Before the telephone rings, the messages arrive, and the world begins making its demands, the morning gives us a few quiet moments to gather ourselves. We should not hurry past them.
There is a small stretch of time each morning before the day begins asking things of us.
Before the telephone rings. Before the messages arrive. Before the headlines tell us what we should fear, question, or become angry about. For a few precious moments, there is only the sound of coffee pouring into a cup and the quiet promise of another day.
We often hurry through that silence without realizing how valuable it is. We begin making lists in our minds. We remember what we forgot yesterday and worry about what might go wrong today. Before our feet have carried us very far, our thoughts have already run several miles ahead.
But perhaps the morning was never meant to be a starting gun.
Perhaps it was given to us as a gentle place to gather ourselves—to sit quietly, take a breath, and remember that we are more than our obligations. We are more than the chores waiting in the next room, the appointments written on the calendar, or the problems we have not yet solved.
The world will make its demands soon enough. It always does. But it can wait long enough for us to finish one warm cup of coffee.
So, this morning, give yourself permission to remain still for another moment. Notice the light coming through the window. Listen for the familiar sounds of home. Think of someone who has made your life better simply by being part of it.
You do not have to accomplish anything during these few quiet minutes. You only have to be present for them.
Before the day asks something of you, allow the morning to give something to you: a little peace, a little strength, and another reason to be grateful you are here.
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong. The coffee will be waiting again tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be here to share it with me.
The world will begin asking things of you soon enough. But before it does, sit quietly, take another sip, and allow the morning to give something back. Today’s Morning Coffee is waiting.
A friends list should not require complete agreement. The better question is not whether someone thinks like us, but whether they can disagree while still treating others with dignity.
Two smartphones rest beside coffee cups in a warmly lit, relaxed workspace.
This weekend, Steve and I found ourselves discussing a modern-day question: Who should we remain social media friends with?
It’s the first day of fall, so you know what that means: seasonal cleaning! Grab the broom and dusting cloth, clear away yesterday’s dust, and make room for everything this new season may bring.
Some of our online friends are people we know personally. Others entered our lives professionally. Some are kinfolk—and, as everyone knows, you do not get to choose your kinfolk. You simply learn which subjects should never be discussed at Thanksgiving.
Then there are the people we have never met. By every traditional definition, they are strangers. Yet, through years of comments, photographs, birthday wishes and shared stories, some of them have become more thoughtful and dependable than people we once saw every day.
Our friends lists also contain a few hangovers from our school years. Some go all the way back to kindergarten, while others joined us somewhere between high school and our last stop in higher education. There are former coworkers, old neighbors, distant cousins and people we once knew well but now recognize primarily by their profile pictures.
Together, they make up this grand and rather peculiar collection called a “friends list.”
The question Steve and I discussed was whether the things these people post could affect how others see us. Does remaining connected to someone suggest that we agree with everything that person believes?
Suppose a distant social media friend—someone we have never met—announces that they are against oxygen. Suddenly, the rumor begins circulating that Ben and Steve want people to stop breathing.
That would be the furthest thing from the truth. We want almost everyone to continue breathing.
But social media does not leave much room for careful distinctions. A friendship, a “like,” or even a silent connection can sometimes be interpreted as an endorsement. People may assume that because someone appears on our friends list, we approve of everything that person says.
That brings us to the difficult part: Who stays, and who goes?
Should one negative political post be enough to unfriend someone? Probably not. Most of us have had a bad day, written something too quickly or allowed frustration to speak before good judgment arrived.
Disagreement alone is not necessarily a reason to end a friendship. If someone dislikes watermelons, for instance, I might question their judgment—but I would not immediately remove them from my life.
However, if they begin posting that people who eat watermelons are destroying America, should be denied medical care and ought to be rounded up before the next family picnic, then we have moved beyond a harmless difference of opinion.
There is a difference between disagreeing with people and demeaning them.
Someone may disagree with our politics, our religion, our marriage or the way we live our lives. They have that right. But we also have the right to decide what behavior we will welcome into our personal space.
A friends list should not require complete agreement. If it did, most of us would eventually be left talking only to ourselves—and even then, I occasionally disagree with myself.
The better question may not be, “Does this person think like me?” It may be, “Does this person treat others with basic dignity?”
Can they disagree without becoming cruel? Can they discuss an issue without insulting entire groups of people? Do their posts contribute something worthwhile, or do they exist mainly to provoke fear, anger and division? When they discover that something they shared was false, do they correct it—or simply move on to the next falsehood?
Those questions tell us much more about a person than whether they vote the same way we do.
There is also a difference between making a mistake and establishing a pattern. One thoughtless post can be forgiven. A steady stream of hatred, personal attacks and deliberate misinformation becomes a choice.
At that point, unfriending someone is not necessarily an act of punishment. It may simply be an act of housekeeping.
We clean our homes by deciding what belongs inside them. Perhaps we should occasionally do the same with our social media spaces.
That does not mean everyone who irritates us must be shown the door. Social media platforms usually provide quieter choices. We can unfollow someone without ending the connection. We can mute a page, hide certain posts or simply continue scrolling.
Not every disagreement requires a courtroom, a family feud or a public announcement beginning with the words, “I am cleaning up my friends list.”
Sometimes the healthiest response is simply to stop giving someone our attention.
Steve and I did not establish a complicated set of rules. We did not begin working down the alphabet, judging every person from childhood onward. Instead, we came back to something much simpler.
We can remain connected to people who disagree with us. We can even learn from them. But we do not have to provide an audience for cruelty, hatred or the deliberate humiliation of others.
Friendship should leave room for differences. It should not require us to surrender our peace, compromise our values or remain silent while others are treated as less than human.
So, who should remain on the friends list?
Perhaps the people who remind us that there is still room in this world for conversation, laughter, kindness and the occasional disagreement over watermelon.
As for oxygen, Steve and I remain firmly in favor of it.
Since it is the first week of fall, we are doing a little seasonal cleaning around here—dusting off a few stories that deserve another moment in the light. You will notice as you read this weeks stories there will be a few cleaning tips sprinkled about as you read. ;-)
Have another cup of coffee—and please, continue breathing.
—— Who should remain on our social media friends list? The people who disagree with us—or only those who know how to disagree without becoming cruel? This Morning Coffee considers friendship, boundaries, watermelons and why Ben and Steve remain firmly in favor of oxygen.
