Little Spills and Lukewarm Coffee

I’m sittin’ here with a cup of lukewarm coffee. Actually, it’s hot now because I got up to zap it in the microwave. When it was given to me, though, it was lukewarm. When it was given to me, a joy bubbled from the depths of my being and I knew I had to share it with you.

About an hour ago, the kids and I were sitting around watching my laptop through the t.v. streaming our favorite Sabbath preacher. That might be a lazy way to have “church,” but it’s something below zero outside–and I don’t want to know how big that something is. This was the state of my windows, from the inside, this afternoon…

…which is why I reheated my coffee.

As we sat there, and the preacher spoke on our relationship with Jesus and how everything we do should be done out of a deep desire to please Him, my youngest daughter slipped from her spot and sneaked into the kitchen. My reflex action was to address her sneakiness, but the words caught in my throat. I coughed, and I turned to eye the rustling behind me, but I couldn’t see my daughter as she crouched behind the counter. Again, I intended to rebuke her. Again, I choked on the words.

I heard the tinkling of ceramic and the clang of metal, and I turned to look a third time. I watched as a chubby little hand attached to a tiny arm slipped my favorite coffee carafe back onto the counter. She tried to do so silently. She was almost successful. I couldn’t see past her elbow cause she was still crouching on the floor. I worried she was hittin’ the java until I noticed that my favorite mug was missing, too.

I turned my head back to the t.v. as she slowly, stealthily broke cover and headed toward the microwave. Out of the corner of my tearing eye, I watched as she tried to find the right buttons in the dark. I covered my mouth to hide elated giggles as the microwave beeped like crazy. She was able to warm the coffee about twenty seconds before opening the door in frustration and removing a barely warmed mug.

She carried it over to me quietly, not announcing her presence until she was standing directly before me–holding her offering in outstretched arms. The secrecy was important to her, obeying my wishes in the absence of an order. My children already know what I like, and coffee’s at the top of the list. She wasn’t appeasing me after a bad day or earning my love or my favor, she just wanted me to know that she loves me. She just wanted me to know that she knows me. I scooped her up and I thanked her. As I eyed the trail of little spills and tasted the lukewarm coffee, I nodded along to the words of my Father as He whispered, “Just like that. I want to be loved just like that.”

Now I think I’ll zap the coffee one more time as I open the Book that shares His heart and find out more about what He loves.