The Swirl (12.18.24)

But the darkness did not comprehend it.

Have you heard the one where a cheapskate walks into a Starbucks? My weakness for iced coffee can be measured by the fact that it is the only drink I am willing to pay for when I am not at a restaurant, held captive (eg at Disney), or desperately thirsty. So — no surprises — I like making my own iced coffee.

At first, I did it to save money. But I keep doing it because it gives me joy. My favorite part of the ritual comes at the end: the swirl. That’s when you pour the milk into the coffee, and the intense deep chocolate brown of the one dances with the cool creamy silk of the other, languorously drawn into a slow motion Archimedean tango of molecular intermixing.

After pouring comes a critical step — pause and observe, before you stir. That’s why I use a tall, transparent glass. I am currently partial to the double walled glasses made by Tervis, because it keeps the drink cold without condensation. The absence of condensation provides an untrammeled window into the delight of the swirl.

Photo by YearOne on Unsplash

I love to watch the rich milk slip over the ice, slowly and ineluctably bending in delicate arcs as it unfurls into the coffee. The tendrils of milk navigate the deep maze of ice, each cube of intense cold throwing off eddy currents and sending the milk wending its way to the bottom of the glass, where it pools in anticipation. Along the way, drops of dark and light meet, fall in love and pair up, introducing new colors to the canvas, a promise of what is to come. When the show is almost over, I stir gently, awakening the milk from its reprieve. It balloons up reluctantly at first — but then embraces destiny, relenting to the straw’s playful encouragement, accepting the joyful unity that precedes the first revitalizing sip.

Life is complicated. We live in the swirl — where dark meets light. Over the past few months, I have shared my experiences with life’s swirl: the disorientation of the unexpected, learning to be patient in trial, choosing to be grateful, the pain of stripping back the ornamental, finding purpose in compassion, and discharging the burden of forgiveness.

Your life, like mine, is also complicated. I imagine that even if your life experiences tell a wonderfully different story, that you and I both find commonality together in the swirl. In that swirl, I believe that we are both unconditionally and immeasurably loved, and in that love we find the reconciliation of hope in the shadow of regret, forgiveness in the hurt of trespass, and gratitude in the pain of loss.

In this way, such love is a truth that sets us free.

Grace and peace - J/Jn 1:4-5