I’m comfortable in my small easy chair, just the right proportions for my shortness. I have an afghan over my lap that Deb gave me several years ago. Woven into it are pictures of her two older children. She sent the picture to a company that takes the picture and magically transforms it into an afghan. This one was made before Luke was born, so maybe there will be another one some day.
It’s a small thing, but I love having two of my grands on my lap every morning.
I just took a sip of wonderfully-flavored coffee. I’m not sure where this batch is from, but it’s very rich. I order my coffee online from Bhodi Leaf. They send the green coffee beans directly to my son-in-law, who has a coffee roaster. Buying the beans green is much less expensive than buying them roasted, and I have the fun of trying coffees from different areas of the world.
I remember my dad making his morning coffee. Back then, everyone had a coffee pot. Ours was not a percolator. It was just a good-sized pot with a lid, a handle, and a spout.
He would dump in a scoop or two of grounds, usually Folger’s. Then he’d fill it with cold water, put the lid on, and set the pot on the burner. It took a few minutes to heat up, but then you had to watch it. You didn’t want it to boil out of the spout–big mess! Just as the coffee began to boil up the spout, he’d grab it off the burner and hold it under the kitchen faucet while he added a couple of quick blasts of cold water through the spout to “settle the grounds.” Then he’d pour the brew into his cup, adding sugar and a quick stream of Carnation Evaporated Milk. It smelled wonderful, but I learned later that coffee is an acquired taste. Yes, I’ve acquired it. I also learned later that this way of making coffee was called “cowboy coffee,” which was often made over a campfire in a sturdy pot like the one above. Not surprising, since my dad grew up in the Utah desert and in Colorado.
It’s a small thing, this memory and my own morning cup. I almost always think of my dad and his coffee when I enjoy my own.
As I look around my living room, there are many small things that speak home to me. One of them is my teapots along the mantel, and the old-fashioned doilies that my mom and I have made. Hers are filet crochet, square in shape, while mine are round and look like snowflakes.
Little things that connect me with my mom.
When I finish this post, I’ll read my Bible. It’s something I do every day, and I’ve been through it cover to cover every year since I was 19. It’s my chronological Bible this year, which has been extremely interesting, especially as I’ve begun to blog through the book of Isaiah. Reading the prophecies in their right time setting gives them a whole different impact.
It’s a small thing that connects me to the God I love and serve.
Small is good. Connection is good.
God is good. I am thankful.