Orange Spice Tea
Remember when you were seven and it was chilly outside and your mom brought you close and snuggled in your ear.
“Let’s find some hot tea.”
She found a little shop with a to-go counter and ordered one black coffee for herself and one herbal tea for you. The proprietor asked you to point to your preferred flavor and you picked the prettiest box on the shelf, tiny white flowers and heavy hanging fruit and an exotic temple? But most importantly, a bright orange box … the best color, of course.
“Orange Spice coming up!”
When she handed you the cup, it was too hot for your little hands to carry to the milk and honey counter, so she wrapped the cup in two napkins and encouraged, “Try now.”
Perfect.
You took tiny shuffling steps as you carried the warm paper cup, just like your grandma taught you to do anytime you carried things hot or delicate. It may have only been four feet, but it felt like a treacherous journey, cinnamon citrus steam rising to your chin and nose, reminding you of the nature of your precious cargo.
You made it! No spills, no burns!
First, the sticky amber sweetness … You grabbed the honey and started squeezing. Air pockets exasperatingly slowing the free flow of yumminess. Plop, plop, plop. Next, the milk sitting in its melting ice bath. You sloshed creamy goodness into your cup.
Uh-oh. Something went very wrong.
Your face fell.
Your heart sank.
Your belly clenched.
Peering into the cup you saw small globs and strands of curdling milk rising to the surface.
You knew that your mom didn’t have enough money for another cup of tea. You knew she was going to be mad. Not because she was a bad mom. You knew even then that that wasn’t it. She was the best mom in the whole world.
As a well-worn adult, you now see her though soft but honest eyes. Resources were scarce, warm treats were rare. She was perpetually mad and ashamed at herself for not having a spare 75¢ to buy an extra cup of tea. She showered you with her displaced anger because, because, because you were hers, her constant companion, you were the witness to what she perceived as her personal failures. You were her comfort when she was broken-down tired.
She just wanted to share this moment in the midst of life’s chaos; to steal a bit of coziness from the grip of a cold and uncaring world. And you had to go ruin your cup of tea and her vision for this few seconds of respite.
Your eyes welled with tears, but you wouldn’t look up; you wouldn’t show disappointment; you would hide your fear; you would not ruin your mom’s minute reprieve. And you knew better than to ask for her to fix it; that might turn embers into flames. Maybe the tea wouldn’t be too curdled to drink after all.
Just as yours lips were reaching for the rim of your cup, the forgotten proprietor exclaimed, “Oh, sweetheart, let me get you another cup of tea, that one looks kinda gross; here try this one, honey …”
Okay. Maybe you don’t have that exact memory. But maybe yours is a similar moment: a stranger being kind and decent on a seemingly inconsequential, forgettable day; a time when your scene turned from sour to sweet in an unexpected flash; being on the brink of disappointment and then … whoosh! … being surprised by the unpredictable turn of goodness.
Or perhaps you don’t have such a memory at all; or maybe they are few and far between; or today, for whatever reason, you can’t access them from the recesses of your mind and heart.
If that is the case, let me be that stranger who lets you know that you deserve a cozy hour spiced with a touch of clove and roasted chicory; you deserve a second chance at sweet grace. You are allowed to take some time to warm your hands and your heart, to fortify yourself against the cold world outside.
