I LOVE my morning cup of coffee and I love it best when I don’t have to make it myself. This morning my husband presented me with this gorgeous cup of coffee. The milk was perfectly foamed, the cinnamon tapped the edges of the cup and the whole thing threatened to overflow when I moved it into the kitchen with me. I didn’t want to spill one single drop of that fluffy foam. But then I started thinking about it. My cup was overflowing and what a beautiful thing that was – my cup literally runneth over, much like my life.
But I haven’t always had that perspective. It wasn’t long ago that I felt like the world was crashing down around me. I was being hit with one personal crisis after another and I was a disaster. After a particularly difficult day, my son (sort of an adult now, I guess-he’s 26) sat me down and explained my world from his point of view. It wasn’t as horrible as the stories I was telling myself. I didn’t immediately dry my tears and wipe up my snot – as an only child I’m a bit self-indulgent sometimes, but I did begin to start rethinking some of the stories.
It’s those stories that we make up that can give us so much grief. Fast forward to months later, my life isn’t without crisis, but I’ve changed my self-talk and I’m starting to heal a little. My heart isn’t as bruised as it once was and I found my sense of humor again. I’m finding that the things that I once thought were monumental disasters are actually now the things that fill my cup and the spills are just evidence of a happy life.