The Joy of Lingering


Today, I lingered. It was quite by accident, you know, how I lingered today. Spring forward, home from travel, oversleeping, coffee.

No alarm was set; I overslept. The clocks sprang forward; I did not. I was tired from traveling. I have a cold…or the flu. I haven’t decided yet which. With sand still in my eyes, I glance at the clock…only 15 minutes until church starts. I won’t get there in time. Impossible. I resign myself to staying home. I’m old-fashioned in my relationship with God; I like to “assemble” myself together with other Christians on Sunday mornings. The singing and worship and listening draw me closer, recharge my batteries, fortify me for another week. This week, this is not to be.

Instead, I get ready for the day.

In the shower, I formulate my thoughts for my daily slice: “I Don’t Want to Slice…Yet Here I Am.” How appropriate that will be after yesterday’s poem about struggling to find a topic. It will be fast. I’ll connect it to “I don’t want to floss my teeth everyday, yet here I am doing it.” I have more great ideas like that! It will be fast; I’ll crank it out and check that off my list on this busy day. (A concert, cleaning, preparing for the work week after being out of the loop all last week…) Contentment floods me. I’ll get that done right away.

Padding down the carpeted steps, coffee will surely taste good this morning. I need it to focus. Then, that rich, coffee aroma fills the air. Could It be? Yes. Someone has a pot brewing! As the door swings back and forth, I turn and see it’s true. The coffee.

“Hey, Mom, can you bring me a cup of coffee?” asks my 25 year old son. He’s tucked all snug in the big overstuffed, green chair under my new birthday afghan. His wild morning hair spikes in all directions; his voice gravelly, I know he just got up, too.

“Sure. Do you have enough for me to have a cup?”


I pour the coffee-one large cup for him, one small cup for me. Walking into the family room, freshly vacuumed, I hand him the dark brew. I sit down on the loveseat, in my spot. I’m becoming more like my dad everyday.

My fingers curl around the retro cup; the warmth greets each finger; I breathe in the fragrant aroma. We begin to chat. “How did you sleep?” “How was work last night? I’m sorry you missed your sister’s birthday dinner.” “Do you work today?”

I don’t jump up. I linger. The chat meanders on. The chat rounds the bend from the everyday to the philosophical: politics and religion and his thoughts on life. We discuss the world and the family and the past and the present. Still, we linger. How sweet this discourse. Things my mother-heart yearns to know, it learns as I linger.

Today, I lingered. I linger still on the words that are wrapping around my heart and warming it still. Today, I lingered.  Today, I found joy.

Dear friend, make time to linger…

About bjdonaldson

I'm an average woman who enjoys reflecting on life, writing poetry and ponderings, and having a good laugh. DIY, baking, and cycling are fun, too. If you visited me, I'd invite you in for a cup of coffee and a little chat. I am a Literacy Coach, Reading Specialist, and former classroom and Reading Recovery teacher at an elementary school. Getting up in the morning is not hard; I still love making a difference in the lives of children and teachers.

10 responses »

  1. I’ve been thinking a lot about lingering lately. I wrote my first blog about lingering in the lessons. I also try to take the time to talk to my grown up son a few days a week on my way home. He’s not here with me but ‘home’ in Chicago. Because of the frequency of our calls, I don’t just offer advise or pepper him with questions, we talk about lots of stuff,some important and some not. It’s a good linger.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Love, love, love this lingering piece. Love the peace found in these words: “Today, I lingered. I linger still on the words that are wrapping around my heart and warming it still. Today, I lingered. Today, I found joy.” Thank you for writing to remind us of the blessings of lingering.

    Liked by 1 person

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