful. Not the ideal---but good. 

My nighttime ritual keeps me connected to big picture life. The expectant morning, the labor of living, the thrill of taste, the feel of heat. The coming day holds possibilities; surprises. Bad and good.  Reaching for the grinder tonight means rising from the bed tomorrow. Waiting for the promise of new mercies.