By the Time Hollywood Gets to Georgia – The GOP Will Be Crying…
Conservative states may believe they are taking Hollywood away from California. But movie productions bring more than cameras, celebrities and California money. They also bring thousands of workers—and some may decide to stay. While political leaders carefully redraw their districts, could they also be importing the very voters who might redraw their political future?
This will be a morning that you also should take bite out of something sweet. I suggest an Apple Fritter. Heavily glazed. The sugar rush will come in later regardless.
Now then.
Benjamin and Sheriff Otis
A cinematic map connects Hollywood with major production hubs across the United States.
Sheriff Otis and I have been listening to all this talk about re-districting— those voter’s districts being re-drawn, challenged, redrawn, rechallenged and hauled through the courts until nobody is entirely sure which district they live in or whether their congressman is still their congressman.
Several conservative states apparently believe they have discovered the perfect lines. They may have won.
Or have they?
While everybody was staring at the political maps, California may have been looking at a much larger map—the one showing where the movie studios are going.
California, after all, is not some little roadside economy surviving on oranges, movie stars and photographs of the Hollywood sign. Its economy is larger than those of most countries. If California were an independent nation, recent economic figures would place it among the largest economies in the world.
It could probably afford its own army, navy and air force. With Hollywood involved, it could film the invasion, win an Academy Award for it and sell the streaming rights before lunch.
Yet many people continue to speak of California as though it contributes nothing useful to the country.
Nothing, that is, except the movies, television programs, technology, agricultural products and enormous amounts of money they would very much like California to bring into their states.
Georgia, Texas and other states have been offering film incentives to attract productions away from Hollywood. They see studio lights, camera crews and production money arriving, and they begin smiling from rear to rear, believing they have finally found the end of the rainbow.
“Bring us your movies!” they shout.
“Build your studios here!”
“Spend that California money in our restaurants, hotels and Hoot-and-Whistles!”
But they may not have thought the entire thing through.
Productions do not arrive by themselves. They bring actors, camera operators, costume designers, makeup artists, writers, carpenters, electricians and thousands of other workers. Some remain only long enough to finish a production and return home. Others may decide they like the lower cost of living, the warm weather or the fact that a person can still find a parking space.
Those who genuinely establish residency may eventually register to vote.
Sheriff Otis howls out “BLUE VOTERS, MAYNARD!”
You heard me (he barks.)
Liberals moving east from California.
Or as Otis refers to it, A very bad area to sniff. (It smells of cow and oil drums.)
The very states hoping to attract California’s entertainment industry could also attract Californians. Those newcomers might vote in school-board races, city-council elections and contests for governor, Congress and the Senate.
They will not necessarily vote alike, of course. Californians are not produced on a political assembly line, even if Hollywood probably owns the rights to one.
Still, imagine the irony.
Political leaders redraw districts hoping to protect their party, then approve enormous incentives that encourage thousands of workers from another state to move directly into those carefully constructed districts.
Who Shot J.R.?
It would be the greatest political plot twist since television viewers learned that J.R. had been shot.
And who helped encourage the great migration of studios, corporations and media operations across the country?
The same political leaders who wanted California’s business without California’s influence.
They wanted the gold.
They just forgot that California is called the Golden State because Californians tend to arrive with it.
Perhaps California does not need to fight every redistricting map in court. Perhaps it merely needs to send a film crew.
Before long, every carefully drawn district could contain a casting director, three screenwriters, two sound engineers and somebody ordering an oat-milk latte at the Fill-Your-Buggy.
Conservative states may believe they are taking Hollywood away from California.
Warren Buffett says Father Time always wins. At 96, he has stepped down as chairman of Berkshire Hathaway, leaving me to wonder: Did anyone ever call him at bedtime because the evening shift was short?
Warren Buffett, age approximately one thousand, has stepped down as chairman of Berkshire Hathaway.
Warren Buffett
I included “Berkshire” because if I had said only “Hathaway,” some of you might have pictured Miss Jane from The Beverly Hillbillies. At Buffett’s age, I half expect her to step out of a closet with a ledger and tell him Mr. Drysdale needs him at the bank.
(Nancy Kulp) Jane Hathaway
Buffett is actually 96.
His son Howard, a youthful 71, is taking over as chairman.
Greg Abel is already running the company as CEO, so Howard won’t have to spend his first day learning where they keep the keys to every Dairy Queen.
Howard Buffett
Buffett said, “Father Time always wins.” He is right about that. But I do wonder what retirement feels like when your workday has involved moving billions of dollars. Did anyone ever call just as he was getting into bed and say, “Warren, the evening shift is short. Can you come in?” Did he ever have to find someone to cover a holiday weekend?
I’m sure his work carried pressures I’ll never know. Still, I hope Howard is ready for the family tradition: putting in a few decades at Berkshire, reaching his seventies, and being told it’s finally his turn to take the chair.
As for Warren, I hope he enjoys retirement. He can sleep in, take a leisurely breakfast, and resist the urge to check how much the coffee company is worth.
Then again, after a lifetime of working, perhaps the hardest part is simply sitting down long enough to drink the coffee while it’s hot.
For those who have been around a time or two, you know where to find Steve and me on a weekend morning. For anyone just arriving, let me bring you up to speed.
Every weekend, usually Saturday or Sunday and sometimes both, we visit the same local restaurant. Our waitress looks for us. By the time we settle into a booth, she knows what I’m having, and our drinks are already on their way.
Three Sausage Patties, three eggs, wheat toast, hash browns, and a bowl of gravy. That is my order. Steve is more complicated. He studies the menu, makes a decision, changes his mind, and studies it again.
My order never changes. There’s comfort in that, especially at the end of a week when everything else seems to have demanded a decision.
I should explain the capital letters. Those Sausage Patties deserve them. They are, as we used to say when I was growing up, to die for. Back then, we said that about all sorts of things. These days, I’m happy just to get up on a weekend morning and go have breakfast.
I think fennel is part of what makes them so good. At least, that’s the word I intend to say. At the restaurant, Steve and I sometimes call it “fentanyl” by mistake. Then one of us catches it, and we both start laughing. Our waitress knows perfectly well what we mean, though I suspect she enjoys watching us try to get the word right.
The mix-up has become part of our weekend routine. I can forget the name of the seasoning halfway through a sentence, but I never forget how those patties taste. By midweek, I’m already looking forward to their return performance.
Of course, the sausage alone wouldn’t make this our place. Our waitress remembers us. Steve gets all the time he needs with the menu. I get to sit across from him while our breakfast arrives, knowing that for a little while, there is nowhere else we need to be.
