Morning Glories of Transformation: A Memoir Regarding Caffeinated Beverages

I started loving coffee at about the same time I started loving early mornings. Sure, they go together, but their relationship has come to represent something altogether more significant for me.

As a kid, I saw mornings as an unfortunate necessity, treasured only on Christmas, birthdays, and the breakfast-date days my dad initiated from time to time. Now, those mornings broke sweetly--they even smelled different, lit duskily through blue-illuminated mist and hugged in a hoodie or flannel shirt, smooth like Daddy's freshly shaven face. He'd arm himself with his stainless steel thermos as we traipsed out the door together. I always promised myself I'd never drink the stuff.

Fast forward probably five years, and I'd take the occasional latte. I even worked at a coffee shop. And I swore I loved nights for some of the same reasons I now love mornings--quiet house, no one awake, as much time for work or entertainment as I could squeeze out of the evening before dropping exhausted into bed and nursing my growing sleep debt the next day. However, I think I can now admit that deep down inside resided dissatisfied misery. I felt caught in an endless cycle of self-disappointment, battles with faith, self-imposed limitations, and a resident lack of inspiration. Did that start with my late-night vigils? No, but it certainly all connected.

The first domino fell with graduation, the next with an internship, then the first real job, then a new commitment to working out. Then I volunteered to play and lead a worship team at 5:30 in the morning once a week, which turned into twice a week because I loved it. Those mornings, the first part of those days, suddenly became my most fulfilling…and suddenly I could no longer keep my eyes open past 11p.m. I could get up at 3:30 in the morning to hike a mountain, or at six on the weekends to go for a run or to the gym, but watching a movie until midnight just hurt! Morning coffee, with the support of a devotion, a quiet time, and my Bible, made itself more and more attractive--a new ritual that somehow marked the change in me myself.

Recently I discovered French press and the fact that I can drink it black. Apparently my coffee and I (or at least my taste for it) have both matured to one extent or another. Arguable statement! But since I made it my endeavor this year to seek balance, maybe this pendulum too will find its equilibrium.

So tomorrow morning, which is Saturday, will find me up at around six, tiptoeing up to the kitchen as I try to preserve the solitary dawn. Dimly lit by the over-stove light, I'll set the pot to brew an arabica blend as strong as my coffee-sharing roommates can take it, and then I'll cradle my aromatic cup in my hands and bask the morning sounds that drift to my ears through the open window on the cool breeze. In that quietness rests a soft, morning-glory celebration--of newfound discipline, and a renewed sweetness in the relationship I share with the God who loves me more than I can return.