A Cup of Comfort


When I’m not supposed to be drinking coffee.

And I’ve already had my quota for the day (or maybe the week).

But I want it, need it, more than anything.


When I’m putting off things I should be doing,

And coffee again promises to be my reliever, fortifier, Substitute.

But a Still Small Voice interrupts, “Go decaf.”


When I negotiate for “Half and half?”

And as I sprinkle grounds partway up a filter cup, the Voice murmurs, “A bit more decaf.

But I don’t want to listen.


When I rationalize that I’ve just learned sad news.

And my heart brews with the coffee, over things not said in a card that waits, dutifully penned, flag up, in the box.

But I’ve never shared those unsaid things.


When my body failed us, that time.

And the world went on like those two pink lines and that real-live beating heart on a screen just never happened.

But I stayed stuck.


When we borrowed that exquisite name.

And found comfort when it was written, tucked away between flimsy sonogram images, a record of happier times.

But it’s all come un-tucked now.


When I see those two beautiful syllables.

And they’re followed by two of life’s most defining dates, it feels guilty, like foreshadowing, that we named our own loss after the person who just today is gone.

But we didn’t know.


When I feel strangely guilty, angry.

And the creamer lid is uncertain, like everything in life, and it rains down on my kitchen floor and counters when I shake it, too harshly.

But the nearly empty carton smacks of irony, “Half & Half“.


When the tears come.

And they come harder when I’m reminded of how my toddler cries, when kept from those things that hurt her.

But I feel grateful, really grateful, protected, and wanted.


When I sip my half-caff watching what pops on my screen.

And a “Throwback Thursday” photo of an 8th grade me is dredged from a place and time I can’t remember.

But my sad face reminds me, it was only months removed from a different tragedy.


When the tears come afresh.

And I remember meeting that family way back then, before they lost the loved one with the name we borrowed for the one we’d already lost.

But they were happy and we were sad.


When I realize they’ll be healed and whole again.

And, happy, like I am now, despite losses that sometimes make me feel empty.

But only when I don’t lose sight of what actually fills me.


When there’s still more coffee in the pot.

And the interest and attention of a Still Small Voice Who wipes away sorrow as effortlessly as spilt cream.

And I don’t just want it, I need it, need Him, more than anything.