It’s a simple pleasure. That may be why I keep coming back to it.
Next weekend, Steve will open the menu and consider his options. Our waitress will look at me, pick up her pen, and smile. She already knows. And if I happen to mention the wrong herb again, I know she’ll know what I mean. Her name? Christin-a.
Today’s Morning Coffee begins a little differently. Before we turn to a more serious story about the Kennedy Center and America’s history, we’ll first share a few surprising facts, a little humor, and a reminder that coffee and conversations about the country have gone together for generations.
Normally, this would be where I pour the coffee, settle into the chair, and leave you with something simple to carry into the weekend.
Today is a little different.
Following this morning’s coffee, you will find a story that is considerably more serious. It concerns the Kennedy Center, the memory of President John F. Kennedy, and some of the larger questions I believe America is facing about history, institutions and what we choose to preserve for future generations.
I apologize for handing you something so heavy before you have finished your first cup.
But sometimes Morning Coffee is not only about making the morning easier. Sometimes it is about sitting together long enough to talk about something that matters.
So read the story that follows when you are ready.
Before we get there, however, I thought we should end the week with a few things that might make you say, “Well, I didn’t know that.”
Things You May Not Know
The Library of Congress receives roughly 15,000 items every working day and adds more than 10,000 of them to its collections. Somewhere in Washington, somebody apparently has a much larger “to be filed” pile than the rest of us.
The smallest book in the Library of Congress is called Old King Cole. It measures only about 1/25 of an inch by 1/25 of an inch—roughly the size of the period at the end of a sentence. Meanwhile, its largest book is approximately five feet by seven feet. That is less a book and more something you could use to replace a bedroom wall.
The Library also possesses written material dating to about 2040 B.C. and printed Buddhist texts dating to approximately 770 A.D. It is humbling to realize that human beings were already writing things down thousands of years before somebody invented the phrase, “I forgot my password.”
And since this is Morning Coffee, here is one especially appropriate bit of history.
James Smithson—the British scientist whose fortune eventually created the Smithsonian Institution—actually published his own method for making coffee in 1823. So apparently even the man behind the Smithsonian had opinions about how a proper cup should be made.
Coffee itself has a rather patriotic chapter in American history. After the Boston Tea Party, drinking coffee increasingly became associated with rejecting British tea, and colonial coffeehouses became important gathering places where politics, news and revolutionary ideas were discussed.
Which means that sitting around drinking coffee and talking about the condition of the country is hardly something we invented.
Americans have apparently been doing it for centuries.
So take another sip.
Enjoy your Friday.
And when you are ready, the next story is a little more serious.
Sometimes history asks us to remember.
Sometimes it asks us to pay attention.
And occasionally, it asks us to do both before the coffee gets cold.
Have a great Friday from benandsteve.com — and may your weekend begin with something good.
Some of the most important people in our lives rarely receive a standing ovation.
A diverse group gathers for a thoughtful conversation among the library shelves.
They don’t make speeches.
They don’t arrive with trumpets sounding.
Most of the time, they simply show up.
They are the person who notices when your voice sounds different on the telephone.
The neighbor who brings your trash container back toward the house.
The friend who sends a message saying, “Just checking on you.”
The coworker who quietly finishes something because they know you’ve had a difficult day.
The family member who has heard the same story many times but listens again anyway.
These are not spectacular acts when measured individually.
But life is not held together entirely by spectacular acts.
It is held together by thousands of small ones.
We remember the people who were there when everything fell apart because their presence became part of the memory itself. Years later, we may forget exactly what they said, but we remember that they stayed.
There is tremendous comfort in knowing somebody stayed.
Sometimes that is all a person needs.
Not advice.
Not a solution.
Not someone trying to explain why everything will eventually be fine.
Just someone willing to sit beside them long enough for the world to become manageable again.
We often underestimate the value of our own presence for the same reason.
We think helping someone requires something remarkable.
Usually, it doesn’t.
A cup of coffee across the kitchen table can help.
A five-minute telephone call can help.
Remembering somebody’s birthday can help.
Asking, “How are you doing?” and actually waiting for the answer can help.
The ordinary kindnesses are rarely ordinary to the person who needed them.
So while you are having your coffee this morning, think about the people who quietly helped hold your world together at different times in your life.
Some may still be here.
Some may have already gone on.
Some may never have known how much their small kindness meant.
And then consider this:
You may be that person for somebody else today.
You might never know it.
That is the interesting thing about kindness. We rarely know how far it travels after it leaves our hands.
So make the call.
Send the message.
Hold the door.
Listen to the story.
Stay a few minutes longer.
The world has enough people trying to make grand impressions.
What it desperately needs are more people willing to make small differences.
Sometimes we become so focused on the road we are traveling that we forget there may be another way. A different choice, a fresh perspective, or simply the courage to ask,
Pour yourself a cup of coffee and consider something we sometimes forget when life becomes difficult:
There is usually another way.
We have a habit of looking at life as though someone has handed us a map with only one road marked on it. We convince ourselves that we must continue in the direction we are traveling because turning around would mean failure, changing course would mean weakness, or choosing something different would mean admitting we were wrong.
But life doesn’t work that way.
Sometimes the smartest thing we can do is stop long enough to notice the little road running off to the side.
Maybe there is another job.
Another friendship.
Another town.
Another dream.
Another way of spending your time.
Another way of looking at something that has bothered you for years.
Sometimes the alternative isn’t even something outside of us. Sometimes the new direction begins simply by changing the way we see what is already there.
A closed door doesn’t always mean the journey is over. It may simply mean we have been standing at the wrong door.
There are moments when we become so determined to make one particular thing work that we overlook every other possibility around us. We push harder. We worry more. We replay conversations. We imagine everything that could go wrong.
Meanwhile, another possibility may be sitting quietly beside us saying, You could try this instead.
That doesn’t mean we should abandon everything whenever life becomes difficult. Some things are worth fighting for. Some relationships are worth repairing. Some dreams deserve another attempt.
But perseverance and stubbornness are not always the same thing.
Wisdom sometimes means knowing when to keep pushing.
And sometimes wisdom means recognizing that you are allowed to choose another road.
There is tremendous freedom in those words:
You have options.
You have options.
You can reconsider.
You can begin again.
You can change your mind.
You can learn something today that causes you to see yesterday differently.
You can decide that what once mattered greatly to you doesn’t matter nearly as much anymore.
And you do not need permission to grow beyond the person you used to be.
