Morning

I am called.
It started out with one day.
David wakes up at 4am, body clock set specifically, and alarm unfailingly sounds. I am pulled, unwillingly at first, from deep sleep, wondering if it is possible that the time has actually come. Unsteadily and blurry-eyed I stumble to his room and comfort. He reaches those hands up, smiles through tears at my entrance, and his relief is palpable. He knew I would come. I always come. But still he rewards me with sweet thankfulness. And when he is calm, nourished, and tucked cozy under covers once again, I, instead of scurrying back to my own bed, slip downstairs.
The house is still dark, silent except for the steady hum of the furnace, warming the house. Though my body is still tired, my mind still in a haze, I push the button on the coffee maker and promise myself hot, creamy coffee. The house has chilled a bit, the fire burning through the night but having to battle against much stronger winds and colder temperatures. I walk down the back steps and push open the door into the breezeway- cold, dark, and silent, and sneak a few pieces of wood from the wheelbarrow-full from last night’s trip to the wood pile. I walk stocking-footed down to the furnace and open to see the warm bed of coals within. Always replenishing- the hallmark of winter in this house is the steady tending of home fires, the stitching hemming in our days, calling us always back home.
The furnace is large and forgiving: the wood, piled haphazardly, will burn well despite my lack of fire-building expertise. I head back upstairs to fill my mug, the coffee now ready, and sit in dark, in silence. And here, unhurried by expectation or distraction,
I type. I write here, or email friends in far-off lands. And I read: read and reflect on thoughts which, when read with a backdrop of squeals and stories and climbing and crashing towers, are not fully or appropriately internalized. I sit and read and write and feel the slow rejuvenation of my soul, waking and rousing, ready to give for another day.
An hour, then another, pass quickly, and the sky in front of me starts to lighten; sweet hues of crimson blend with that dark of night. The world, like me, wakes slowly. First, the faint silhouettes of trees come into focus, a still painting. Then, a grove of trees beyond the next field, slowly, assuredly, darkness becomes light; the obscure comes into focus.
Still, I am in awe of a simple sunrise, stretching brilliance across the sky, bringing light into a world darkened for rest. In contrast to our light switch, it comes gently, slowly. It is intentional and gradual, this turning on of the light of the world. And I know, you scientists remind, it’s because the earth is turning…can one not be in awe, reminded of simply that?
And that sun: it always raises, always sets. How many generations has it seen? What fullness of life has lived out beneath its rays? What tragedy? Wars. Hunger. Laughter. Happiness. Grief. In this context, I can begin to grasp that life for us on earth is so fleeting and small. I am reminded of the vastness of eternity, and in contrast, the brevity of life; that each day is but a whisper in a grand, unending story: a tiny stroke of the brush on the world’s canvas. And yet, this life composed of a pearl-string of days is astoundingly precious.
But I digress.
I am thankful.
This morning, I am rewarded with a gift, both small and brilliant. I watch the world come alive again, and I am renewed.