Coffee is Love

I awake to the sound of a mandolin, rhythmically strumming its intro to an upbeat song. My eyes open the tiniest bit, and my hand reaches out toward my nightstand, fumbling for my phone. It’s 6:25am, time to rise and shine. There is a mental struggle in my mind as I tell myself to get up. Well, not exactly a struggle. I tell myself to get up, and myself tells me no. I find my phone with one eye shut and snooze the alarm, or maybe turn it off, who cares. I’m not ready for this.

Nine minutes later, the song plays again, trying to coax me awake with its cheery melody. No, thank you. I snooze again.

Before the next snooze cycle ends, my husband wakes me up. He’s dressed for the day and has just placed a steaming cup of coffee, loaded with cream and sugar, on my nightstand. He leans over and kisses me, telling me goodbye. My eyes fully open this time, blinking slowly, looking at him for one more kiss before he goes. He stops at our bedroom door, backlit by the light of the hallway, and shows me the ASL sign for I love you, I reciprocate and call out goodbye a final time. Then I roll over and stare at the mug, listening to his receding footsteps. Smelling the enticing aroma, I begin the mental struggle of waking up.

This is it, the moment of truth. I can sit up now and wake up with hot coffee, which is what I need to do. Or I can go back to bed and risk not getting the kids ready for school in time. The coffee wins. I sit up and begin to sip, letting the hot liquid slowly warm up my brain.

I hate mornings. I’m hardwired that way. Whether I’ve slept for 10 hours or 6, whether the baby was up all night or slept through it, I’m a groggy, grumpy mess upon waking. My brain doesn’t function except to repeat our morning mantra, which is, “I hate mornings.” That hot cup of coffee my husband brings is a godsend. It’s love, warming my hands, waking up my brain, and it’s the only incentive I have to get moving.

This cup of coffee is one of the ways my husband shows me love. It’s small, but it’s not. It’s a sacrifice of his time and energy. It’s providing for me even when he won’t be home to see the benefits. It’s ignoring his own grumpy morning feelings to help me deal with mine. His simple and inconvenient action of making coffee in the morning makes me feel valued and loved.

It’s love like this that I want to celebrate on Valentine’s Day. Not just the romantic, butterfly inducing love. Not the idealistic, happily ever after dream that doesn’t take into account the complexities of life. I want to celebrate real love, shown in small moments and big moments, shown day after day, when it’s easy and when it’s not. Love that sees my weakness and provides support instead of criticism. Love in action.

On this Valentine’s Day, when I’m irritated at having to fold a million tiny cards for students in 3 classes, stuff them with a mini tattoo, and seal each one with the world’s most ineffective sticker, I’m reminded what it’s like to feel valued. These little cards, an inconvenience for me, will tell my children’s classmates that someone loves them, someone thought of them, someone values them. Sure, they’ll end up in the trash, but I want my sons to learn that when we love someone, we don’t just tell them we show them. Their dad has set a beautiful example. I pray that my boys grow up with eyes to see the needs of others and to meet them, even if/especially if all it takes is a hot cup of coffee.

This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. 1 John 4:10

Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth. 1 John 3:18

Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful; and let us consider how to stimulate one another to love and good deeds. Hebrews 10:23-24