Been making a humble Thursday morning practice of popping in the coffee shop down the road before work.

Just to stand in line for a cortado and sit for a few minutes.

In between the standing and sitting, I always seem to find something to fill my cup. 

This past Thursday there wasn’t much of a line, so I stepped to the front, ordered, and skooched to the left to wait. 

The waiting area’s directly in front of where the barista prepares the orders. 

I’m careful not to stare.

But I do try to catch a glimpse when they’re doing the pouring. 

I find all artful pourers mesmerizing. 

The person working Thursday is new-ish. 

Been there maybe a couple months. 

Don’t know her name. 

Just her smile.  

She began with the requisite two shots of espresso. 

Then moved to the milk.

I’m always curious to see if a barista trusts in gravity and surface tension to do their jobs … and fills the cup beyond its edge.

It’s always magic to me to bear witness to how the molecules grab on to one another, and keep each other from flowing away and spilling.

I find a hope in that.

Like nature’s just waiting for us to learn from its example.   

I’ve noticed that some baristas favor the control of holding the cup in one hand to bring the spout closer … while others place the cup on the counter to keep a steady target. 

The delicacy of the draw gets me every time.

The mere idea of painting with a brush that only ever gets so close to its canvas. 

Seems prayerful to me. 

Any distance between source and vessel requires a measure of faith.

I’ve learned that the precise amount required has little to do with how great or small the distance.   

Hers was one fluid motion into the countered cup. 

But then, she did this thing. 

Post-pour, she reached for a spoon. 

I watched as she used it to gently skooch some of the foam where she wanted it to go. 

My immediate thought was that maybe things initially didn’t turn out the way she wanted.

As she skimmed the surface, she cupped her empty left hand parallel to her right … as if protecting a flickering match from the wind.

Her left hand had no practical purpose, other than maybe just to let the right know it was rooting for it. 

By which I mean it may have had the most important job of all. 

Satisfied, she put the spoon down and ushered my cup forward to let me know it was ready.

“I’ve never seen anyone do that … with the spoon,” I confessed. 

“I do it all the time,” she said. “That’s my move.”

So, she had made no mistake. 

She just wasn’t done moving mountains. 

I asked her her name. 

“Jaye,” she said.

“We’ll call it the ‘Jaye,’” I said. 

“Aww, thank you,” she smiled, also a signature move.

It was only then that I looked down … to see that she had used the spoon to crack a tiny heart open. 

By which I mean she used the spoon to crack my tiny heart open.