I'm Giving Up Sleep For Lent

 Not all sleep, of course. It’s my first time ‘giving something up’ for Lent. Ideally, it’s an opportunity to identify with and appreciate the significant suffering that Christ went through on my behalf. People give up all kinds of stuff, chocolate, fish, social media and sports. I know of one person that sacrificed sarcasm.

I don’t want to approach Easter with arrogance. Nor do I desire to enter into self-flagellation as Martin Luther did before he understood his justification by faith. Seems the season should hold some sacrifice alongside a reflective posture. Loss and discipline. Remembering and celebrating. Perhaps you’ve come across people where their supposed sacrifice seems ho-hum, “I’m giving up salads!” I felt like I should loosen my hold of something that’s got hold of me. Something my friends recognize as my attachment. My wife’s loud guffaw when I told her I was giving up sleep let me know I was giving up the right thing.

Why sleep? I love my sleep. I have friends that enjoy sunrises. I don’t. Sunrises happen early in the morning when people should be sleeping. If I were on the show Survivor, giving up food would be a tertiary problem. What would ruin me would be giving up sleep. And coffee. The coffee which I need because I’m waking up---from sleep. It comes easy to me; in cars, on airplanes, in chairs and beds. I go to bed late and get up late. But not this season.

I’m not the watchman waiting for the morning, but I’ve been surprised to find a richness in rising earlier. My own voice encourages me to rise up saying, “It’s Lent!”. There’s been no mystical experience, no deep insights into Christ’s suffering. Nothing earth-shaking at all really. There has been this; a settling quiet. A peculiar calm as I sit at my desk drinking my coffee and reading my books. Beneath all that is an expectancy for Easter, the most earth-shaking of events preceding the raising of Christ, the First-fruits of those who are asleep!

Photo by CHUTTERSNAP on Unsplash

Longings In Present

Rhythms of past, longings in present. In the heat of summer; when the space between mountain ranges turns pressure cooker. Or early Fall, when the Santa Ana winds blow hot and dry, cracking lips and emptying souls. Throwing backpack with book and sweatshirt onto the seat I’d head north in my white AMC Hornet.

Fernweh is the German word for hungering; for distant lands, new horizons, and experiences. Could it be that the longing is for place; a stake where heart is whole, mind is still and God is present?  I drove to a place I already knew. A place moisture crept in from the ocean, where mist welcomed morning. There was a smell; unique enough so that anyone who’s ever been to the central California coast; if it were bottled and opened you’d know the place.

Strangers and exiles of the Earth we’re called in Hebrews. Those who seek a country. A far country as Peterson puts it and that U2 is still searching for. I’d set out knowing it was a place that imperfectly satisfied. Where wrestling and upheavals were brought to God in a spot that touched on my longing.

Along the way there was a restaurant. God met me there too. Always the Chili Omelet. Over the years the menu went through a series of name changes but; always, at heart, it was a chili omelet.  Accompanied by fresh ground coffee and a glass of cold, squeezed, orange juice. God meets His people not only in place, but in wine and water, bread and manna.

In my mornings now and in this new season of hunger I’m trying to capture that sense of place. To find a locale, a routine, a spot that I can venture too or model at home. Nowadays the heart seems full of anxious jitters. To find a spot to settle it; quiet it and calm it down is my desire. To sense God or reawaken my awareness of His presence. A spot where I feel less a stranger even if it’s in fifteen-minute increments with my raisin toast and coffee. I suspect it’s more about finding routine and being present with my hungering heart. In Hebrews it’s written, “If they had been thinking about that country from which they’d went out-they could have returned.”

I always returned home from the central coast. I could have moved there but it wasn’t home. It was a slice of Heaven, a shadow of things to come. That’s the deal with being a pilgrim; you’re always searching for that place to land. Living with present longings; looking to future hope.

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. 

But I Own A Mr. Coffee

Been thinking about status and stuff lately….

“Nope,” I said, shaking head;

Don’t have a Moen, or an Axor for my sink,

Counters not Formica, It’s granite, I think.

Willamette, Santa Rosa, Napa, Malbec?

Second shelf; on sale, I just read the label on the back.

