Every morning for nearly thirty years my wife and I have sat on the sofa to drink our coffee together. While doing so, we’ll read our bibles, chat with the kids (or boss them about morning chores), and have meandering conversations on topics far and wide—everything from text etiquette and modern social norms, to the science of microwaves, and anything in between.
Many times we’ve wished we could bottle those conversations to share with others. We’ve often joked about starting a podcast called On The Couch With Coffee, or something like that, because I think you’d appreciate the off-the-cuff commentary. Such as:
Me, looking up from my bible perplexed: So, Solomon had 700 wives and 300 concubines.
Shannon, with a mild disgust in her tone: Uh huh.
Me: That’s just too…much.
Shannon, with the side eye: I’m sure he wasn’t complaining.
Me: I mean, even if he liked most of them, I mean, how do you even? That would just be way too much drama. Plural marriage is dumb. It’s like juggling hand grenades for fun.
Or:
Shannon gasps: Ohhh, there are a bunch of Wodehouse books we don’t have.
Me: You literally have two entire shelves full of Wodehouse books. How many did he write?
Shannon: 71.
Me: How many of those do we have?
Shannon: Oooh… *waves her hand* hardly more than thirty.
Or:
Shannon: Sooo you’ve never heard of an oosik before, eh?
Me: It’s not exactly the kind of thing Californians keep on their end tables.
Nearby daughter: “What’s an oosik?
Shannon: Um… *whispers answer, daughter is scandalized*
But I’ll tell you right now: That podcast isn’t going to happen, at least not in the mornings, and certainly not in lieu of our coffee on the couch time.
Microphones, start-stop edits, and silent snapping to shush kids arguing over the last biscuit would bastardize my favorite time of the day; I refuse to sacrifice morning coffee on the couch on the altar of making more content. It’s a bridge too far.
You see, for 11 of those 30 years I used to commute 45 minutes to work every day; on snowy days I’d have to leave 30 minutes earlier, and in Alaska in the winter, stormy days are frequent. Those precious 30 minutes on the couch were like the quiet pre-game locker room, where athletes enjoy a kind of meditary* solitude before taking the field to whip some a**.
We’d sip from mugs that were empty too soon and pet that era’s lap cat (currently Dashwood, but prior to her it was Gus, and before him it was Sophie) as it lounges on my outstretched legs. I’d enjoy time with my bride, and sometimes a kid or two. There were nursing babies in the mix, and nowadays my nine-year-old will come and squeeze in next to me, because he’s still mature enough to not think that’s uncool.
The morning kid stuff usually happens around us—chores, Legos, homeschool—prelude to the orchestrated chaos that Shannon used to have to rein in as soon it was time for me to warm up the car. I’d hug the kids goodbye, and even the older ones didn’t seem to mind it.
Then I’d peel away from the littlest one and kiss my wife. And we’d both pray we made it back to the couch without any drama or trauma in the interim.
But there was often drama, and sometimes trauma in the interim.
There were days of soul-shattering adventures, or frantic text messages. We’d debate strategy from 60 miles away on how best to deal with things only God can carry you through.
But there was also victory, and laughter—like the time my wife rushed for the camera while our daughter dangled, stuck by her snowpants, upside down on a tree branch. There were days of tender moments as a family bonded within the whirlwind of life, and grew, and learned about repentance, forgiveness, and overcoming.
There were (and still are) days of wild revelations and sudden inspirations that we’re excited to share with one another.
Hours later we’d regroup on the sofa in the dim, finally quiet house and have very different conversations than we’d had over coffee that morning. During this session, we’d debrief and troubleshoot. It’s still our nightly prayer time, interspersed with chatting, joking, meme sharing (thanks Thin Mint) and occasional crying as we tackle All The Things, asking God’s direction for the next day, for His strength to leap the hurdles.
It was on the couch with coffee that we finally decided to step out in faith and write full time. I quit my secure job of 21 years seniority, with stock options just around the corner, abandoning the best health insurance of everyone I knew to write books and articles and pray people would pay us to continue doing so.
We tackled scary and exciting things on that evening sofa, like finding out we were pregnant again, this time without insurance. We lamented loss, made confessions and renunciations, interceded for friends and strangers, and recharged for future battles.
In the morning, the sun and coffee revived our spirits, and we’d gather once again for our exclusive Guerra pre-game huddle. Later on we’d have another SITREP, an evening war council debrief.
And I wish you could be party to much of that, because there are some revelatory gems among the static of unfiltered conversation, such as the one we just had while editing this post, which lead to the asterisk a few paragraphs ago, regarding “meditary.”
*Meditary:
Shannon: “Meditary” isn’t a word.
Me: I know, but it’s what I want to say so I’m making it a word. You do it all the time.
Shannon: I do it right, though. I think the word you’re looking for is meditative.
Me: Meditary is right. I can make up words if it’s what I want to say.
Shannon, googling meditary: It only has made-up definitions with Chaldean and Pythagorean numerology, so no, you can’t use it.
Me: If you and Dr. Suess can make up words, so can I. Let’s just give it an asterisk and I’ll explain it later.
Shannon, shaking her head: That only works if it’s a good word. *pauses* This should be one of those conversations you’re telling them about. *shrugs* Fine, give it an asterisk.
Tomorrow morning we’ll be back on the sofa, sipping coffee and talking about how far He’s carried us, and what He’s going to do next.
The enemy is always waiting to pounce as the bills roll in, friend and family wrestle with attack, and the wind shakes the house. But it’s only the wind and we’ve learned to calmly sip our coffee in the midst of the chaos and not take these moments for granted.
There are fewer kids running around us this year. The seasons shift and battles are different, but we know we’ll make it; we always do. On the couch in prayer, or in the morning with coffee, we sometimes need to remind each other of that.
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