Thursday, August 2, 2012
Lately, you wake me gently.
I don't remember when it started. (And I dare not say it will be like this for good.)
But suddenly, she is sleeping until late morning. It would appear that the early mornings of a toddler standing at my bedside, begging for cereal and snuggles are passing. The mornings where she stood nose to nose with me, explaining how the light was just breaking behind the buildings and I would crankily groan about "needing more sleep" or "a few more minutes"... well, they are going quietly into the night, into those storybooks of childhood I will one day repeat back to her. Into the annals of "remember whens".
Now I'm stirring at first light with silence. A morning commuter zips by, a construction vehicle grumbles at a start-up, a warm ray lays steady on my floor, and I'm stretching out the sleep to the quiet hum of a waking city.
I'm brewing coffee by tip-toed steps. I'm taking notes for the day, reading the words of Life, curling up in a corner chair, staring blankly at the empty room, listening to Chopin or Kari Jobe or Dawes, and feeling the day unfold at a pace I'm not familiar with.
I'm telling myself — No work before 9 a.m.
I'm sipping on coffee saying — it's warm. It's even a little hot. And from her room I hear the creak of a turn on a mattress and nothing more.
I'm whispering prayers and then talking to myself, and I can almost see all of these words shimmer across the empty hardwood floor, into the air with nothing to stop them.
Remember when she'd wake so early, we wondered if the day was even redeemable? When even coffee was water to the tired that sank deep into our bones? Remember when the baby was bored and full of energy and needing every moment of attention in that quiet apartment in Denton, and by 9 a.m. I was in tears on the phone with my mother and sister and asking, "How do I do this and make it out happy and alive?"
Now, I'm looking at a to-do list that speaks of answered prayers. I'm sneaking a look through the crack in her door to make sure she's actually sleeping and not dead or missing (Yes, these things cross my mind). I'm memorizing the floorboards that creak, the door hinges that sing too loudly, the right turn of the faucet knob that makes the water flow quiet and not shrill.
I'm memorizing, and remembering, and feeling like my time with her is sand between my fingers.
So, morning, you are lovely. My Father has made you pristine. New and untouched. Full of mercy and kindness and grace and calling to an earth that may curse you, but needs you just the same.
Dear morning, you are my reminder that He will make all things new.
at 7:26 AM