Baptized by a Caramel Macchiato

Saturday morning was one of those “I am a capable adult” mornings... the kind where you stack your schedule like a Jenga tower and tell yourself, “This is fine.”

9:00 a.m. LinkedIn training on Zoom. 11:00 a.m. grandson’s hockey game. An hour and a half workshop, an hour drive, and a brain that genuinely believed I could fold time like a fitted sheet.

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So I did what any reasonable woman with a calendar and optimism would do: I decided to teach the training from my son’s office… in the same town as the hockey game. Efficient. Strategic. Practically a CEO.

And because I wanted a treat, I stopped at Starbucks first.

Now listen, I don’t get fancy coffee every day. I’m not out here living a life of constant caramel drizzle. This was a treat, a caramel macchiato. (A grande, of course.) I even had a plan for it. I was saving it for the workshop, like some people save a candle for company.

We’re running a few minutes late, of course, because life always adds a little spice when you’ve already scheduled yourself down to the minute. We roll into Luverne at 8:55 a.m., and I’m hustling into my son’s office with my laptop bag, my cords, my “professional trainer voice,” and my precious coffee.

And then… my little hockey star appears.

He runs in for a hug (the kind that’s all heart and zero spatial awareness), and I’m thinking, this is it. This is what matters. This is the moment.

And wouldn’t you know it…

My coffee got knocked out of my hand. Not spilled. Not dribbled. Knocked. Out. Like it was in the NHL.

The caramel macchiato didn’t just hit the carpet. It baptized it. My son’s living room rug got a full Starbucks experience — espresso, milk, caramel… the whole ministry.

And right there, in the middle of the chaos, the old saying floated into my mind: Don’t cry over spilled milk.

Which is sweet and wise and all… but I’m here to tell you:

This wasn’t milk. This was my treat. This was my reward. This was the coffee I had emotionally assigned to my ability to do hard things before 9 a.m.

And yes, I wanted to cry.

Because sometimes the thing you’re grieving isn’t the coffee. It’s the effort. It’s the planning. The trying. The showing up with your best intentions and your color-coded schedule…

…only to have life, in the form of an energetic 9-year-old boy, knock it right out of your hand.

But here’s what got me: my grandson didn’t mean to do it. He was just being himself, excited, loving, present. And honestly? That hug was the real treat.

Still… I’d like to formally acknowledge that it is possible to be grateful and deeply disappointed at the same time.

So I did what any mature, faith-filled grandmother would do:

I took a deep breath. I went to teach my workshop (while my son cleaned up my coffee). I smiled through a tiny internal scream. And I whispered a prayer that sounded a lot like,

“Lord, you see me. I know you love me… please let there be another Starbucks soon.”

Because sanctification is real.

But so is caramel macchiato.