Perhaps that is where we begin this morning.
Not by asking, How do I make everything stay the same?
But by asking:
What else is possible?
Look around.
There may be another road you haven’t noticed yet.
And it just might lead somewhere wonderful.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and remember, sometimes a fresh perspective begins with nothing more complicated than realizing there are other options.
Every morning gives us another opportunity to decide what we will carry into the day. We may not control everything that happens, but we can still choose kindness, patience and the small acts that make an ordinary day a little better.
The house may still be quiet. The day may not have completely decided what it intends to become. For a few minutes, there is only the warmth of the cup in our hands and the opportunity to decide what we are going to carry with us into the hours ahead.
And we do carry things.
We carry yesterday’s disappointments. We carry conversations we wish had gone differently. We carry worries about tomorrow, people we love, bills that need paying, decisions that need making, and questions for which we still have no answers.
But we also carry something else.
We carry kindness.
We carry the memory of someone who once helped us when they didn’t have to. We carry the laughter of people who have shared our table. We carry lessons taught to us by parents, grandparents, friends and sometimes complete strangers who crossed our path only briefly.
Perhaps one of the greatest choices we make every morning is deciding which of those things deserves the most room.
There will always be something to worry about. There will always be someone determined to spoil a perfectly good day. And there will always be circumstances beyond our control.
But we still get to decide what we contribute.
A wooden park sign shares a heartfelt reminder to treat others with kindness.
A kind word costs very little.
Holding a door takes only a moment.
Calling someone who has been on your mind might change their entire afternoon.
And sometimes simply listening to another person without trying to correct them, hurry them or outdo their story is one of the finest gifts we can give.
None of these things will make the evening news.
There won’t be a parade.
Nobody is likely to hand us a trophy for being decent to another human being.
But those small acts have a way of traveling farther than we ever realize.
So this morning, while the coffee is still warm, perhaps we can leave a little room in the day for something good.
We don’t have to change the whole world before lunchtime.
Changing one person’s moment might be enough.
And sometimes, without ever knowing it, that person may be us.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and may your coffee be warm, your worries be light, and the kindness you send into the world find its way back home.
Be kind to others, it is really the right thing to do.
For millions of Americans, and for people around the world, this date carries a scar that time has never completely erased. It reminds us where we were, what we saw, what we felt, and how quickly an ordinary morning became something unimaginable.
But beneath the history, the headlines, the smoke, the sirens, and the sorrow is another lesson that reaches into every home.
There are no guarantees when we say goodbye.
On the morning of September 11, 2001, thousands of people did what they had done countless mornings before.
They kissed a spouse goodbye.
They hugged a child.
They waved from a doorway.
They grabbed their coffee, headed for work, boarded an airplane, stepped into an office, answered an alarm, or began an ordinary shift.
Most of them had every reason to believe they would be home again that evening.
Some never were.
That may be one of the hardest truths September 11 leaves with us.
We often live as though there will always be another opportunity.
Another phone call.
Another dinner.
Another visit.
Another chance to say, “I love you.”
Another chance to apologize.
Another chance to linger at the door for just a few more seconds.
But life has never promised us that.
A person can leave our presence in the morning and, through circumstances completely beyond anyone’s control, be gone before nightfall.
September 11 reminds us not to take the people in our lives for granted.
It reminds us that the hurried goodbye deserves a little more care.
That the person sitting across from us at breakfast deserves our attention.
That the phone call from someone we love might be worth answering.
That anger sometimes deserves to be put aside before we walk out the door.
And that “I love you” is rarely something we should save for later.
This day also reminds us of those who ran toward danger while others were trying desperately to escape it.
Firefighters.
Police officers.
Paramedics.
Emergency workers.
Ordinary people who became extraordinary simply because someone else needed help.
Many knew the danger.
They went anyway.
Their courage remains part of the living legacy of September 11, along with the memories of every innocent life taken that morning.
So perhaps today’s coffee should be a little slower.
Perhaps we should sit with the people we love a little longer.
Make the call we have been putting off.
Forgive something that no longer deserves the space it occupies in our hearts.
And when someone we love walks out the door today, let our final words be words we would be at peace remembering.
Because none of us knows which goodbye will be the last.
September 11 taught us that lesson in the most painful way imaginable.
May we honor those who were lost not only by remembering how they died, but by remembering how important it is to cherish those who are still here.
Some of life’s most meaningful moments do not announce themselves when they arrive. They are found in familiar voices, quiet mornings, ordinary routines, and the people beside us. Sometimes the moments we barely notice today become the memories we treasure most tomorrow.
Maybe it is the light coming through the window. Maybe it is a memory that wandered in before we were fully awake. Or maybe it is simply one of those days when we notice the little things we usually hurry past.
We spend so much of our lives looking ahead that we sometimes forget how much of life is actually built from ordinary moments. The grand occasions certainly matter, but they are surprisingly few. Most of our lives are made up of thousands of small mornings, simple conversations, familiar faces, and routines we rarely think twice about.
Until one day we miss them.
That is when we discover that ordinary never really meant unimportant.
Some of the things I remember most clearly from years gone by would have seemed completely insignificant at the time. A voice from another room. Someone sitting at the kitchen table. A familiar laugh. A car pulling into the driveway. Someone saying, “Come on, let’s go.”
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing anyone would have thought needed preserving.
Yet somehow those are the moments that remain.
Maybe that is something worth remembering this morning.
There may be something happening around you today that feels completely ordinary. You may not photograph it. You may never write about it. You probably will not even recognize its importance while it is happening.
But someday, it may become one of the moments you would give almost anything to experience once more.
Before the phone rings, the messages arrive, and the day begins asking things of us, there is a little quiet time to simply be. Sometimes the most ordinary parts of morning—the coffee, the familiar sounds of home, and a few peaceful minutes—are the moments worth noticing most.
Before the list of things we meant to do yesterday quietly becomes today’s list.
There is coffee.
And sometimes, that is enough.
I have come to appreciate those first few moments of the morning. The house is still finding its footing. The outside world hasn’t completely awakened yet, and for a little while, nobody expects anything from you.
You can simply sit.
Think.
Remember.
Or, if you are lucky, think about absolutely nothing at all.
That may be harder than it sounds.
We spend so much of our lives preparing for what comes next that we sometimes miss what is sitting directly in front of us.
Not every day needs to be extraordinary to be meaningful. Sometimes the moments we barely notice—a warm cup of coffee, a familiar voice, or a quiet morning at home—become the memories we treasure most.
