Find yourself a cup of tea; the teapot is behind you. Now tell me about hundreds of things.  ~Saki

 

When I was growing up, tea was the accepted accompaniment to every meal, conversation and crisis. There wasn't any situation that couldn't be soothed by tea, especially those times when we had no clue as to what to do next.

 

I remember the time when my cousin Lynn and I, still in our rebellious and foolish teen stage, decided to have a go at the Ouija board. We invited a new friend to share in the experience, a friend we really didn't know much about. We lit our candles and began asking our questions. Lynn and I were fascinated by the game, but had no clue that our friend was on the verge of freaking out.

 

Unexpectedly, she bolted from the living room screaming as she ran out the front door. We followed her into the street trying to calm her. She pulled a little pocket knife from out of the blue and soon we looked like a poorly cast version of West Side Story, the three of us dancing around each other trying to figure out what the heck to do.

 

Suddenly, I had a brilliant insight.

 

"I'll go make us some tea." I announced, running back to the house. After all, my mother made tea whenever there was a "situation," though I can't imagine she was ever in a situation like this one.

 

A few moments later, as I was pouring freshly boiled water into three cups, very proud of myself for this most excellent idea, the front door burst open and my disheveled cousin was standing there looking at me in disbelief.

 

"Tea? You're making tea? That's why you left me outside with a knife-wielding lunatic?"

 

My momentary pride dissipated as quickly as the steam rising from white Corelleware. Sheepish would have best described my feelings, as the seriousness of the situation began to sink in. So I did what every self-respecting young Syrian/Irish woman would do. I added milk and sugar to my cup and sat down at the table.

Traditions die hard, if at all.

 

I really miss those tea moments with my mom. There was a ritual to tea-making and drinking that offered comfort and security. Filling the pot, lining up the cups which sat like silent sentinels as the steam began to whisper, then whistle, from the spout. Pouring boiling water over the tea bag and watching the clear liquid turn a warm shade of amber. Of course, the handling of soaked tea bags was different from person to person; to squeeze or not to squeeze, that was the question, unless, of course, you were from the "old country" like my aunt, who preferred fine tea leaves brewed loosely in a pot. But no matter how it was done, it was all good.

 

Rituals and traditions have a way of integrating themselves into who we are. It is the same with the rituals of our faith. Once woven into the fabric of our lives they are hard to unravel. Just yesterday, one of my sons long gone from the Church called to tell my husband they had to reschedule their tee time because he was going to Mass with his girlfriend.

 

You can be sure I put on the pot, got out my favorite cup and prepared for a lovely chat with God.

Copyright © 2009 by Mary Regina Morrell