Ruffled by Grace

Some mornings, the holiest thing I do is hold the cup. It’s not the cup it once was. It isn’t the chalice I used to lift high, offering it to the saints in the pews, each one reaching for grace. 

But this mug, simple and porcelain, warms my soul as it warms my hands. I wrap my fingers around it and breathe in the quiet.

Today, I will be the only one partaking in this ritual, unless you count my fuzzy sidekick. He lets out a sigh beside me, knowing his breakfast won’t come until after the morning coffee is poured. 

With both hands I raise the cup toward my lips. Steam rises, kissing my face. For a moment, there is nothing but the scent of a newness surrounding me. Morning has broken.

It is a stark contrast to the pace of my world—the world. Soon, the stillness will give rise to a flurry of activity in my home. There will finally be breakfast for my fluffy boy, and my other boys will begin to stir, emerging from their slumber. 

Some days we are searching for the homework we swear was right there the night before. Other days we are rushing out the door, already late for the train, for the bus, and for the day’s demands. 

And eventually, there’s the inevitable overwhelm that is the news. I cannot avoid it forever (nor should I). What happened in the world while I slept?

The sacredness of my cup becomes a distant memory, drowned out by the rising tide of the day. My mind floods with tasks and my heart struggles to keep pace. 

It’s all too much. I’ve been here before, deep in the overwhelm. 

And I struggled. With everything.

The most curious part? While I was desperately trying to keep up with a job that was quietly (or not so quietly) draining the life from me—while every part of my life seemed to be crumbling and I was frantically trying to hold it all together—the numbness crept in.

By the time I finally walked away from the job, the numbness had settled in so deeply that it uprooted my spiritual life. I no longer had the words I once held for prayer. And without my pastoral role, I found myself without the rituals that had once grounded me, even when the words were gone. 

All I had were tears. And there were plenty. 

And I know I am not alone. 

From the turmoil that COVID created, to the daily news cycle, from public church scandals to the quieter, more personal wounds of betrayal and burnout, we are all holding so much. But what do we do when our world is in upheaval and our souls upended? 

For me, the answer wasn’t found in a dramatic return to faith or some prophetic revelation. It came in the form of something much smaller and quieter. 

A strange little prayer whispered through tears. A breath over coffee. 

It wasn’t polished like the pulpit once was. Just fragments of hope and honesty, spoken into the ordinary mess of the day. 

That’s how prayers so often begin, not with eloquence but exhaustion. Not with certainty but with a deep longing to feel again:

O Divine Spirit, capture my tears in your heart. Bring comfort to my

sorrowful weeping. Accept my sobs of joy as an offering to your glory.

Allow the water flowing forth from inside of me to nourish my soul

and beget refreshment. Whether in bliss or with burden, embrace all of

who I am in the depths of your love.

I didn’t need answers, I needed the space to let the tears mean something. No, the tears didn’t solve my problems, but they told the truth in that moment. And the truth is holy. 

It was from this place of unraveling that I began to find the smallest of anchors. The tears came and went, but the cup was there every morning. 

Warm in my hands. Steady and familiar. 

When everything in my world felt uncertain, that ritual remained. It wasn’t prophetic, dramatic or deeply spiritual. But it was steady and something I could return to when so much was unraveling. 

In its quiet consistency, it became sacred. 

Pouring coffee is a simple thing. But in that small act, something holy began to stir in me again. Not because coffee itself is sacred, but because I chose to bless it, notice it, and to invite the Divine back into something as ordinary as a morning routine. 

 A Coffee Prayer

 With the sun I rise, giving thanks for slumber and all that now resides

in my past. I will start afresh. There is goodness placed before me; I

hold the warmth of morning in my hands – renewed with anticipation

for today. I breathe in the scent that rises from the cup, it is both bitter

and sweet. I am reminded that life holds both, as I raise the cup to my

lips. I will not shrink away from the bitter, nor rush through the sweet.

Instead, I will consume both with love; let the whole of my existence

be an offering to You. Before I taste what is before me, I pause, inviting

myself into this day with intention. I will drink with gratitude for all

that will come. I swirl the cup, stirring its goodness – let my heart be

stirred with the same. I draw the cup closer, inviting You too. Allow

me to sip the joy set before me, and savor the truth that you, O Divine,

are the giver of all good things.

The world is still heavy. The morning headlines don’t relent and neither do private griefs. Marriages will unravel, jobs will be lost, communities will splinter, and our bodies will ache. 

I do not pretend your morning coffee or a quiet cry will fix any of those things. But I have learned that the sacred doesn’t disappear when the world is ablaze. Maybe it’s just a bit quieter and maybe it’s the quiet for which our hearts long amidst the chaos.

Sometimes, the Divine shows up gently amid turbulence: steam rising from a chipped coffee mug, the warmth of a great big fluffy dog curled at your feet, a whispered prayer that does not ask for anything but to be heard. 

Those are not solutions, but they are anchors. They are tiny moments reminding us that we are still here, still breathing, still human, and still held. 

We do not always need answers, nor can we have them. These are the times we simply practice faith. A rhythm, a breath, a pause that gently keeps us from drifting too far. 

So, I keep praying. Not always with words, and not always with a faith that feels robust.

But I pray in the pouring. In the noticing. And even in the crying.

I pray in the raising of the cup, whatever form that happens to take. 

Maybe in our fractured world, this is exactly what we need: to bless the little things. To honor what is still good. And to hold enough hope to begin anew each day. 

That is the sacred work of today.