We carry more into each morning than the coffee in our cup. Memories, worries, laughter, and yesterday’s unfinished thoughts often come along with us. But a new morning gives us another chance to decide what is worth carrying forward—and what might finally be time to leave behind.
But sometimes what we bring with us to the table gives it a little more weight.
Not the cup, of course. The cup weighs exactly what it did yesterday.
We carry yesterday into the morning.
A conversation we wish had gone differently. A worry we never quite put down before going to bed. A name we have been thinking about. A memory that wandered in without knocking and decided to stay awhile.
Then there are the things we carry that feel a little lighter.
A laugh from yesterday.
Someone checking in just because they were thinking about us.
A dog stretched out nearby, perfectly content with life as long as breakfast eventually appears.
A familiar chair.
A quiet house.
And that first dependable cup of coffee.
Maybe mornings aren’t really about starting over. Life doesn’t erase itself while we sleep. The bills are still there. The problems haven’t packed their bags and moved out during the night. That stubborn thing we were worrying about yesterday may still be sitting right where we left it.
But morning does give us another chance to decide how much of it we are going to carry.
Some things need our attention.
Some things need our patience.
And some things probably need to be left sitting beside the road somewhere behind us.
We are not required to drag every disappointment we have ever known into every new day.
That may be one of life’s quieter lessons.
We can remember without remaining stuck.
We can care without carrying everything.
We can miss someone and still smile.
We can have difficult days and still believe there are good ones ahead.
So this morning, while the coffee is still warm, take inventory of what you brought to the table.
Keep the memories that make you smile.
Hold close the people who matter.
Take care of the things that truly need tending.
And perhaps leave a little room in your hands for something new.
Because you never know what this day may be waiting to give you.
Sometimes all we need is enough room to receive it.
Have a great day from benandsteve.com — and may your coffee be warm, your burdens a little lighter, and your day give you something worth carrying into tomorrow.
You don’t have to solve everything before the coffee cools. Some mornings are simply meant for taking life one task, one conversation, and one cup at a time.
There are mornings when the coffee seems to understand us better than we understand ourselves.
We sit down with a warm cup in our hands and a list already forming in our minds.
Things we need to do.
Things we should have done yesterday.
Things we are worried about tomorrow.
And before we have even taken the first good sip, we have managed to turn an ordinary morning into a meeting with every problem we have ever known.
I have learned something about mornings, though.
They were never meant to carry the weight of an entire lifetime.
Sometimes the best thing we can do is simply take care of what is directly in front of us.
Drink the coffee.
Feed the dog.
Answer the message.
Make the bed.
Call the person we have been meaning to call.
Step outside for a minute and notice that the sun came up again without asking us to supervise it.
There is a strange comfort in remembering that not everything requires our immediate attention.
Some problems need time.
Some answers haven’t arrived yet.
Some doors will open when they are ready.
And some things that feel terribly important this morning may not matter nearly as much by Friday.
We have a habit of wanting everything settled.
We want the question answered, the disagreement resolved, the bill paid, the project finished, the decision made and tomorrow neatly arranged before breakfast.
Life rarely cooperates.
It arrives one day at a time.
Maybe there is wisdom in learning to live the same way.
One day.
One conversation.
One responsibility.
One cup of coffee at a time.
There will always be unfinished business somewhere in our lives. There will always be something we wish we could change, something we are waiting for, and something we don’t completely understand.
That doesn’t mean today cannot still be a good day.
A good day doesn’t require a perfect life.
Sometimes a good day is simply one where we laughed once, helped somebody, accomplished one useful thing, ate something we enjoyed and made it home safely.
That may not sound extraordinary.
But after enough years have passed, we begin to understand that those ordinary days were the extraordinary ones.
So this morning, don’t demand too much from yourself before the coffee has even cooled.
You don’t have to solve everything today.
Just take care of today.
Tomorrow will bring its own cup.
Have a wonderful morning. May your coffee be warm, your worries be light, and may you find something good waiting for you somewhere along the way
The ordinary moments of life often leave the deepest impressions. A familiar phrase, an old memory, or a simple act of kindness can become something we carry with us for years—and eventually pass along to someone else.
There is something comforting about the first cup of coffee in the morning.
Before the phone starts ringing, before the television begins telling us what happened while we slept, and before the responsibilities of the day start lining up at the door, there are those few quiet minutes when the world seems willing to wait.
This morning, as I sat with my coffee, I found myself thinking about how much of our lives we carry forward without even realizing it.
~~~
A phrase our father used to say.
A recipe our mother never bothered writing down because she simply knew how much of everything belonged in the bowl.
The way a grandparent waved from the porch.
The sound of an old screen door closing behind us.
The advice of a friend that didn’t seem particularly important when it was given, but somehow became wisdom twenty years later.
~~~
We spend so much of our lives believing we are moving forward and leaving yesterday behind.
But I don’t think that’s really how life works.
We carry yesterday with us.
Not all of it, thankfully. Time has a merciful way of softening some things and allowing others to fade. But the pieces that shaped us remain tucked away in places we don’t always recognize.
They appear when we catch ourselves saying something exactly the way one of our parents said it.
They show themselves when we perform some small kindness because once, long ago, someone did the same thing for us.
Sometimes they appear in the strangest places—a song on the radio, the smell of rain, an old photograph, or the sound of coffee being poured into a familiar cup.
And suddenly, someone or someplace we haven’t thought about in years is sitting right there beside us again.
Maybe that is one of life’s quieter gifts.
The people we have loved never completely leave the road we are traveling. They simply stop walking beside us in the way they once did.
Instead, they travel within us.
Their lessons become part of our decisions.
Their laughter becomes part of our memories.
Their kindness becomes something we pass along to somebody who may never know where it originally came from.
And eventually, pieces of us will travel the same way.
Someone will remember something we said.
Someone will tell one of our stories.
Someone might pour a cup of coffee one morning and smile because something reminded them of us.
That is why the ordinary moments matter so much.
We are always leaving something behind.
A word.
A kindness.
A story.
A memory.
So while you enjoy your coffee this morning, remember that the smallest things you do today may become something another person carries with them for years.
Make them worth carrying.
Have a wonderful morning, and may your coffee be warm, your memories gentle, and your day filled with something worth remembering.
Sunday coffee has a way of slowing the world down. Sometimes the best thing we can do before another week begins is sit quietly, sip slowly, and remember how much there still is to be thankful for.
