Cà phê and the art of slowing down
Caffeine jitters, uncomfortable waiting
My brief time working in a tech start up turned me into a snob for coffee.
I was 21, working my first internship in what was a very stereotypical tech start up environment: exposed brick, floor-to-ceiling windows, bean bag chairs, beer in the fridge, dogs on Fridays, bearded software engineers.
It was those bearded software engineers who smirked at me when I asked them where the milk was one morning when I was making coffee. They mumbled something about destroying the integrity of the beans they ground for the day — JJ Bean or something else local — and then shuffled away after pointing out the 2%, oat milk, and almond milk in the fridge, most certainly judging me.
I say all this to set up the fact that ever since, I would drink exclusively black coffee. It started first as a way to fit in, but slowly it became a necessity. The black coffee caffeine would give me the jolt I needed to make it through pitch meetings in the newsroom when I was still at the CBC, and eventually it became the “healthy” choice, opting for no sugar and going full black.
While I was at that tech start up, I was also introduced to coffee a different way: the Vietnamese cà phê, served either hot or iced. The coffee is brewed strong, typically dripping into a clear glass, resting on top of a generous puddle of condensed milk.
As someone who usually only drinks black coffee, this was a stark departure for me. I wouldn’t usually seek out cà phê when going for Vietnamese — I personally found it odd to mix the sweet coffee with the saltiness of phở broth. But when I won a brew-at-home cà phê set through a social media giveaway, I started making Vietnamese coffee more often.
And so began a journey of brewing and drinking cà phê at home, and some of the lessons that came with it.
When my former colleague introduced me to cà phê, she said something that I would never forget: “Vietnamese coffee is slow by nature. Like it or not, this is how it brews. So get used to the discomfort of waiting.”
It was an aggressive and unprompted statement. To be clear, I didn’t make any comment about how long it was taking, though I did notice that it was a lot slower than making a coffee with an Aeropress. If a drip coffee machine was a man on a motorcycle, the cà phê method is a kid who is using their feet to “ride” their tricycle: slow, abrupt, and almost manual.
If you’ve never brewed cà phê before, the process is as follows: Once you get the desired amount of condensed milk into your glass, you scoop and firmly press the Vietnamese coffee grounds into a metal or tin basket. It has holes at the bottom, and it sits on another tin filter. You then pour the hot water into the little basket, and let the grounds mingle with the water before dripping ever so slowly into the glass.
And when I say “ever so slowly”, I mean it. It’s like watching paint dry.
The first time I did this by myself, I think it took me 15 minutes, from grabbing the condensed milk to finally taking my first sip. 15 minutes. If my life depended on the urgency of getting caffeine into my system, I would have died by now.
I was a little annoyed, but that was soon forgotten as I had my first sip. And then the words of my former colleague came flooding back: “Get used to the discomfort of waiting.”
Like it or not, this is how it brews.
It was that part of the statement that left me feeling a little uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure why though. Coffee, while important in my life, isn’t a person I have a relationship with, so why would a process leave me feeling this way? The “like it or not” part of the statement left me feeling pretty powerless, like I had no choice — that’s just how cà phê is.
But today, as I was listening to the percussive drip, drip, drip of the hot coffee colliding with the ice and condensed milk, it occurred to me that like it or not, this is how God brews too.
(Go with me on this, because I know it’s not a perfect analogy.)
In an age of convenience, speed, and getting everything now (or better yet, yesterday), cà phê will sooner make you tear your hair out. Because let’s face it, you’re not getting that caffeine hit now. It’s going to take at least 15 minutes.
The denial of self that this creates, along with the subsequent void that we’re left facing — that’s the discomfort of waiting. And let’s be real: 15 minutes isn’t a long time at all. Maybe for a child, 15 minutes is an eternity. But I’m a grown adult. Surely I can wait 15 minutes.
It was in that 15 minute gap that I found myself experiencing a wide range of emotions, from impatience to reluctance to desparation. I didn’t want to sit with my thoughts. I didn’t want to slow down. I said that I wanted caffeine now, but I think it was a front for something deeper. As I press into it, I find myself face to face with the idol of progress, speed, efficiency, and just getting things done and over with.
Because the more I achieve, the more I become — right?
My brain was going 200 beats per minute, while the dripping cà phê was maybe going 70 bpm. The metronome that the coffee set for me ground against me in a way that was uncomfortable and terrifying.
Lately I’ve been asking the Lord when. When will things finally make sense? When will I fully heal? When will I be loved for who I am?
It’s been painful to have these prayers rattling on the inside, unspoken. And it’s silly because the Lord knows what we’re thinking and praying even before the words are uttered.
I didn’t anticipate how painful it would be to release these small questions from my heart into the atmosphere around me. They mingle with the Lord’s presence, hanging in front of me.
I scoop and press the coffee grounds, my prayers, into the basket. I add the hot water, hoping that the rising temperature would spark a sense of urgency in the Lord — something, anything, that would give me a sense of comfort or knowing that I’m heard.
Instead, I’m met with drip… drip… drip…
This is how He brews.
Get used to it.
The discomfort of waiting.
I’m reminded of my time in formation where so many senior sisters shared their experiences with prayer and the Lord with me. So much wisdom handed on to me, and yet, I’m like a dog chasing its tail.
Many of them said to me what a gift it is to wait for the Lord. Sure, it’s uncomfortable, and sure, we all get impatient sometimes. But what He has to reveal to us, in His time, is perfect, stunning, and more than we could ever ask for.
A few months ago, when someone broke my heart, and I remember crying in the chapel asking the Lord when. When is this all going to be over?
In the midst of the steady dripping was an even steadier promise from the God of the universe: “Wait for me, be strong, and let your heart take courage” (cf. Psalm 27:14).
Wait for me as I brew something aromatic and beautfiul for you.
Be strong in the discomfort.
Take courage in the waiting.
Your heart is stronger than you know, and I am stronger than anything or person that could break it.
If you ever find yourself brewing cà phê — or better yet, just simply waiting for what feels like an eternity for something — this is what I feel that the Lord is trying to say to us: “Wait for the Lord, be strong and let your heart take courage. Wait for the Lord!”
I’m not saying I’ve become perfect in the waiting. But it is my hope that today, I can return again to patience and trust that in His time, the cà phê will be ready. That I will slow down enough to see the beauty of the process, and breathe in the aroma of His closeness.
Ah yes! Patience is indeed a virtue. It’s one of those thing go-getters have a hard time with 😂😂