Say what? I don’t know what ‘expendable’ means,

But I own a Mr. Coffee to grind up my beans.

"Yup, I agree,"

I’m working blue collar with a bachelor’s degree---

My nights aren’t always off nor weekends always free.

Vacations booked with triple A; Hotels dot com for beds;

Flying economy, ‘Oh the people next to me!’

Using our shoulders for their heads.

Don’t stay in a five-star, don’t eat Michelin,

There’s a patio view from the room we are in.

Glory! We've been able to go places (you know the beans they grow),

Kona, Antigua, Andhra Pradesh,

Mr. Coffee brews them delightfully fresh.

“I’ve made more…,”

Director, boss, manager of store;

Ego likes the title, soul its’ freedom more.

Oh contentment; staying in my lane is hard,

Competing with the Joneses jacks the credit card.

I step back, sigh, laugh—pursuit of status is a gyp,

End of the day we all end up in a crypt.

By some standards I don’t have much,

A kid, wife and God who loves me,

And I own a Mr. Coffee!

Morning Ritual

On working days and vacation days—one morning ritual. The face gets washed; hot water or cold water; soak the hair, brush it out. Small life-affirming ritual I’ve been engaging in for longer than I’ve been drinking coffee. More consistent than brushing my teeth.

Twenty bucks would buy me a new one! It’s a dark black, solid plastic piece that my dad probably bought from a local drug store. Or the Fuller brush man. I haven’t been parted from it—so to speak. Constant for forty-two years. It wasn’t mine. It was dad’s and it worked pretty good for what I needed. My sixteen years-old long hair needed training and dad’s brush was perfect. When he left the house, he left it behind. Must not have been important. Now I think maybe he knew? How do we lock onto these little things?  

In high school and college I carried a comb in my pocket. Always the brush in the morning. Combs disappeared but the brush traveled with me.  My mom’s pink bathroom to a summer in Chicago; the upstairs bathroom in a house full of guys to the strained and cluttered baths of my first marriage. High desert years alone with my daughter to beach side songs with my beloved. The brush has been along for all of it. In suitcases and toiletry bags; on hotel counters to permanent bathroom drawers. Recently I bought another brush for travel—so nothing happens to the good one.

Why this brush?  Does it feel perfect in hand and on hair (weight, smooth plastic, firm bristles that penetrate to scalp) because it is; or because I’ve used it so long. Is it that ‘one thing’ of my dad’s that I own? I don’t know all the answers.

I do know this. Tomorrow morning the sun will rise.  I’ll get out of bed. Pour a cup of coffee. The face will get washed. I’ll put my head under running water. Then I’ll brush it out with the ideal hair brush. Life goes on.

Water

“And whoever in the name of a disciple gives to one of these little ones even a cup of cold water to drink, truly I say to you, he shall not lose his reward.”

 ^"Again he prayed, and the heavens gave rain, and the earth produced its crops."

Water had hold of his mind. Water; our landlord was convinced one of us was stealing it.  We shared the meter with two other tenants. First came the personal interrogations. He insisted we use the same amount of water as our neighbors though there were three of us vs. single guy and married couple. Then came replacement to low flow plumbing. Rants continued every time contact was made.  Then a list of suggestions such as ‘do laundry once a week,’ ‘hand-wash dishes,’ and ‘limit baths and showers.’ He could have simply raised the rent. Water was available in ample supply; but the landlord didn’t want to pay for it.

My morning shower is a ritual; like morning coffee. The average ‘American’ shower uses 17 gallons and lasts eight minutes.  My wife would have you believe mine take twice as long. Taking my water use out of the equation; the average American uses 80-100 gallons per day. Meanwhile, “Yasmin Dawood is working hard to stick to her limit of 13.2 gallons per day for individuals...”

Cape Town, South Africa is to run out of water in July.  The government is shutting off the supply. The dams are empty. The original shut-off date was April; but through conservation and water borrowing the taps now will go dry in July. Four million people (between the census of 1996 and 2011, the City of Cape Town grew by 45%) scrounging for water. Worldwide, 663 million people lack access to improved drinking water.

