Mornings

I love the way my husband slips out of the room every morning, early, and as I hear the door slip shut, my mind drifts back into a confused dream land. I hear the way the water turns on, an hour later, and my mind slowly creeps and crawls its way to an awake-fog, even though my body is still and my eyes are closed. Then drawers are opening and closing and arms slip around me and hold me tight, telling me to wake up. And as I lie there willing myself to come to clarity, husband makes coffee for me to tempt me out of the warm covers. I hear him cracking eggs and opening bread, preparing our morning meal. And as I stumble out to our small table, with the straight-backed chairs, I love the sound of his voice as it prays over our food and our day, even as my ears can barely distinguish the words, just the sound.

I love sitting on my couch--the tan one my husband carried up the steps before I was here and called to tell me about and sent me pictures of--listening to the steady ticking of the clock. It tells me that I am enveloped in stillness. Each soft tick quiets my groggy mind. And I sit, thankful for the Word of God, even as I drift on in thought. I find myself staring at the bright, trumpeting daffodils and small, purple blossoms and I'm glad for life-changing friendship and the person who taught me about the joy flowers can give to a chaotic home. Even in the midst of the mess, I taste beauty--the outside beauty, the kind that comes from sunshine and fresh dew and shoots that fight their way through the ground.



I make sure my phone is near, because it's likely I'll get a text or a call from my husband, sometimes about what he heard on the radio, sometimes to say he loves me. And even though I'm not a morning person, I'm thankful for these mornings, looking out through my porch doors, reviving.