Sunday Morning Coffee

It’s dark outside as my cocker spaniel, Max,
gently nudges me for the second time to get up.
It’s chilly and I shiver and huddle deeper
under my soft, flannel comforter with the frayed edge,
then throw it off in exchange for a pair
of thin, dingy white socks and a worn, Korean silk robe
embroidered with a colorful red and gold dragon
and something else I can’t remember.
It was a gift from my sister eight years ago.
I should have grabbed a sweater instead.
Why did I shave my legs last night?
I can already feel the stubble growing
like dark, jagged crystals in the crisp morning air.

I shuffle down the hall, my socks sliding
along the cool, wooden floors.
Max pads along behind me, his too-long toe nails
click, click, clicking as we head for the back door.
The frost nibbles my fingers as the latch slaps back.
Clack!
Max bounds out the door, but stops short
of the silver blanket spread on the lawn.
It looks purple-grey in the early morning darkness
as I kneel silently to gather crusty logs for a fire.

There’s something holy about that deep, cold silence
of the first frost, broken occasionally by a chorus of birds.
I tiptoe back to the family room where two orange cats
lie irreverently with eyes closed, ignoring the choir
and shunning my offering of fire on the grate.
Red-yellow flames consume a crumpled newspaper ad
for vitamins and underwear and reading glasses.


Today, I ignore the automatic coffee maker and pull out
the tea pot, French press, whole beans and grinder.
Klishhhhhh! I love the sound of whole bean coffee
pouring into the grinder.
Whrrrrrrrr! Whizzzzzzt. Whizzzzzt.
Tap tap tap- into my stainless steel, insulated press
from Williams-Sonoma;
a gift from my other sister in California.
Click, click, click- the gas burner ignites with a whoosh!
Incense of matches and wood smoke
with gas and dark roasted coffee fills the air.
The teapot crescendos in joyous melody.
In a few minutes’ time, I am worshipping:
savoring the perfectly roasted, sacred
beans from Ethiopia in a simple, white vessel-
my plain coffee cup with raised alpine fruit motif.
Ting, ting- my spoon raises its own joyful song.

My communion is complete with a rusk,
a Dutch-South African crusty biscuit
which reminds me of saints on the other side of world.
I sense the great crowd of witnesses joining me
in spirit as they did so long ago on a cold winter morning
in the ghettos of Hillbrow.
Rosie, our sweet, scarred Zulu cook, Pastor Ivers,
the DeBussys: black, white, Indian, colored-
all in one accord, loving and being loved.
Black coffee, white cream, mocha and caramel latte,
and Indian chai; each celebrated in harmony of soul.
I take another sip of hot coffee
and say a prayer of gratitude as forgiveness
for yesterday and grace for today wash over me.

The sun is starting to break somewhere.
The sky is less grey.
And Max is at the door, softly scratching
and praying to enter the sanctuary.
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