 When your ‘small l’ landlord messes with your water you can move.  When the Lord of all withholds water you can pray, utilize your resources and hope like crazy for solution. We can be part of the solution. These 5 non-profits have a healthy focus on water.  Pray with them.  Hope with them. Think of them with your coffee, shower and shave.

Standing In Line Is A Good Thing

“I don’t want to sound like a retro-grouch, but we are asociety that is in constant pursuit of frictionless, fast experiences.,” 

Shaved-ice and watermelon disrupt lives so wonderfully!  In Faenza, mid-summer, post work-day, after dinner, they walk to the zocalo.  Families corral kids and go out into the street.  Old people, young lovers, singles step out into the warm night and make their way down the block.  Coming together under a big canopy; community. Snow-cones and seasonal fruit, wood benches and plastic chairs, man-to-man, coteries of women, cliques of twenty-somethings---catching-up, connecting, “haven’t seen you for a while,” ---evening stretches into late night.  So it was a quarter-century ago.  

I fear it’s a lost tradition. Getting together is no longer a focus.  Casual coffee is going the same route; the ‘pour over’ is being automated because it takes four minutes too long.  We hate lines, so we avoid events. We are submitting to our lesser selves.  

We become little Gollums whose ‘Precious’ is our privacy. It’s easy to hide at home.  Technology makes it possible. We work from home.  We worship at home.  We shop from home.  Bumping elbows with humans is uncomfortable.  People can be annoying.  Unless they’re just like us. Then they’re irritating.  It’s never been good for man to be alone.

To become healthy humans, or hobbits, we need to leave the house.  Build extra time into our schedules.  Set down the phone.  Yes, the lines will frustrate.  Humanity will give you a hundred reasons this was a bad idea. Wait for the moments.  The mother playful with her baby; a shared smile with a fellow customer in line, the scent of a perfume like being in love, affirming words on a tee-shirt, real beauty inked onto a tattoo sleeve. A simple four-minute pour over colors your world with more than coffee; rubbing up against people opens us up to being more richly human ourselves.

Freud, My Dad and Scrambled Eggs

I lay back on the analyst’s couch.  The discussion resumes.  In a thick, German accent he revisits the question, “Why breakfast?”  I don’t think it's only me.  There’s something deep and archetypal about it.  Perhaps it's the eggs.  

Symbolic; I suppose.  Reaching back to childhood I equate quick breakfasts ---Frosted Flakes, Cap'n Crunch, cold cereals and hot cereals--with school days.  Summer days and weekends tantalized with morning cartoons and full breakfasts; eggs, bacon, fresh melon; peaches and bread-with spreads of butter, peanut butter, marmalade and jellies.  Years later I would add coffee to the list---the smell, the heat, the senses coming awake.

The doctor taps his pipe against the table and mutters, “Der pater.”  Father; yes.  In the early days before the screaming fights and the long absences dad would come into the kitchen to cook.  I remember scrambled eggs with other ingredients; sausages and salami; flavorful but different than mom ever made.  Bathrobe on; which was dressed-up for dad on a Saturday, he scrambled eggs. Mom percolated coffee and set out the table.  My sister and I sat at the table waiting to be served.

The analyst inhales; adjusts his pipe.  A clock ticks in the background.  “So---you were served,” he says--both statement and question.  So we were.  That may well be the crux of breakfast’s hold on me.  The good breakfasts I’ve had have all been served.  I’ve enjoyed them in repose; most often in community with others.  I’m being served.  I’m ordering what I want.  Extra bacon or absurd amounts of butter and syrup-even pure maple!.  All mine.  Id, ego and Sabbath rolled together like a crepe.  The alarm sounds.  Reflection ends. I go on my way--- thinking about breakfast and planning my next Sabbath rest.

Vibrating Senses, Thanks and Coffee

The screaming alarm awakens the senses to the new day.  Each experience contains opportunity for being thankful.  Hearing the morning alarm means my ears are working.  Somehow the sound of the alarm vibrates the air and my ear processes it.  My brain shifts gears.  My mind goes from dreaming to screaming as it processes the sound.  Leaping up from the bed I note the pounding in my chest.  My heart is pumping properly, adrenal glands are functioning quite nicely too.  My feet feel the cold tile as I head toward the coffee pot. 

