Skip to main content

Ladies, Wait for a Man that makes you Coffee

  This morning, I woke up with my husband at 5am. I’m not always an early bluebird singing sweet songs in the dawning hours. But, I’ve been trying to get up with him to pray and read a devotion together. When I do get up with my husband, I want to serve and attend to him. I feel like we want to “out-serve” one another. He goes willingly and joyfully to work everyday to provide for our family. Not only that...he makes me “brewed with love” coffee.

Carl got up just a tid-bit before me, while I rustled myself out of bed. I was tired, but wanted to find my way through the sleepy forest. When I did, I looked upon the kitchen counter and found coffee. I looked upon this creamy caffeine delight with a smile. My helping husband knew I would need a caffeine spark. The coffee was poured with his adoration love. Peppermint mocha creamer added a dash of his rich romanticism. This gesture spoke to me this morning. It steamed with a godly’s man giving heart. 

Ladies, don’t settle on “no coffee” mornings. Pray and wait on God for your benevolent barista. If a man truly loves God, he will genuinely love your heart, soul, and mind. He will serve you with a sweetness like a pinch of sugar. I’m am blessed beyond measure to see a cup of coffee awaiting me on the counter. 

Young women, wait on your coffee mug of love. Do not give the wrong “no coffee man” your heart. Wait on God and listen to His “hark!” 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

"Memory Day" Memories

“Memory Day” Memories   August 11 th , 2008 will always be etched in my mind.   Why? Do you ask?   That was the day the leading man in my life went home, my dad, Bob J. O’Banion.   He was my encourager, support system, teacher, boulder, and most importantly, a godly leader.   When you needed a hand, both of his calloused hands were there to hug, shake, and give you a pat on the back.   When you needed Christian advice, his wisdom traveled from his can line to yours.   With the can pressed against your ear, you’d hear, “God is the way, the truth, and the light.”   He was a true definition of a man, a sovereign man.   Integrity made him a humble guide through the Blueridge Mountains, the dry desert, and beyond.   Love lined his face with deep canyon wrinkles.   He sought and dug ditches to provide.   The rooftop was his “day home”.   Sun-tanned skin branded him a “sweat by the brow” toiler.   Family sto...

Seasonal Change

The loss of my dad still hurts, especially when seasons change.  . For those who have lost a loved one, the aching still seems to pulsate through the cracks left upon our hearts.  . Seasonal change can breeze in bronzes of bereavement. It can fall with ambers of aches and molasses colored missing.  . For me, this is true about Autumn. The leaves change once again, and my dad’s memory wafts o’er red-roofed wishing wells. The shallow water collects pennies of “wish you were here” under Birch trees.  . Seasons and holidays blow in memories that patina the past.  . Those who have lost a parent, we think upon childhood memoirs. Instances where we held our mom or dad’s hands, while strolling under amber stained glass etched with maple leaves.  . I think upon harvest memories where the jack-o-lanterns flow, and the crockpot chili steams in bowls.  . My dad walks behind my brother and I as we prance towards candy. In seasonal memory “trick-or-treats” bounce of...

Climb the Rope of Hope

  I have to admit, I’m feeling a dew drop of sadness today. I was supposed to go to a RV show with friends, but decided to stay home. Why did I stay home? I miss my dad. It’s been almost 12 years and I still ache for him. I miss his love and his godly guidance (I’m crying as I write this post). I couldn’t go trudge in and out of memories. I couldn’t go up and down steps of the past. My heart couldn’t bear the weight of camper-sized flashbacks.  When I was growing up, we were a band of gypsies, as my dad called us. We traveled the highway and byways of America in our RV. We’d laugh and play games. We’d have conversations about God’s beauty. We’d bond as a family, as a God braided clan. That bond has made me grieve a hard grief. That closeness clamors my heart with the dad category of love. I don’t grieve on a daily basis anymore. The wounds of loss have healed. The scar is not as prevalent. But, the missing still resides. The missing still dews rosy teardrops.  ...