The science of pouring amazes
me. Our coffee pot has a thermal carafe with less than adequate ventilation
(says the non-scientific expert who bases this on anecdotal evidence), so the
coffee pours slowly. I've noticed that pouring velocity doesn't seem to
increase over the life of a brewed pot, which probably eliminates the
perceptive distortion of first-cup anxiety.
The thing that really amazes me,
however, is what I call cannonball drops. I'll be pouring a cup, semi-patiently
watching the surface-tensioned globes of java appear to form a tiny stream, and
suddenly, one drop does a cannonball into the cup, splashing coffee nearly a
foot across the room.
This is why you'll often see me,
dressed for work or an appointment, either pouring at arm's length, or
venturing out into the world with tiny brown stains on my shirt and pants. This
morning, after a brief prayer and reflection time, as I poured a second cup, I
could almost see the individual coffee-torpedoes joyously diving into the cup
(No, we don't have any Irish Cream or Frangelico around that could have seeped
into my cup, by accident or on purpose.). It was as if their enthusiasm for
life itself gave them additional mass, or velocity, or whatever it took to
effect an ebullient entry.
I wondered if those particularly
splashy drops had human relatives in the life of faith. Is it possible for our
grace-filled exhilaration to spill over into the lives of others? I don't mean
a vapid emotionalism that smacks of cheap drama, but a deep reverence and joy
for life that is infectious in sacred ways.
What would happen if we let
broad forgiveness and rich love temper our life's tenor?
Coffee on!
© 2015 Todd Jenkins
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