I don’t know that there is anything scientific behind that statement. The beans are the same. The water comes from the same faucet. The coffee pot certainly hasn’t learned what day of the week it is.
But somehow, Sunday morning coffee knows.
It knows there is no reason to rush.
The coffee pot can sit there on the counter and quietly do its job while the rest of the house slowly decides whether it is ready to join the day.
There are mornings when coffee is practically a piece of emergency equipment. You pour it while looking at the clock, searching for your keys, wondering where you left your glasses, and trying to remember whatever important thing you promised yourself the night before that you absolutely would not forget.
Sunday coffee doesn’t seem interested in any of that.
Sunday coffee says, Sit down.
The world will still be there in ten minutes.
Maybe that is one of the little gifts we have forgotten how to appreciate.
I often find myself reflecting on the Sundays of my childhood, especially those quiet early mornings when only my father and I were awake.
The test pattern had just disappeared from our black-and-white television, and the first program of the morning was the children’s show Davey and Goliath. It was followed by a gospel music program featuring the Florida Boys. I enjoyed both, although the second one was certainly aimed more toward my dad’s age group than mine.
When the gospel program ended, Dad would usually look at me and say, “Let’s go.”
Most Sundays, he already had a few sacks of groceries packed and ready to deliver around the southwest part of town, where much of Binger’s Black community lived. We had chickens—hundreds of them, at least it seemed that way to me as a child—along with cattle and pigs. My father shared what we had with people he believed truly needed it.
As we made those rounds, he would sometimes give me one of his little lessons.
“You don’t see a single one of them getting commodities at City Hall when they’re handing them out,” he would say. “Nope. It’s all these fine-to-do white people.”
There was always just a little preaching mixed into his words.
Even at that young age, I understood what he was showing me. I had already begun to recognize the hypocrisy he was talking about—the difference between what people said about others and what was actually taking place right in front of us.
Once our morning deliveries were finished, we would stop and buy the Sunday newspaper from the sidewalk vending machine. Dad would toss it into the pickup, and then we would head for the only café in town open on Sunday morning.
That was where Dad gathered what I now jokingly call his weekly community intelligence.
He listened.
He visited.
He heard who was doing what, who was upset with whom, whose crops were doing well, whose family was having trouble, and whatever else happened to be making its way through town that morning. Then, during the following week, he could use that information to maneuver his way through conversations in the barbershop.
And I had my own use for it.
Come Monday morning, I could walk onto the school playground and tell my classmates what I had heard their neighbors talking about over Sunday breakfast.
For a kid with a speech impediment, having a little inside information turned out to be a surprisingly useful way to keep a conversation going.
We spend so much of our lives preparing for the next thing that we sometimes fail to notice the thing we are living right now.
The coffee pot understands none of this, of course.
It simply sits there.
A little steam rises.
The kitchen begins to smell familiar.
A cup gets filled.
And for a few moments, nothing else is required of us.
There was a time when Sundays seemed almost designed around slowing down. Stores opened later. Families gathered for dinner. Church bells rang. Newspapers were thicker. People sat on porches longer.
Even the telephone seemed to understand that Sunday morning was not the appropriate time to cause trouble.
Today, the world rarely takes a day off.
Our phones buzz.
The news keeps moving.
Someone somewhere desperately wants us to know about a sale ending at midnight.
But the old coffee pot still offers the same invitation it always has.
Stay awhile.
Listen to the quiet.
Think about the people you love.
Remember the ones who once sat across the table from you.
Be thankful for those who still do.
And maybe leave a little room in your day for absolutely nothing important at all.
Because sometimes doing nothing important is exactly what the soul needs.
So this Sunday morning, pour another cup.
Let the coffee pot keep warm whatever is left behind.
And before you hurry into another week, give yourself permission to sit quietly with the life you already have.
It may not be perfect.
It may not always be easy.
But somewhere between the first sip and the bottom of the cup, you might discover there is still quite a bit worth being thankful for.
Have a wonderful Sunday from benandsteve.com — and may your coffee be hot, your morning be peaceful, and nobody ask you to do anything important until at least the second cup.
Sometimes the best thing a morning can bring is absolutely nothing extraordinary. An ordinary Tuesday, a familiar chair, a dog underfoot, and a warm cup of coffee can remind us that the everyday moments are often the ones holding our lives together.
It doesn’t arrive with a marching band. There are usually no balloons tied to the mailbox, nobody sends you a card congratulating you for making it, and unless you’ve made special plans, Tuesday doesn’t expect very much from you.
It simply shows up.
And sometimes, that is exactly what we need.
This morning, the coffee pot doesn’t know where I’ve been. It doesn’t care how many miles I’ve traveled, what happened yesterday, or what might be waiting tomorrow.
Its job is remarkably simple.
Make coffee.
I appreciate that kind of dependability.
There are times in our lives when everything seems important. Every telephone call matters. Every appointment has to be remembered. Every mile has a destination, and every day on the calendar has something written beside it.
Then eventually, along comes an ordinary morning.
You wake up.
You shuffle toward the kitchen.
You put on the coffee.
Maybe the dog looks at you as though breakfast is already fifteen minutes late.
You look out the window and discover that the world managed to keep turning while you were asleep.
And suddenly the biggest decision facing you might be whether you want another cup.
Those ordinary mornings don’t receive enough credit.
We spend so much of our lives waiting for the big things—the vacation, the birthday, the reunion, the promotion, the holiday, the celebration—that we sometimes overlook the hundreds of perfectly ordinary days holding everything together.
But those are the days where most of life actually happens.
Tuesday morning coffee.
A familiar chair.
A dog underfoot.
Someone you love somewhere nearby.
A little sunlight coming through the window.
Nothing remarkable enough to make the evening news, but everything important enough to make a life.
Maybe that’s why I’ve grown to appreciate ordinary things so much.
They don’t demand anything from us.
They simply remind us that we’re still here.
There are chores to do today. There will probably be something that doesn’t go according to plan. Somebody somewhere will irritate us. Something will make us laugh. We’ll forget why we walked into a room at least once, and we’ll probably remember something important five minutes after we should have remembered it.
In other words, it should be a perfectly normal day.
And this morning, that sounds pretty good to me.
So here’s to Tuesday.
Here’s to the coffee pot doing exactly what it was designed to do.
Here’s to familiar faces, ordinary conversations, dogs who believe every day should revolve around them, and all those little moments we rarely recognize as blessings until someday we miss them.
