Eighteen grams of home-roasted Ethiopian coffee.
Two light spritzes of water to the beans.
Hand-ground, medium fine.
One hundred sixty grams of water, heated to 203 degrees.
15-second stir.
Brew for three minutes.
Press into a carafe filled with 160 grams of ice.
Swirl until the ice melts.
Pour over ice in a glass cup.
Taste.
Enjoy.
Savor.
Or, I could throw a K-cup of donut shop blend in a Keurig. It’s just a vehicle for caffeine. Coffee is coffee, right?
To me, it’s more.
Morning coffee is a ritual. It’s a slow, intentional process. It’s not just brown caffeine water. I have all kinds of more efficient ways to make coffee. I have a fancy electric grinder and an automatic pour-over machine. But for the first cup of the day, I want something different. I need the physicality of my hand grinder. I like to heat the water and pour it clockwise from a gooseneck kettle. Taking the time to craft a cup with intention helps me feel grounded and connected to the coffee. And the taste! There is no need for cream, sugar, or syrup. The coffee sings on its own.
So much of the work I do is abstract.
I sit with people.
I pray with people.
I offer care and comfort to people.
I write things and send them out into the void.
Most days, I can’t quantify my work in numbers or deliverables. No spreadsheet can track my productivity. I clock in and out, but it’s hard to tell when the work is complete. Is the job of caring for people ever done?
I need things in my life that are predictable.
I need things in my life that are reproducible.
I need recurring moments of beauty and joy.
I need feelings, smells, tastes, and experiences that are familiar, life-giving, and sustainable.
The ritual of morning coffee is like a prayer.
It reminds me of the goodness of God and life, no matter what else the day brings.