Holding Fast
If I were to paint my friend
B_, tallish, silvery, bike-tanned
and toned, you might perceive
hope wafting off the canvas,
lifelong rigor as well as riff:
musician, instructor, composer,
arranger, photographer — plus,
a DIY flair with espresso, lavishing
swirled foam atop steaming crema.
WHAT A GIFT TO GATHER TODAY . . .
. . . in the kitchen of B_’s new home! Post-tour, he offers lattes.
Dreamer and I last shared coffee with him and his beloved wife shortly before they moved here. A few months later, they were urgently evacuated as our drought-plagued city and countryside erupted in flames.
Think, inferno: demon winds, smoke-roil, three vast raging wildfires. For eight days. Like the 65,000 other evacuees, our friends wondered, would they have a home to return to?
We too were packed to leave if fire encroached any nearer.
And now, here we are. Reunited.
Lattes? Bring on the heat — the healing kind, almost holy. With a big fat yes to whole milk!
B_, our celebrant, faces sleek, state-of-the-art machinery, his reverent flair for ceremony laced, as ever, with quiet joy.
Picture unerring care. Unhurried hovering. He bows, over his work.
PACK BEANS. PULVERIZE. BREW AND POUR.
STEAM MILK UNTIL GLOSSY, WITH PARTIAL FROTH. 
NOW BEHOLD THE HOLDING . . .
an angled cup
as well as the pitcher
tilted to pour — an eddy
of swirls, first, then
the lowered spout,
the wrist’s rhythmic
jiggle gradually slowing
as creamy petals unfurl
beneath his gaze:
a small dip, a pause,
one delicate seam
drawn back to the rim.
Cue the dripless rise
of the pitcher, set aside,
the poured “rosetta”
so at home on the surface
it lingers, intact.
Now the hand off: rich,
nutty aroma, extended.
Ahh, the seeping warmth as one palm cradles the vessel.
The at-rest feel of the opposite thumb in the handle, fingers curved.
Taste and see.
LAYER BY SILKEN LAYER, I am drinking the depths of the cup entrusted to me, the designer’s image unmarred.
I peer over the rim at Dreamer. Please, God, may I see your image linger in him, no matter what.
Because, how parched, at times, the fiery ordeal.
How troubling, my thirst to be served.
In the ancient desert of Ziph, David’s friend Jonathan “helped him find strength in God. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said” (1 Sam. 23:15-16).
Steadfast, he held out his belief that no matter what befell them, God’s gift of replenishing wholeness awaited.
Holding certainty on behalf of another somehow elicits a divine reciprocity. “He who refreshes others will himself be refreshed” (Prov. 11:25).
The maker
shapes each stage, grounds
to liquid, a waft of vapor,
the final blend taking on
body, richly layered:
love, made delectable.
A KIND OF COMMUNION?
Afterward, cups emptied, we pray together. And we who thirst are doubly filled.
Need I mention a few beautiful tears? The weightless grace of shared gratitude?
Author Gunilla Norris writes, “How we hold the simplest of our tasks speaks loudly about how we hold life itself.”
Whatever our favorite beverage when temperatures drop, with every sip may we love well. Live, awash. Holding on and being held.
And, after drinking deeply, perhaps this:
Timebound though we are, O Delicious Nearness, how may we serve you?
Friends, how are you holding as well as extending weightless grace?
Quote: Gunilla Norris, Being Home
coffee poured into blue cup Photo by Julien Labelle on Unsplash
steaming the milk in pitcher Photo by Kaylee Stoll on Unsplash
espresso grounds Photo by Daniel on Unsplash
rosetta in blue cup Photo by B_
From the archives, you might also enjoy the act of holding in this post.
Please Chime In...