You don’t need something extraordinary to happen today for today to matter.
Sometimes the ordinary day is the gift.
Pour yourself another cup.
Tuesday has arrived.
And that’s news enough for this morning.
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong. The coffee will be waiting again tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be here to share it with me.
— Benjamin Groff II Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com
Today’s coffee is taking a slightly different route. Instead of our usual routine, let’s wander past the living room and settle at the kitchen table for a genuine, heart-to-heart chat.
When you’re preparing for a monumental life event—or carrying the weight of a major loss—it’s easy to get so consumed by the details that you completely forget to make room for yourself. But eventually, a quiet demand surfaces: you have to check in with your own soul.
Sometimes that moment looks like spilling your guts over coffee with a close friend. Other times, it’s shutting out the world to lose yourself in a book. Or maybe it’s that solitary drive where a single song hits the radio, hitting a hidden nerve and giving you permission to finally let the tears flow.
Grief isn’t a neat, linear line. We navigate through denial, anger, bargaining, blame, and eventually, acceptance. Along that winding road, sight and sound often act as our gentlest guides. A song can break through our defenses in an instant, but a powerful movie can do the exact same thing.
There have been times when I thought I had processed the death of a loved one, only to realize years later that watching a specific scene on screen was the final key to truly letting go. Which brings me to the real heart of this morning’s conversation.
The other day, one of my favorite writers posted a simple question: What was the last movie that made you cry?
It took me a millisecond to answer: The Lost Valentine, starring Betty White.
Even though it was made years before she passed away, I didn’t discover it until after her death, which made watching it even more emotional. It’s a classic Hallmark tearjerker, but as anyone who knows me will tell you, it takes a massive, deeply moving story to get me invested in a movie—let alone shed a tear.
If you’re in the mood for a genuine emotional breakdown, put down your phone, close your laptop, and give it a watch. If you aren’t reaching for the tissues like a church lady at a revival by the end, something is seriously wrong!
Here’s the trailer to get you primed: The Lost Valentine, starring Betty White
After traveling hundreds of miles with us—from Arizona, through New Mexico and Texas, and finally into Oklahoma—we brought her to Binger.
Her last ride is over.
She rests beside my father now.
And this morning, life has done that peculiar thing it always does after a loss.
It continued.
The sun came up.
Someone started a car.
A dog needed attention.
Coffee had to be made.
The world didn’t stop simply because something monumental happened in mine.
Perhaps that is one of life’s quietest lessons.
We spend days preparing ourselves for the big moments—the service, the goodbye, the final prayer. But nobody prepares us quite as well for the morning afterward.
The morning when there is nowhere else we need to take them.
No arrangements left to make.
No more miles left to drive.
Just memories.
Yesterday, I stood in Oklahoma soil and helped return my mother to the place that had shaped so much of her life.
Today, I can begin carrying her differently.
Not in a special carrier.
Not buckled safely into the vehicle.
Not guarded faithfully by Otis.
I carry her in stories.
I carry her in the expressions I inherited without realizing it.
I carry her in memories of childhood, family gatherings, arguments, laughter, disappointments, forgiveness, and all those wonderfully complicated things that make a family a family.
Perhaps that’s what we eventually discover about saying goodbye.
The people we love don’t simply disappear down some road behind us.
They become part of the traveler.
And so this morning, I will have another cup of coffee.
Then Steve, Otis, and I will eventually point ourselves toward Arizona.
There will be an empty place in the vehicle where Mom rode with us.
But I don’t think she’s leaving Oklahoma alone.
A little bit of her will be going home with me.
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong. The coffee will be waiting again tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be here to share it with me.
— Benjamin Groff II Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com
There are times in ones life, when going home is all about visiting relatives. Then there are times when, going home is all about taking what is left of life back with you.
There are some journeys in life you know you will remember every mile of.
This morning, Steve and I are carrying my mother home. She will be going to see her daughter Twila.
Her name is Marjorie Bernice Groff, and after 95 years of living, loving, raising a family, making mistakes, making memories, and leaving pieces of herself in all of us, she is taking one final ride from Arizona to Oklahoma.
[Left to Right: Marjorie Bernice (McWhirter) Groff, with her parents G.W.(Bill) McWhirter, and Bernice Mae McWhirter]
And we’re not hurrying.
Her special carrier is safely buckled beside our trustworthy little traveling companion, Otis. He has been given an important assignment for this trip: protect Grandma.
I have no doubt he takes the responsibility seriously.
We will cross Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, and finally enter Oklahoma. Along the way, when there is something worth seeing, we’ll make sure Mom gets to see it. An overlook, a beautiful stretch of country, an unusual roadside attraction—whatever catches our attention.
After all, when you’re taking your mother on her last road trip, there is no reason to rush.
Maybe that sounds a little unusual to some people. But grief has taught me that ceremony doesn’t always have to happen inside a church or beside a grave. Sometimes ceremony is simply two people, a little dog, an open highway, and someone precious riding beside you.
Tonight, we will reach Elk City, Oklahoma.
That seems especially fitting.
It was there, in 1982, that Steve and I first met. More than four decades later, the two of us will arrive there together carrying my mother home.
Life has a strange way of bringing roads back around to where they began.
So this morning’s coffee is going into a travel mug.
There are miles ahead of us.
Mom has one last Oklahoma sunset waiting for her.
And Otis has Grandma to protect.
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong. The coffee will be waiting again tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be here to share it with me.
— Benjamin Groff II Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com
Don’t decide how the day will end before it has even begun. This morning’s coffee is a reminder to move yesterday’s worries over and leave a little room at the table for something good.
Before our feet touch the floor, we are thinking about yesterday’s problems, today’s responsibilities, and tomorrow’s worries.
Then we pour the coffee and carry all of them to the table with us.
That is quite a crowd for so early in the morning.
I wonder how many good things we miss because we have already decided what kind of day we are going to have.
We tell ourselves the meeting will be difficult.
The person won’t call.
The answer will be no.
Traffic will be terrible.
Something will probably go wrong.
And sometimes we’re right.
But not always.
Every now and then, life surprises us.
The telephone rings, and it is someone we have been thinking about.
A stranger holds the door and smiles.
Someone says something kind when we need to hear it most.
A problem we have worried about for days works itself out with surprisingly little trouble.
Or maybe nothing dramatic happens at all.
Maybe the sun simply comes through the kitchen window at just the right angle, the coffee tastes especially good, and for a few minutes everything feels all right with the world.
