I have always loved tea. I'm not sure when I began drinking tea. Somewhere in my early teens, I started steeping dark leaves in boiling water, adding just the right amount of sugar and milk, and brewing up my own little cup of comfort. My island of calm. My moment of quiet serenity. I have had cups of tea before a flickering candle in a Bible school attic with friends. Cups of tea late at night when exams loomed. Cups taken in the gray light of dawn in a cozy chair by picture windows overlooking Lake Union in Seattle. I have had tea in dainty porcelain, tea in sturdy pottery mugs, tea in paper to-go containers, tea in indestructible titanium cups while camping. I have had tea while wearing a straw hat and talking in pretend British accents with my sisters. I have sipped many, many cups of tea with an open Bible in front of me and a journal and pen in my hand. There is just something about tea.
Funny thing. I still drink tea. One cup a day right now (I don't want Hope getting more caffeine than that). First thing in the morning. PG Tipps blend plopped in a mug, stirred with cream and sugar. But there isn't really an island of calm these days. No quiet serenity. No flickering candles or long, peaceful quiet times at dawn. No dreaming grand dreams while the rich scent rises in wispy plumes and I breathe it deep.
Nope. I gulp tea while cooking oatmeal. While nursing a sweet baby. While jumping up from the table to grab a towel because the milk spilled. While doing dishes or sweeping the floor. Sometimes the tea gets cold before I can drink it (and did you know you can't reheat tea? It tastes awful.).
I drink milky decaf from fancy tea cups with my girls, though. I let them pour. And when the table grows sticky with spilled sugar and their princess dresses are soaked with milk and my favorite teacup shatters on the floor.... I don't complain.
Because... this... this chaos and clamor and mess.... this is just my cup of tea.