Making the morning coffee centers me.  I grind the beans until I no longer hear chunks being decimated (ears still working).  The coffee is measured out; cold water is poured into the machine.  I press the switch to begin brewing.  The smell of coffee permeates the kitchen…..

Orange juice is another morning enjoyment.  Drinking orange juice is a three-dimensional delight for me.  There is the sweet taste and the feel of pulp on the tongue.  I realize too that there is a memory component.  Drinking good orange juice I remember great breakfasts out; such as sitting on the Omelette Parlor (or the Summerland Beach Café) patio with a view of the ocean.  I think back on late nights at a friends house during college; where grabbing a glass of orange juice before driving home became ritual.  Then too there were the Alta Dena milk-man deliveries in Thousand Oaks; where we’d get fresh milk and fresh-squeezed orange juice right to our doorstep.

The body and all my senses react as I open the front door with one hand while the other holds a hot white mug.  The heat from the cup contrasts the blast of cold as I walk to my car in brisk morning.  My eyes take in the stars; light against the still-dark sky.  I set the cup on the dashboard.  Steam clouds the window.  Starting the car and grasping cup in hand I leave morning behind me and head off to face another day.

Coffee, Triple A and Escapism

Glancing at my desk this very instant you would know some interesting information about me. You would know that I like caffeine in various forms as attested to by the coffee cup sitting right next to the empty Mountain Dew can. You would guess that either I like my hands and skin soft or that work kills my hands and they need lotion. You would also learn that I am a member of the Auto Club from which you would further surmise (based on the torn out pages laying helter-skelter) that I enjoy good food and road trips. What you couldn’t know is how these things realistically fit into my life.

You couldn’t know that I’m a coffee snoot. You couldn’t know that I and my wife have our coffee mailed to us bi-monthly from a special roaster in Redlands. You couldn’t know how the mix of caffeine and ritual, hot liquid and robust taste provide a stable platform upon which begins an often stress-filled day. Knowing, perhaps you can relate, but the coffee cup only hints at the reality but doesn’t reveal it.

The Day Trip article from “Triple-A” features the suburb of Lomita. I don’t know that I’ll ever go there. It’s just that idea of travel and escape lures me. My conviction is that one must make room for these little trips as Sabbath rests if you will. Apart from days off I find the need to take trips to energize my soul and restore focus. Working with the public has its’ own unique issues and it’s necessary to take the time away from them in order to pursue loving them well. Thus the cut-out articles on food and travel. These are not dream trips these are drives and visits that instill lost sanity.

So it is that my desk tells part of the story of work days that begin at daybreak with dark coffee and are filled with the pressures of customer service. It tells the tale of days given to wanderlust and rest, promise of good food and new adventures. In between those two the rest of life fits in far from the desk where I enjoy my caffeine.

Taking the Lead

Try this: Next time you are out at a coffee joint, a bakery, an ice-cream place or any similar type food-to-go place, watch the male/female couples and see who places the order. Numerous times I've noticed the woman orders (and often pays the bill) while the man just stands by looking rather clueless. I doubt that when Bogart and Bacall went out for "a cuppa Joe" that Bacall ordered (whistled, maybe). The same goes for Astair/Rogers, Marshall Dillon and Kitty, Prince Ranier and Grace Kelly, Fred Flinstone and Wilma.....you get the idea.

I'm not certain what the failure of men ordering for their women says about our culture and society. But I can't help but think that it's somehow a reflection of the natural order gone topsy/turvy.

She Does Dishes, Holds My Hand, And Brings Me My Coffee

"I want an Oompa Loompa, and I want it now!" Any kind of maid, or servant, or something to help out with the chores would be great. And what if she made you coffee too? I mean, heck, I figure I spend roughly 18 hours a year making coffee at home. And I spend too much time doing the dishes. I hate doing the dishes. I hate washing them. I hate putting them away.

But what if there were something, someone, who could do your dishes, brew your coffee, bring it to you in your home office.......Add to that some hand holding when you need it; plus artificial intelligence.....Deep discussions over a cup-a-joe....Though it borders on the Twilight Zonish, I'm running out to the store to buy me one of these......


h/t Hot Air