Those little moments count too.
We cannot control everything waiting for us today. There will always be things we would rather avoid and circumstances we cannot change.
But we can leave a little room for the possibility that something good might happen.
Hope doesn’t require us to pretend that difficulties don’t exist.
It simply asks us not to decide the ending before the day has had a chance to begin.
So while you’re sitting there with your coffee this morning, move yesterday’s worries over just a little bit.
You don’t have to throw them away.
Just don’t give them the whole table.
Save an empty chair for something unexpected.
Leave a little room for laughter.
Leave a little room for kindness.
Leave a little room for somebody to surprise you.
And most of all, leave a little room for something good.
Because this day hasn’t happened before.
You don’t know everything it is bringing with it.
Don’t let yesterday convince you that you already know how today will end.
Now take another sip.
Morning has only just arrived.
Let’s give it a chance.
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong. The coffee will be waiting again tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be here to share it with me.
— Benjamin Groff II Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com
Not every road we travel is one we planned to take. Sometimes the detour introduces us to people, places, and possibilities we would have otherwise missed. Grab your coffee—we’re taking the scenic route this morning.
We know where we need to be, what needs to get done, and perhaps even what time we hope to have everything finished.
Then life puts up a detour sign.
Something changes.
A telephone call comes. Someone needs us. The car won’t start. The appointment runs late. A plan we were counting on falls apart. Suddenly, the road we expected to travel is closed, and we are headed somewhere we never intended to go.
I have traveled enough country roads in my life to know that detours can be frustrating.
But I have also discovered something else about them.
Sometimes the road you didn’t intend to travel shows you something you would never have seen otherwise.
You notice an old farmhouse sitting beneath a grove of trees. You cross a creek you didn’t know existed. You find a little town you have never visited. Maybe you meet someone you would never have met had everything gone according to plan.
Life works much the same way.
Some of the people who become important to us arrive because something else didn’t work out. Some of our greatest opportunities begin with disappointment. Some of the stories we eventually treasure started on days when we thought everything was going wrong.
That doesn’t mean every detour is pleasant.
Some are difficult. Some hurt. Some take us a long way from where we thought we would be.
But getting somewhere differently doesn’t always mean we are lost.
So, as you have your coffee this morning, perhaps there is something in your life that hasn’t gone according to plan.
You may be staring at a detour sign right now, wondering why the road ahead had to change.
Give it a little time.
Keep going.
Look out the window along the way.
There may be something waiting on this road that you could never have found on the one you originally planned to travel.
Sometimes the unexpected road becomes the one that takes us exactly where we needed to go.
Pour yourself another cup.
We’ve still got some traveling to do.
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong. The coffee will be waiting again tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be here to share it with me.
— Benjamin Groff II Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com
We spend so much time trying to finish everything that we sometimes forget to appreciate simply moving forward. Grab your cup. This morning, one small step is enough.
We pour the coffee, look at the day ahead, and begin making a list in our minds. Things that need doing. People who need calling. Problems that need solving. Yesterday’s unfinished business somehow finds its way onto today’s kitchen table before we have even taken the first sip.
But maybe everything doesn’t need to be finished today.
Some things simply take time.
I think back to the way people once approached ordinary work. A garden wasn’t planted in the morning and harvested that afternoon. A fence was built one post at a time. A long trip was measured in miles traveled, not merely by how quickly you reached the destination.
There was an understanding that worthwhile things often required patience.
We sometimes forget that when it comes to ourselves.
We expect answers immediately. We want worries settled, grief healed, relationships repaired, and uncertainty resolved before bedtime. When that doesn’t happen, we can feel as though we somehow failed the day.
But perhaps today’s accomplishment is simply moving one step forward.
Maybe you make the telephone call.
Maybe you write the first paragraph.
Maybe you forgive a little.
Maybe you worry a little less.
Maybe you finally sit quietly for ten minutes with a cup of coffee and realize the world managed to keep turning without your supervision.
There will always be something left undone when evening comes. That isn’t failure. That is life reminding us there is another day waiting.
So this morning, don’t measure your day by everything you manage to finish.
Measure it by whether you moved something worthwhile a little farther down the road.
And if all you manage today is one small step, remember:
A small step forward is still farther than you were yesterday.
Pour yourself another cup.
Tomorrow will have its own list.
For now, this morning is enough.
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong. The coffee will be waiting again tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be here to share it with me.
— Benjamin Groff II Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com
Excerpt
Not everything needs to be finished today. Some things simply take time. This morning’s coffee is a reminder that one small step forward can be enough.
Pour yourself a cup of coffee, settle into your favorite chair, and let’s spend a few quiet moments together.
Every day, we carry a little something forward from yesterday.
Sometimes it’s a worry we should have left behind. Sometimes it’s a wonderful memory we hope never to lose. And sometimes it’s something another person gave us without even realizing it—a kind word, a little encouragement, or simply the feeling that somebody cared.
We carry those things with us.
That’s worth remembering today because you may be the person who gives someone else something good to carry into tomorrow.
A smile costs nothing. Neither does listening for another minute when someone needs to talk. A few words of encouragement may seem small when we offer them, but to the person receiving them, they might be exactly what was needed.
So while you’re finishing your coffee this morning, think about what you’d like to leave behind when today is over.
Leave a little kindness.
Leave someone smiling.
Leave somebody feeling a little better because your paths happened to cross.
We don’t always get to choose what tomorrow brings, but we can choose what goodness we send ahead to meet it.
Until tomorrow, may your coffee stay warm, your memories stay close, and your hope stay strong. The coffee will be waiting again tomorrow, and I hope you’ll be here to share it with me.
— Benjamin Groff II Morning Coffee at benandsteve.com
Official Logo Of benandsteve.com from their Road’s End Ranch
Well… someone (and yes, it was me! 😊) hit the Publish button a little earlier than planned.
For just a few moments today, subscribers to The Story Teller at benandsteve.com received an unexpected early look at the next chapter in The Old Pickup series before I could tuck it back away.
If you happened to catch it, congratulations—you were part of an accidental preview!
If you missed it, don’t worry. The story will return as scheduled in the days ahead.
It’s also a good reminder that subscribers are soon the ones who are often the first to see what’s happening on the site—even when I occasionally get a little ahead of myself.
If you’re not already subscribed, I’d love to have you join us at benandsteve.com. You never know… the next surprise might actually be planned. Find the subscribe button on this screen and join us. We promise not to fill your email with anything more than I official communications and story notifications.
